For liberals: Today is Wednesday.
Given his rubber-band ethics – which may be genetic – no one who has been observing slippery Mayor Garcetti for more than an hour is surprised by his latest act of sleaziness, softly sidling off to Washington (!), unannounced, to fund-raise.
Perhaps by the time work-averse Greasy Garcetti, 44 years old, is up for re-election in ’17, a trove of slimy secrets of his fanatically screened private life may have leaked into the public stream.
For someone who is credited with supposedly sound political instincts, Greasy pulled the amateur boner of the year – again — last week.
At the height of ferocious community unrest, rattled nerves, hand-wringing and closed-door decision-making in the cop killing of Ezell Ford, Greasy, like a big boy, vanished. Dropping to the ground, he pulled his imitation of Sam the Diamondback.
The psychotically secretive mayor of Los Angeles instantly morphed into a rabbit and hopped into a magician’s hat.
Where did Greasy go?
Crawling through the woodwork, sliding out the doggy door of Getty House, like an upstate New York prison runaway, Greasy lurched into a waiting car that whirled off in a cloud of dusky shadows to LAX.
This is the mayor of Los Angeles, sneaking on the ground, like an insect on the lam, to a manically hushed destination.
Greasy may have copied some of his sloppy ethical behavior from his noted, much revered, father Gil, Mr. District Attorney at the turn of the century.
Greasy was voted into office two years ago by a nearly invisible knot of low-information residents. None of them could have eyeballed him on the election trail.
He was a joke.
He was a member of the tribe, whatever audience he was addressing.
Rumors about Greasy’s private life and fungible autobiography blew down the boulevard each time he floated into view, as if descending from heaven on indiscernible stilts.
Envelopes are panting to be unsealed on Greasy’s off-stage life while he essays daily lessons in how not to play at mayoring.