Families being what they are, the two were not always close, despite sharing a love of music. Here’s hoping they’re getting along better now, maybe even jamming occasionally.
Hm. It appears I was mistaken in my Party Palace post — les flics did nab the young man in question (he was hiding in the attic, says the legitimate tenant of the actual house on the property). Now, instead of squatting in a refurbished garage with a motley collection of drug-addled evildoers he is enjoying three hots and a cot at taxpayer expense.
His mother, who owns the property, is in no hurry to get Sonny sprung, which suits the neighborhood just fine. Two of his pals who remained at large popped round twice on Tuesday, looking for Christ knows what (perhaps a mislaid debit card that’s now in Mom’s hands). I have photos of both and a license-plate number, and so do the cops.
Meanwhile, today we have enjoyed our first scumbag-free day in many a moon. I should have a case of beer delivered to the squadroom.
Herself found this item in the alley this morning. There, as they say, goes the neighborhood.
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.
Just think, if we could find the pot of gold at the end of that rascal, we could solve our national debt "crisis" ... by imprisoning the House GOP caucus for treason.
Just a rainbow, courtesy of the afternoon monsoons, which have returned for a while. They sure do cool things down at night.
Meanwhile, in DeeCee, Weepy John Boehner is still leading from the rear, frantically trying to figure out which brand of tinfoil his Tea Bagger buddies want for their beanies. The gang at Talking Points Memo is on top of things as they happen, and for high-quality analysis and snark you can check with Steve Benen at Political Animal and Kevin Drum at Mother Jones.
Suffice it to say that the news is all bad. At least Kevin supplies cat-blogging on Fridays to lighten the mood.
Here in Dog Country we’ll engage in a bit of dog-blogging as a counterpoint. We’ve been crate-training Buddy and so far, so good. He’s (mostly) sleeping through the night and has had no more accidents in the crate since we pulled the bedding out of it. He’s getting at least one longish walk daily and plenty of backyard time. And today he even romped a bit with Herself, gamboling about the DogHaus like a happy pup and even barking a couple of times, just for the hell of it.
The Feline Caucus, of course, finds this incomprehensible. But so far they haven’t tried any nihilistic shenanigans, which goes to show you that pretty much any old four-legged furball is smarter than the average House Repuglicant.
Mad Blog Media 