Who needs cable TV? Last night we had a live edition of “Cops” right across the alley from Chez Dog.

The Party Palace, like the Mos Eisley spaceport, has always been a wretched hive of scum and villainy. And as the man says, it’s the quiet ones you want to keep one eye on, because the most recent residents have been as quiet as they come.

Until last night. A few uniforms in patrol cars rolled up the alley with lights off and then, with a SWAT team, commenced inquiring about the whereabouts of one of the two-legged roaches infesting a one-room cottage on the property, a gent who happens to be the son of the woman who owns the towering pile of horror-movie house across the driveway.

Rarely have I seen so much weight brought to so little purpose. No doors were kicked in, no dogs of war let slip; neither were Tasers, .40 cals, tear-gas canisters nor any other weapons deployed. The firehouse down the street contributed a truck whose lights turned the property into a Hollywood soundstage, and a couple of minor characters were hustled off, stage right, but the target of the op’ remains at large, as far as I can tell.

And the young lady who chauffeurs him and his mates about seems to come and go without let or hindrance, though her car is showing signs of wear and tear. She’s popped round at least twice today, and one reliable source had her tottering down the street looking like she’d been shot at and missed, then shit at and hit.

Heroin, suggests another reliable source. Lovely. I might have learned something from having William Burroughs in the vicinity, but this lot looks less than literary to me.

We lost a friend and neighbor today.

Paulette Flohr was our neighborhood’s early warning system — after more than 20 years here she knew most everything about everybody, and if she had any doubts, she asked questions, point-blank, right up in your grill. She would have made an excellent reporter, but instead crunched numbers for a living, when she wasn’t busy inspecting the perimeter with her chocolate Lab, Bob.

She was a big ol’ gal, with a head of hair that just wouldn’t quit, and you could hear her laugh from blocks away.

But cancer doesn’t care how loudly you laugh, how many friends toasted you at your 60th birthday bash, or who will walk your dog when you’re gone.

Paulette leaves her husband, Steve, Bob the dog, and uncounted family members, friends and neighbors who will miss her beaming smile, booming laughter and progressive spirit.

Here’s something you don’t hear every day. I’m rolling the Vespa out of the garage to scoot over to the senior center, drop off our mayoral-runoff ballots, and our neighbor tells me her new dog ate her old bird.

And I ain’t talkin’ a bucket of finger-lickin’ from The Colonel, either — I’m talking a decorative item, a parakeet, which probably wishes it had never seen a long-haired dachshund. As if life isn’t already short enough.

Meanwhile, the smart money is on the wrong guy winning the mayoralty, surprise surprise. This is Bibleburg, after all, wherein reigns Nature, red in tooth and claw.