The Brief

For the record: We have updated the headline of this article to better reflect what happened to displaced participants in the HOPICS rapid rehousing program. We use the terms “eviction” and “evicted” in the article and a Dec. 12, 2023 newsletter based on the common understanding of the word. However, HOPICS’ middlemen were those legally evicted. The clients were displaced from their homes as a result of the evictions. We regret if that was not clear to readers. 

HOPICS used middlemen to help facilitate the program. The middlemen rented from property owners, becoming the property owners’ tenants. The middlemen then subleased to HOPICS participants. HOPICS subsidized participants’ rent through payment to the middlemen, who were then to pay property owners. As the article describes, when rent was not paid on a timely basis, property owners began eviction proceedings against middlemen. Participants then faced imminent displacement, which we refer to as “eviction.” Legal eviction proceedings were against the middlemen, not the HOPICS clients. As the article also describes, HOPICS arranged for new permanent housing or shelters for most of the tenants facing imminent displacement, however HOPICS could not account for dozens more.

Jesus Mares got a lifeline during the COVID-19 pandemic. Thanks to rental support from one of Los Angeles’ leading homelessness agencies, he had a roof over his head.

He had been bouncing between sleeping in his car and hotel rooms. The taxpayer-subsidized room in a South L.A. duplex provided stability until he could get back on his feet, he’d hoped.

It went well for a while, he said. Then Mares quickly noticed things were amiss with the nonprofit, known as HOPICS. He went through several case managers who Mares said didn’t come to see him.

Then came the eviction notice. HOPICS, which has received about $140 million in Los Angeles city, county, state and federal funding over the last three years for a program known as rapid re-housing, was months behind on paying his rent, according to Mares and his former landlord.

“They basically told us to get out of the building and they locked the building up,” Mares said.

All together 306 people lost taxpayer-funded homes in South Los Angeles as a result of HOPICS’ failure to pay rent on time, the nonprofit said. While more than half were then placed in permanent housing or sent to temporary sites, HOPICS and Los Angeles housing authorities did not say what happened to 119 people.

A CalMatters review of the program, based on hundreds of pages of documents and dozens of interviews, shows that the prominent Los Angeles nonprofit repeatedly ignored explicit eviction warnings from some landlords, did little to vet the middlemen it entrusted to execute the program, and took on far more clients than its case managers could serve.

CalMatters interviewed three participants who landlords said were evicted from HOPICS-funded houses, and they reported ending up back on the streets or living in their cars.

Brenda Wyatt outside of her temporary housing location in Los Angeles on Oct. 4, 2023.

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The eviction mess underscores weaknesses in California’s strategy for addressing its biggest crisis, homelessness. Gov. Gavin Newsom’s administration has allocated more than $20 billion to fight homelessness, but the state’s homeless population surpassed 170,000 people in 2022. Like HOPICS, many government-funded services provide only temporary housing, depend on too few case workers and must compete for units in an already-tight rental market.

Leaders of the nonprofit, whose formal name is Homeless Outreach Program Integrated Care System, say they were overwhelmed by the sudden influx of emergency COVID money during the pandemic to run what’s known as rapid re-housing, a popular local rental assistance program.

To execute the program, HOPICS used middlemen – many of which were newly created nonprofits – to rent out rooms to the unhoused. However, HOPICS’ leaders often didn’t pay those brokers on time, they say, because they needed to review and approve rent bills sent by the very landlords they had chosen to work with. Some of the invoices, they say, had questionable charges.

“We didn’t have the habit of Google searching everybody’s names, and probably that’s a simple fix,” said HOPICS deputy director and former U.S. Rep. Katie Hill. “This is a lot of money that has gone towards a program that has shown that it can house a lot of people. It’s not perfect in any way, shape, or form, and it’s evolving, and we’re learning as we go.”

The federal government sent $100 million in emergency aid to Los Angeles County to address the homelessness crisis during the pandemic, along with another $220 million to six cities in the region including L.A. The Los Angeles Homeless Services Authority then turned to organizations like HOPICS, which is a division of a larger LA nonprofit, Special Service for Groups, to carry out the programs. Between 2019 and 2023, HOPICS placed 3,100 homeless people into permanent housing through rapid rehousing programs, according to the nonprofit.

Annual revenues at Special Service for Groups surged from $84 million in 2018 before the pandemic to $149.1 million in 2022. It also gets rapid re-housing funding from Measure H, the 2017 Los Angeles County sales tax and a mix of federal, state and city funds.

While the rush of COVID funding has ended, HOPICS continues to deal with the fallout of the evictions. It still hasn’t paid all of the rent the landlords claim they are owed, it acknowledges. And, separately, three Los Angeles motels sued HOPICS and its parent late last year, alleging it stopped paying rent for clients who were living at the motels. The nonprofit settled the case early this year, though the terms weren’t disclosed.

HOPICS Director Veronica Lewis said her organization can be late with payments because of its efforts to verify that its clients are actually living in the units.

“The notion that we just don’t pay, it’s just absurd,” she said. “We want to be good stewards of public funds.”

CalMatters sent the Los Angeles homeless authority questions about how it funds and oversees HOPICS. The homeless services agency’s spokesperson issued a statement that didn’t answer several questions, including how many clients got into rapid rehousing programs as a result of pandemic funding and how many have returned to homelessness after leaving rapid rehousing programs. The agency also did not comment on whether it’s a common practice for homeless services nonprofits to pay rent late.

The authority’s “role is to ensure service providers receive the funds necessary to bring our unhoused neighbors home … ensure the program is performing efficiently, and work with the provider to identify any performance concerns,” the spokesperson said.

“It’s about time somebody stepped up and exposed what HOPICS is doing,” said Demario Swait, a 59-year-old who was evicted. The nonprofit gets a grant “to make sure that people are housed, and people are not being housed. And I’m one of them.”

Swait and Mares said they are still trying to pick up the pieces from the HOPICS evictions. Swait is now in temporary housing with a different agency, looking for permanent housing, he said.

Demario Swait at Leimert Park in Los Angeles on Sept. 28, 2023. Photo by Adriana Heldiz, CalMatters

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Mares packed his things and went back to living in his car, he said. “Right now, I’m at my family’s house trying to get it together, trying to find a new spot.”

Why HOPICS turned to middlemen

A Vietnam veteran who had slept on Skid Row founded HOPICS in the 1980s as a one-man operation working to find housing and services for homeless people.

Today it’s one of the county’s largest homeless services organizations with a contract from the L.A. Homeless Services Authority to coordinate shelter placements and other services in South L.A. To lead the organization, Lewis was paid $261,000 last year, according to the organization’s tax records. She also sits on the state council on homelessness, which Gov. Newsom has charged with developing policies to prevent and end homelessness in California.

HOPICS is supposed to help unhoused people find a place to live, pay a portion of the rent for up to two years and provide a wide range of social services, like employment training and assistance applying for public benefits, according to its contract with Los Angeles County.

Ideally, clients gradually contribute more toward rent until they’re able to stay housed on their own, according to the Los Angeles County Homeless Services Authority.

Landlords are often reluctant to rent their properties to people receiving government rental assistance, whether due to bias or an aversion to red tape.

Property owners who wanted to help house the homeless “don’t necessarily want to be landlords to our population,” Lewis said, and many didn’t want to handle multiple leases for clients sharing one house.

So, instead, HOPICS turned to middlemen. These brokers would rent properties and then sublease rooms in those properties to participants.

Housing 1BY1 Co-Founders Dejon Dixon and Norris Jones in Los Angeles on Sept. 28, 2023. Dixon and Jones say a Los Angeles-based nonprofit owes them hundreds of thousands of dollars in unpaid rent for formerly homeless people.

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CalMatters interviewed five brokers who got into business with HOPICS by renting homes from a large property management group called Ocean Properties, Inc. Ocean Properties describes itself as a development company that flips “small inadequate homes” into larger duplexes. It sells the multi-unit houses to investors and often remains as property manager, renting out more than 2,000 affordable housing units across South L.A.

HOPICS does not lease houses from Ocean Properties directly.

Instead, it goes through people like Norris Jones. He created the nonprofit Housing 1By1 in August 2020, to help with Los Angeles’ housing and homelessness crisis, he said. A month later he welcomed his first HOPICS tenant. Jones and his partner, Dejon Dixon, sublet more than a dozen units, housing more than 80 people for about $950 a month for a private room. They charged $2,800 as a security deposit, according to several signed lease agreements.

Jones and three other brokers said HOPICS would go months without paying rent, causing them to fall behind on paying the property owners. As a result, he says he owes Ocean Properties more than $200,000 in rent and fees. He said he doesn’t understand how a company getting paid by the government “got us in a position where we can’t pay the rent for the people they house in our homes.”

HOPICS officials say Jones has overstated how much it owes him and, in some cases, said he’s submitted invoices far too late to get reimbursed. Still, in a February email to Jones, HOPICS acknowledged owing him $135,000 for 2022 and “upwards of $90k” for 2023.

Now, Jones said HOPICS has paid him some of the unpaid rent. He’s in talks to settle with the agency over the rest of the money he says he’s owed.

“I spent all my money to do this,” Jones said.

In the rush of new funding, HOPICS acknowledged it went into business with some brokers without doing so much as a Google search. For instance, the agency leased 24 locations from Donye Mitchell of LA Supportive Housing. CalMatters found that Mitchell left federal prison in 2014 after serving a sentence for defrauding California’s Employment Development Department.

A property owner in June filed a lawsuit against Mitchell and his business partner in Los Angeles Superior Court, alleging they owe more than $77,000 in back rent for a site his nonprofit used to house homeless people, court records show. Neither party has responded to the suit.

One of several properties managed by Norris Jones and Dejon Dixon, co-founders of Housing 1BY1, in Los Angeles on Sept. 28, 2023. Photo by Adriana Heldiz, CalMatters

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Mitchell did not respond to voice messages left with his business partner or emails from CalMatters for this story.

HOPICS officials said some landlords shuffled residents around the units against program rules, and failed to tell the agency about impending evictions until the last minute.

Herbert Hatanaka, executive director of Special Service for Groups, Inc., is personally investigating some of the claims from the brokers.

“There’s missing information,” he said. “We have evidence, for example, clear evidence that there were individuals that were not living in some of those facilities for the time that (the landlords are) billing us for. ”

Overwhelmed L.A. homeless caseworkers

Vetting and paying rent invoices wasn’t the only holdup for HOPICS clients. A persistent shortage of caseworkers contributed as well, former employees told CalMatters.

To have rent paid, rapid rehousing clients must meet with their case managers at least once a month. HOPICS tenants, landlords and former employees told CalMatters that just didn’t happen.

One employee said the agency was badly understaffed because of high turnover and unable to keep up with the number of tenants it was supposed to serve. Los Angeles County requires each case manager to work with up to 25 clients.

“When I signed my acceptance letter, it was for 20 clients, and within 30 days, I had 60,” said Neal Glasgow, a former caseworker for HOPICS who said he left in 2022 after about a year. “I was playing catch-up every month.”

The caseworkers verify that tenants are still living in the units, set tenants’ rent contributions and connect tenants with services.

Glasgow said landlords called him so often about unpaid invoices that some of them became his friends. HOPICS’ leaders acknowledged they didn’t meet the caseworker ratio, citing understaffing in the social services industry.

Several former tenants said they went months without contact from a caseworker, leaving them feeling stranded in temporary placements. Brokers who visited the homes also said their tenants didn’t receive visits from case workers and complained that instead of getting help to become financially stable or get treatment, the clients languished in the houses, sometimes using drugs and having mental breakdowns.

In Los Angeles Superior Court claims, three tenants have said they’d seen 15 or 20 different caseworkers in the two years they were allotted in the rapid rehousing program and still hadn’t gotten permanent housing. A judge ruled in May and June that the agency did not owe them any money for emotional distress and dismissed the case.

The current rapid rehousing system of cost-sharing rent for a couple of years doesn’t make sense to some of the people who once ran it.

“It’s setting (the unhoused) up for failure,” Glasgow said. “You put them in a room that they can’t afford and after the program, they’re gonna end up back homeless, and that’s a lot of money wasted.”

HOPICS officials say they now lease some houses directly from property owners. That practice, known as master-leasing, is a strategy agencies including the L.A. Homeless Services Agency, are increasingly considering.

“It’s basically eliminating that middleman that has too much opportunity for problems,” said Hill, the HOPICS deputy director.

An eviction letter posted in one of the residences where Vincent Osby housed formerly homeless people in Los Angeles on Sept. 28, 2023.

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But they also still house clients in units run by brokers. The nonprofit’s officials said they’re doing more to vet landlords before placing clients in their units, including requiring all future and current landlords to sign stricter, clearer program requirements and asking for references.

“We’re asking more questions now,” Lewis said.

Brenda Wyatt, 58, was kicked out of her room on Sept. 4, she said. Her landlord, Vincent Osby, hadn’t been paying the property owner. He confirmed he couldn’t keep up with the rent but declined further comment.

Osby, who played two seasons of professional football for the San Diego Chargers in the 1980s, leased more than a dozen units to HOPICS clients, HOPICS officials said.

The landlord moved Wyatt to another shared house after he fell behind on rent. She said it was unclear whether HOPICS or Osby was at fault for the late rent payments.

“I don’t know what the hell is going on, excuse my French,” Wyatt said. “That leaves us in limbo. We don’t know what to do. We worry about getting kicked back out on the streets.”

A portion of Sunset Boulevard reopened overnight after LADWP crews finished repairing a water main break in West Hollywood that shut down the area for more than a week.

The water trunk line broke more than a week ago on Thursday, July 16, flooding streets and opening a sinkhole on Sunset Boulevard. LADWP says crews will need to return in the coming weeks to complete permanent paving and other work.

LADWP also said it's accelerating the installation of a new trunk line to replace the 110-year-old pipe. The infrastructure project, which was originally scheduled to begin installation in 2031, is currently “60% designed” and will take approximately four years to complete.

How to get help

Those affected by the water main break can file damage claims with LADWP.

West Hollywood contact info:

• Residents should email safety@weho.org
• Businesses can contact business@weho.org

This story first appeared on The LA Local.

Armed with flashlights, dozens of community members stepped into the darkened Westlake Theatre on Thursday, sidestepping puddles and broken glass as they imagined what the century-old movie palace could become.

Inside, much of the theater looks frozen in time. Dust coats the staircases leading to the balcony, while rows of worn seats still face the stage beneath peeling painted ceilings and decorative plasterwork. Above the auditorium, a faded Anthony Heinsbergen mural offers a glimpse of the theater’s past.

Los Angeles nonprofit theater company Strindberg Laboratory hopes to change that.

The organization wants to purchase the historic Westlake Theatre and transform it into a community arts and nonprofit hub. Their proposal calls for preserving the space while adapting it into a shared civic center that could host live performances, film screenings, neighborhood council meetings, lectures, arts workshops and office space for community organizations.

The effort is in its early stages.

The building has not been purchased, no major funding has been secured and organizers say community input will help determine what the project ultimately becomes before fundraising begins. The group’s proposal estimates acquiring and restoring the theater would cost between $6 – $8 million.

“This is just the first gathering,” Michael Bierman, founder of Strindberg Laboratory, told The LA Local. “It’s not an exclusive club. We welcome everybody and anybody. Everybody has something to input in their community.”

Bierman wants to create a coalition to see the project come to life. Several organizations have already expressed interest, he said, and about 50 people attended Thursday’s tour, including representatives from the Koreatown Youth and Community Center, Homies Unidos, LA Commons, the Los Angeles Historic Theatre Foundation, Central City Neighborhood Partners and other community groups.

The Westlake Theatre opened in 1926 as a 1,949-seat vaudeville and movie palace overlooking MacArthur Park, according to the Los Angeles Historic Theatre Foundation. It operated as a movie theater until 1991, when it closed and was converted into an indoor swap meet. The city’s Community Redevelopment Agency bought the property in 2008 with plans to restore it as a live entertainment venue, but those plans stalled after the agency was dissolved in 2012.

In 2018, the property was sold to 634 Alvarado LLP, an entity controlled by Jamison Properties and today, the ground floor houses a swap meet with small businesses, including clothing vendors, tailors and a barbershop, while the historic auditorium remains unused.

Bierman said the next step is forming a steering committee before seeking philanthropic, local, state and federal funding. If organizers can secure enough partners and financing, he hopes the coalition can purchase the theater by winter. Restoring the building, he said, would likely take several years.

An interior view of the historic Westlake Theatre, which has been closed for at least three decades. The space is vacant on July 23, 2026.

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What neighbors want to see

For many who attended Thursday’s tour, the proposal was also personal.

Aurora Corona, a former Pico Union Neighborhood Council member, remembers visiting the theater as a child.

“It just brings back memories of the glory of the way it was,” Corona said. “The history is here. So for me, revitalizing and bringing back to what it was is like a dream.”

She said she hopes the restored theater could host performances, international films, festivals and local artists while reflecting the surrounding community.

Sara Zapata Mijares arrived in the Westlake neighborhood from Yucatán in 1969, when she was 17 years old. She remembers when MacArthur Park served as a gathering place for families in the neighborhood.

“This used to be a park where my dad and I used to come and have picnics and he would play ballgaming here with a lot of families,” she said. “I remember coming to the park and coming to watch movies here.”

Zapata Mijares said reviving the theater could also help nearby businesses. Visitors to the nearby Mexican Consulate, she said, could help boost the local economy if they stayed in the neighborhood to shop or eat after their appointments.

The idea to transform the theater into a community hub grew out of Strindberg Laboratory’s own search for a permanent home after rising rental costs made it increasingly difficult to continue working out of the Frida Kahlo Theater. But after touring the three-story building, Bierman realized the space was too large for a single organization.

“We dreamed of a community public space that also is a hub for culture and arts and theater and films and education and newspaper and all those things that every single community needs,” Bierman said.

What happens to the swap meet?

The effort faces practical questions beyond raising millions of dollars. The proposal would have to address the future of the businesses already operating inside the building.

Sofía García, who has sold clothing inside the swap meet for about a year, said she hopes a restoration would bring customers back to the space.

“That would be good because it would improve the atmosphere here,” García said in Spanish. “By improving the theater, there would be more people and therefore more sales.”

García estimated her sales fell sharply after parking was removed outside the building and nearby street construction made it difficult for customers to visit her business.

Bierman acknowledged that vendors will have to be part of the conversation if the project moves forward.

“They are part of the community,” he said. “We’re not going to just come in and take over and boot them out. We need to talk to them and see what they want.”

Jesús Sosa Guerra, who recently opened a tailoring business inside the swap meet, said he supports the proposal but worries existing tenants could be displaced.

“It wouldn’t be good to sideline small businesses, because we all need to hustle to make ends meet,” he said in Spanish.

Preservation advocates see the project as an opportunity to restore a historic landmark while creating badly needed public space in a neighborhood with few gathering places.

“This city is filled with talented people who are lacking one very fundamental thing, which is a place to show what they’re capable of and to make connections,” said Kim Cooper, co-founder of Esotouric, a walking tour that explores various neighborhoods around the city.

Cooper said the space could be opened up to people who have bands and want to perform, to book events, to readings, to poetry slams, to any kind of number of things.

“You could have spelling bees, like anything. You could just have a neighborhood potluck. You could have fruit exchanges. I don’t know. I mean, the neighborhood will tell you what they want to do,” she said.

Cooper’s partner, Richard Schave called Bierman’s proposal “an opportunity for a neighborhood that has had perhaps the worst succession of public policy decisions made about it to finally have one decent public policy decision made about it.”

SAN DIEGO — Josiane Valsaint has lived and worked legally in the U.S. since 2010. But she and hundreds of thousands of other Haitian nationals are set to lose their legal status as soon as Monday, opening the door for federal immigration agents to round them up for deportation.

The question that sends tears streaming down Valsaint's face is: If that happens, what will happen to her 10- and 12-year-old children, born in San Diego, who attend public school here?

"Who's going to take care of my kiddos?" she asked. "They're not adults yet. They were born here." Taking them to Haiti, much of which is now controlled by heavily armed gangs, is not an option, she said.

The Supreme Court last month allowed the Trump administration to kick 350,000 Haitians and 6,000 Syrians out of the Temporary Protected Status program that has allowed them to live and work in the U.S. because of unsafe conditions in their countries. There are many uncertainties now agonizing these communities, including how aggressively immigration agents — who have their addresses — will seek to detain them, and what will happen to their children, many of whom are U.S. citizens.

Guerline Jozef is executive director of the Haitian Bridge Alliance, a San Diego-based nonprofit that supports Haitian immigrants. She said if the government begins rounding up Haitians whose Temporary Protected Status has been revoked, family separations are likely because most parents can't fathom taking their children back to a country largely controlled by armed gangs.

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By one Princeton researcher's estimate, there are 50,000 children who've been born in the U.S. to Haitian parents with TPS. The loss of those protections means a large new population of mixed-status families are vulnerable to being split apart by the Trump administration's mass deportation drive.

In deciding to strip Haitians of their temporary legal status, the Trump administration has said it's no longer justified because "conditions in Haiti have improved sufficiently to support the return of Haitian nationals' safely. It's also said allowing Haitian migrants to remain is "contrary to the U.S. national interest."

Haitian migrants and advocacy groups have disputed those conclusions. In fact, they say, Haiti is more dangerous now than when the Obama administration first granted TPS to Haitians after the 2010 earthquake that killed hundreds of thousands of people. Haiti's president was assassinated in 2021. Today, armed gangs control vast swaths of the island nation's territory, infrastructure and economy, and restrict the movement of citizens.

Almost invariably, Haitian TPS holders say taking their children there is unfathomable.

"They cannot take those children back to Haiti," said Guerline Jozef, executive director of the San Diego-based Haitian Bridge Alliance, which advocates for Haitian immigrants. "Not because Haiti is not beautiful. Not because there's no hope. But because right now, in July 2026, it is impossible for them to be safe there."

In late June, Haitians in the U.S. with Temporary Protected Status attended an information session at the Haitian Bridge Alliance, in San Diego, about what the loss of their legal status could mean for them and their families — and how to prepare.

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Many Haitian TPS holders, Jozef said, are just beginning to consider the impossible decisions they'll soon face. Leave their children in someone else's care? Take them back to Haiti? Try fleeing to another country?

"I think family separation is more likely," Jozef said. "To take them back with them is not even a choice."

Valsaint, whose 10 and 12-year-olds speak perfect English and sing in a church choir in San Diego, said about her plans only that, "families stick together." And then, her voice catching, she added: "We can't go back to Haiti." She said she's hoping for a miracle.

Sandra, a Haitian woman with TPS who asked NPR to use only her first name because she fears deportation, said her teen son came to her after the Supreme Court ruling and expressed suicidal thoughts over the prospect of being sent to Haiti, a country he's never been to but whose troubles he's kept up with online.

"I cried," said Sandra, who works as an in-home caretaker in San Diego. "I'm supposed to protect them, and I feel like I'm failing."

It's not clear how aggressively Immigration and Customs Enforcement will move to detain and deport Haitians newly stripped of TPS protections, or how much capacity Haiti has to receive deportation flights. Haiti's top migration official told local reporters that based on a conversation with the U.S. embassy in Haiti, he expects about a thousand deportees to arrive on flights from the U.S. each month.

NPR asked the Department of Homeland Security how it plans to handle the U.S.-born children of Haitians it seeks to detain. In an emailed statement, an unnamed spokesperson wrote, "ICE does not separate families. Parents are asked if they want to be removed with their children or ICE will place the children with a safe person the parent designates. This is consistent with past administration's (sic) immigration enforcement."

Haitian flags at the offices of the Haitian Bridge Alliance, a San Diego nonprofit.

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The statement stressed the administration's longstanding position that Temporary Protected Status was always meant to be temporary.

"For too long, TPS has been allowed to function as a de facto amnesty program," the statement said. "The Trump administration is restoring integrity to the immigration system by ensuring that individuals who no longer qualify for TPS either pursue another lawful immigration status, voluntarily depart using the Department's available return assistance, or face removal in accordance with federal law."

In some states with large Haitian communities, such as Massachusetts, officials have published guides to help parents who want to designate temporary guardians for their U.S. citizen children. Jozef, of the Haitian Bridge Alliance, said advocates are scaling up other support systems to help Haitians make plans to protect themselves and their children in the weeks and months ahead.

On Monday, a lower federal court in D.C. is expected to implement the Supreme Court's ruling allowing TPS for Haitians to end. That would allow immigration agents to begin arrests. Advocates are exploring other legal options and urging Congress to pass a bill that would extend TPS protections for Haitians. It passed the House with support from some Republicans in April, but was blocked by Senate Republicans this week.

If you or someone you know may be considering suicide or is in crisis, call or text 9 8 8 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

Copyright 2026 NPR

For the past nine years, if you’re the kind of person who nerds out on Star Wars, Marvel, Game of Thrones, or any nerd franchise that exists in the galaxy, you’ll have found your community at Scum and Villainy Cantina in Hollywood.

While the exterior looks like just another unassuming business on the often bustling street, walking in reveals a highly curated space honoring every facet of nerd culture down to the last detail. The design honors the Mos Eisley Cantina in Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope. Custom cocktails allude to different fandoms with names like “Sauron Sour” and “Harley Quinn.”

Scum & Villainy Cantina's bar may look familiar.

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Most importantly, the people enjoying the space are openly expressing their love for these stories and universes, whether that be through intricate costumes or lively debate. It’s a scene one might find after (or before) a sci-fi convention, which is exactly what J.C. Reifenberg, co-owner of Scum and Villainy, intended.

“We wanted to create the post-convention bar experience every night of the week,” Reifenberg said.

As a veteran of such conventions, he’s seen Mark Hamill (who played Luke Skywalker) speak numerous times, but he doesn’t remember any of the speeches. He does remember the people he met at the bar when the long day was over.

Revel in nerd culture (costumes encouraged) at Scum & Villainy.

"The best part about fandom is the community. That’s what people crave,” Reifenberg said. “This geek world has grown up with the kids that fell in love with it and continues to offer comfort, companionship, friendship and opportunity.”

Scum & Villainy Cantina in Hollywood.

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Reifenberg is now taking that concept and doubling down, hoping to create not just another gathering place, but a community hub for makers and creators to learn the craft.

Expanding to Burbank

For the past eight months, he and his wife, Jen Smith, who designed the interior of both establishments, have been crowdsourcing to raise $1 million for Scum and Villainy: Rendezvous, which they hope to open in Burbank, steps below the AMC 16. It’s certainly attracting interest; so far the pair have raised more than $600,000 toward the goal.

Scum & Villainy, open to people of all galaxies.

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Reifenberg said he can’t confirm an official launch date because they’re waiting on their permits from the Department of Planning in Burbank. But they are shooting to open by the time Avengers: Doomsday comes out on Dec. 18.

“My goal is for people to watch Avengers and walk down the steps to Rendezvous with everybody in the movie theater,” Reifenberg said. “We’ll have ‘No spoilers’ signs up until the last showing of the night is over.”

The new space is 5,200 square feet over two floors. The bottom floor is for the post-convention hangs, similar to the current Scum and Villainy. Upstairs, there will be private dining and a professional podcast and livestreaming studio. Reel Rejects, the movie and television commentary channel on YouTube, is partnering with Rendezvous for live events and recording.

There’s also a multi-purpose room hosting classes taught by entertainment professionals, for which they’ll be tapping some industry heavy hitters. After running Scum and Villainy and working in film and television, including many projects with fellow super nerd Kevin Smith, Reifenberg and Smith have come to know Marc Bernardin (who wrote episodes of Batman: Caped Crusader and Eyes of Wakanda), Fon Davis (who worked at George Lucas’s visual effects company, Industrial Light & Magic), and many more professionals behind geek franchises.

“I’m connected to all these wonderful makers, and these people love to share what they learned,” Reifenberg said, noting that when he grew up in Chicago, not only was there not nearly as much of an industry for this kind of work, but any time he would share his big ideas, his peers would shoot them down as impossible. Not here in Los Angeles.

“Los Angeles is a city of dreamers,” Reifenberg said. “I remember how magical and untouchable these things were. What can I do to help inspire the next kid to do an impossible thing?”

Fundraising for it

The first five investors of $5,000 in the WeFunder campaign for Rendezvous will get to shoot their short films there, and there are plenty of bigger perks as well. Individual tiers go as high as $100,000, offering everything from lifetime discounts to being in a commercial for the space directed by Kevin Smith. (Smith invested $10,000, and has hosted numerous episodes of his podcast Fatman Beyond at the original Scum and Villainy). Then, if the total goes over $750,000 or reaches the total goal of $1 million, everyone who contributed gets extra benefits, such as 20% off merch.

The $1 million amount may seem ambitious, but in 2017, the original Scum and Villainy was just a weekend pop-up instead of a year-round establishment. After announcing it, they sold more than $1 million in tickets from April to July 2017, and they realized they needed to keep it open for the community.

The pair told me so many stories about how Scum and Villainy has changed people’s lives. Some are about couples meeting there on May 4 (yes, May the Fourth, the internationally recognized Star Wars holiday) who then proposed on a later May 4. Others are about people who came to every weekend of the pop-up in costume because it was the first place in their entire lives they felt truly safe to express who they are.

“I have worked in bars and restaurants for 20 years, and I have seen restaurateurs who don’t believe in their concept. They’re not willing to put the time and effort into massaging it to appease the community,” Smith said. “This whole place exists because the community is like ‘Please don’t close.’”

Reifenberg added: “If we build it, they will come.”