Weeks Later, She Remembers She Forget Her Son. Darn

Ari L. NoonanSports

I see by the weekend newspapers that one of the despicable women of recent news cycles, Elvira Arellano, has dropped her moral guard again and returned to her old ways.

After behaving like the Mexican Floozie of the Year for 2 weeks in the border town of Tijuana and points south, Ms. Arellano, voted the Mexican Deportee of the Month for August, sent for her private trophy.

That would be her 8-year-old son, Saul, whom she may or may not have conceived for the express purpose for which she has been using the kid lately — to be her ticket to tears from sob sisters in the liberal media. It is working.

A Liberal Tale With a Terrific Kick at the End

Ari L. NoonanSports

Walking east on Braddock Drive early this morning, shortly after sunrise, the artful juxtaposition of the fluffy clouds and the ball of fire they were hopelessly trying to shield, formed one of the breathtaking scenes of my considerable life.

This was a vision even an atheist, with imagination, could learn to love.

If You Attend This Meeting, You Can Shake Hands with an Intrepid Warrior

Ari L. NoonanSports

Came this morning at the top of my email file a note from the most perspicacious woman I know, Amanda Copeland.

A strongly articulate lady, she is strident and uncommonly courageous.

This blend of qualities may be desirable in an athlete or an actor. But for a petitioning mom who needs a favor from powerful people, pliability, even daintiness, is much preferred over iron-core stridency and unbreakable bravery.

Get Some Sleep — I’ll See You at 5:20 Monday Morning

Ari L. NoonanSports

With adroitness, craftiness and penetratingly incisive insight that is to be envied as well as admired, my talented colleague Frederick Sisa so surgically slices up, then deftly pins his targets, reversing the inside with the outside, whether his subject is a politically infragrant human or a play.

On summer evenings when Diane and I sentimentally place our pea-green rocking chairs at right angles before our vacationing fireplace, she to knit, I to ponder, I tend to repeat myself. “Tis a pity,” she hears me murmur.

Where Is the Outrage Over Elvira’s Manipulation of You?

Ari L. NoonanSports

When the lights were still working in my house in the pre-dawn hours this morning, Day 4 of the overseas trip by the mistress of the grounds, I was lying awake, 3 hours before arising, thinking not of my wife but of the hottest name in America, Elvira Arellano.

Later this morning, I am interviewing Father Kevin Nolan at St. Augustine Church on a separate, even more delicate, subject.

One Day Down, 13 to Go, But Will the Plants Survive?

Ari L. NoonanSports

Remember the hackneyed prison films from your childhood? The black-and-white scenes where jailbirds tracked their remaining time by scratching vertical lines on the north wall with a crudely carved pencil?

Just the Beginning

If the lead is sharp enough, mark down one puny line for me. Thirteen fairly dreaded days to go with my wife out of town and her many plants at the mercy of my not so deft touch.

A Male Feminist Arises, Quivers, Fires and Says, ‘What a Good Boy Am I’

Ari L. NoonanSports

Losing the battle for common sense to himself one more time, the editor of The Jewish Journal struck a stunning blow for the further feminization of America over the weekend.

Seeking to cure his drool by spitting into the eye of his religion, The Fellow, as we shall call him, suggested in his current essay that unmarried Jewish girls, nearing the end of their child-bearing years, should marry any Gentile they can land in order to fulfill their desire to become pregnant.

(We choose not to name him so as not to embarrass his family.)

Given that The Fellow has made a living in recent times by knocking his own religion in the only Jewish newspaper in Los Angeles, perhaps we should not be surprised.

Just disgusted.

Guess Who Is Back in Town? The Entitlement Gang Rides Again

Ari L. NoonanSports

An incident at the monthly meeting of the Democratic Club the other night nudged my memory back to childhood.

When I was a Boy Scout a few years ago, our little troop met every other Monday night in the basement of my school.

Both of my scoutmasters were blue-collar workers and busy family men.

No Nudge Needed

Neither had the time nor the inclination to make a courtesy call to Noonan Central.

Since I was committed to Scouting, no one needed to remind my parents to remind me that the regularly scheduled meeting for next Monday would be held as planned, as it had been continuously since the 1940s.

Regardless of the weather and my homework load, I never missed a Boy Scout meeting.

Faux Activists Capitalize on Silbiger’s Sweetness to Make Him Look Bad

Ari L. NoonanSports

In the world of the chronically suspicious City Councilman Gary Silbiger, this is the way he believes life should work:

Every Monday afternoon at the stroke of 2, City Manager Jerry Fulwood should abruptly end the meeting he is conducting, draw the blinds in his office, dash home to bake a piping-hot cherry pie and simultaneously dial a brand-name limo service.

Breathing hard by then, Mr. Fulwood should dispatch said limo and a crisply warmed slice of said pie to the home of every Culver City resident who tiresomely gripes that he, important he, was not privately notified of the City Council’s special agenda for that evening.

Darn it, the complainer continues, City Hall knows he is acutely interested. If City Hall expects him to be a participating citizen, it has a responsibility to keep him closely informed.

An Unhappy Anniversary Reminder for Vera Sr.

Ari L. NoonanSports

About 7 this morning, I could not get my 92-year-old father off the telephone. Any telephone system in America that has a Noonan for a client is assured of a profit as long as that Noonan is breathing.

My father and my stepmother are on vacation for 11 days out in the countryside. Pop was raving the food — so much, so free and so often. This time he also was excited about describing the playful deer he was studying from his very comfortable vantage point on a long, rectangular porch at the bucolic retirement home operated by my oldest sister.