Hey, whaddaya know, it’s Dec. 12, which means … something. I dunno what. I got nothin’ here.
Oh, yeah — this was the day back in 2000 that the Supremes pulled the plug on Al Gore’s campaign, which had been on life support for the better part of quite some time.
Well, as “Odd Bodkins” cartoonist Dan O’Neill was fond of saying, “Reality is a 5-4 decision in the Supreme Court.”
We now return you to the reality-based community, which is already in progress.
Those of you who follow the DogS(h)ite may recall my remembrance of friend and neighbor Marvin J. Berkman, who died two years ago yesterday at age 85.
His son, Howard Berkman, who played and sang at Marv’s memorial, died last Saturday in Paonia, Colorado. He was just 62.
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.
Here’s a MySpace recollection of Marv’, apparently written by Howard.
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.
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.
The bad news is Steve Jobs is stepping down as Chief Executive Black Turtleneck at Apple.
The good news is Tom Waits has some new music coming out in October.
