My golly Ned. Who but a humorless curmudgeon could find the most insignificant fault with yesterdays pro-illegal immigration rally indoors yet at the falling-down Sports Arena?
Indoors? Are you kidding me? My golly Ned.
Who but a curmudgeon would resent angry illegal immigrants celebrating the first anniversary of their original march for reform legislation, a downtown-streets rally that attracted every unemployed illegal immigrant in town, 500,000?
Stroking my chin at the breakfast table this morning, it occurred that Andres Martinez, the disgraced and outed op-ed pages editor of the red-faced Los Angeles Times, has earned a Culver City connection.
His numerous puerile judgments over the last months uniquely qualify Mr. Martinez to manage Albert Veras mythical campaign for a City Council seat next year.
(See Pathetic Drama Behind Todays L.A. Times Decision to Kill Sundays Op-Ed Section, March 22.)
Given each jackanapes questionable judgment and occasionally intemperate rhetoric, covering Mr. Veras fantasy run for office should make my heart palpitate even faster than reading the next thrilling Page 1 story in the Culver City News.
While much of America was glazing over yesterday watching a harrumph performance by the last surviving Marx Brother, Jumbo Al Gore, our deliciously deserving friends at the Los Angeles Times were writhing on the ground at 2nd and Spring.
They werent putting on a show for the homeless who hang out there, hoping for a crumb
When people make their living by behaving haughtily, it is counter-intuitive for a sensible person to summon empathy when discomfit visits them.
Plainly in pain, Times editors were holding their sides, suffering from what felt like a severe Sunday School picnic tummyache.
Of several developing stories in our town…
City Councilmen Alan Corlin and Scott Malsin flying out to Washington this morning…
The long out-of-compliance Star Prep Academy fastidiously meeting its latest deadline, exactly on target, yesterday…
Another legendary Culver City business packing its bags…
The fallout from the swallows returning to Capistrano yesterday…
Except for the women I have married over the last several decades, I have painstakingly concentrated on not knowingly consorting with admitted Democrats, in the interest of leading a more perfumed life.
As my late non-friend Dorothy Parker used to be about the affluent, They are different from you and me.
Which, if you follow the exquisite logic, brings me to two of my favorite subjects, the politician Albert Vera and the Culver City Protectionist Society, his journalist bodyguards.
Or, as we plainer speakers say, Mr. Veras human shills, I mean shields.
The red-faced grilling we hear the FBI conducted last Friday afternoon within the friendly confines of our favorite Police Station is not to be confused with a separate scene the smoky hamburgers I was grilling last night until I was red in the face for our family dinner.
The FBI, and the veteran officers they talked to, we hear, could have used one of those hefty quarter-pound sparklers I grilled last night.
Which slightly skewers our point, if you will pardon the richly creamy pun.
Attention language lovers.
By all detectable external signs, the 98-year-old National Assn. for the Advancement of Colored People should be loaded onto a hearse from the nearest mortuary and shlepped for burial over to Holy Cross or Hillside Cemetery.
They are done. Stick a fork in the organization.
For years, the NAACP has been about the terminal group disease of self-perpetuation, keeping self-styled civil rights activists occupied between meals instead of fulfilling its 1909 mandate, to fight discrimination against colored people.
Driving down a residential street toward my mechanics garage last Friday morning, Patrick Vorceaks shall we say well-worn? van whizzed by in the opposite direction.
Between his distinctive car and his easily recognizable moustache, I was able to espy him from a considerable distance.
As he approached, I wiggled my arm. Wanly, somberly, he waved back.
Two days after the Redevelopment Agency warily handed over developing rights for the northwest corner of Washington- Centinela to the Woo brothers, and after digesting a flurry of pro-Woo theses, the arrangement is beginning to sound better than it did in Council Chambers.
Reflection is helpful.
Always, it brings greater clarity. Sometimes it changes minds.
When U.S. Army Pfc. Andrew Smith was shot 3 times last week in Iraq, the all-American kid created a magnificent opportunity for President Bush.
If the questionably attentive White House suddenly grows rabbit ears and becomes alert, it should dispatch an envoy here in a few weeks when the recuperating Pfc. Smith returns to his parents home for a brief stay.
To be only slightly hyperbolic, the son of Culver City Police Lt. Greg Smith can salvage the Bush presidency.
But he needs help.
Are you listening, Washington?
