A Living? Hmph
His stores exterior does not have an arresting gimmick to steer your eyes in his direction.
You could fly down wide-open National 25 times a day without noticing it.
Its a living for Harry.
In fact, it is a career for him.
Does anyone care?
The number of harried, harassed Harrys in our community is swelling to an embarrassingly large number.
Too big to ignore, isnt it?
Dressing-Down in Town Square
City Hall may as well have taken Harry into, lets call it the Town Square the vortex of Main Street-Washington Boulevard-Culver Boulevard and humiliated him.
With the full force of the Constitution at their right hand, City Hall is putting a gun to Harrys temple, stripping off his colorful garb beginning with his wallet and then saying,
You may go home now, Harry, and, by the way, have a nice day.
With 40,000 persons in Culver City, there are bound to be shnooks and not a small number of shnorrers.
Anybody See a Destroyed Body?
Harry belongs to a different crowd on the other side of the street, the good businessman who brought positive attention, revenue and traffic to Culver City.
He just happened to be standing idly on the sidewalk the other month when a soulless wrecking ball swung hard and flattened him.
Last seen, Harry was lying prone on the cement, bleeding.
Last seen, everybody else was walking by without noticing the remains of the flamboyant one.
They were ensconced in meaningful chatter about Anna Nicole Jones and the effect her death will have on global warming.
Star of What?
Around the world, quite a few people in the universal art milieu know Harry and admire his work.
To a legal conscience, being a star, being of sound character, being a model citizen are hollowed-out concepts. They went out of style years ago.
Tales of Drained Lives
I never tire of telling their stories the men (mostly), who are being booted into the gutter through a reprehensible method that is the constitutionally validated.
Make no mistake, these are legal assassinations.
Even though communication sophistication has shrunk the world to its smallest dimensions, these bold daylight destructions of the lives and businesses of men you know, neighbors you have traded with, Culver Citys finest, are happening daily under your nose and mine.
Dead or Alive?
Just lately, we have written about these living dead men:
Patrick Vorceak, Marc Chiat, Cool Harry, Les Surfas and the 77 business owners on the west side of South Sepulveda Boulevard who are destined to become victims, too, for a different reason, gentrification, as soon as next year.
Meanwhile, I am waiting.
Who will be the first person with muscle at City Hall to publicly express even marginally sincere compassion for flushing them down a dank sewer?
