This is not a rhetorical question.
Why am I writing an essay of the same tone about City Councilman Gary Silbiger that I wrote in his first year on the dais, his second year, his third year, his fourth year, his fifth year, and now in his sixth year?
There only has been a slight variation in the lineup of dead horses he has beaten over the years.
As with many liberals, Mr. Silbiger is disinclined to prioritize his causes by degree of importance.
Dear, dear Reader:
Do not read the following essay aloud. Regardless of the time of day, the sound might pierce the ineffable tranquility that seductively tranquilizes the neighbors of Jin Kwak’s Valero gas station at the corner of Culver and Motor.
Steve Rose, the City Councilman, told an illustrative story at last night’s bizarre-at-times Council meeting.
I see by my morning newspaper that a freshly laundered cadre of liberal boobs and boobettes — masquerading as shocked and appalled homeowners in the Pico Boulevard/Roxbury Drive neighborhood — are protesting an upgrade at the Museum of Tolerance.
The five social-climbing sour-faced boobs and boobettes captured in the accompanying photograph look as if they have just swallowed a passel of ripe pickles in one fewer bite than planned. They would finish third in a two-woman beauty contest.
I slogged through a most unsettling breakfast at my favorite table this morning because U.S. Army Lt. Matt Ferrara, 24 years old, of Torrance, was murdered in a chicken-hearted way last Friday in eastern Afghanistan.
He was ambushed.
In war, they don’t call it murder.
We will.
I am pleased that our plainest talking essayist, Maj. Mark Smith, U.S. Army (ret.), is in town this weekend to be an eyewitness to the military travesty unfolding in Long Beach.
Our broadminded liberal friends, marvelous kidders that they are, have been working overtime in stirring up a most bizarre assault.
Anti-war “veterans” groups are demanding that they be allowed to march in tomorrow’s Veterans Day parade in North Long Beach.
As of this morning, the organizers still were holding the line, although that is not regarded as the final-final word.
After they don their jammies, I am not sure what Bill LaPointe and Don Pedersen do at the end of every evening.
But if they are conducting themselves as responsible civil servants, this is what the Parks and Recreation Director and the Police Chief should be doing just before bedtime.
Drop to their knees, position their sensitive elbows on the chubbiest part of their blanketed beds, shutter their eyes and roar into what I trust is their most fervent wish.
Since no mathematical formula is available showing that Scott Zeidman and Steve Gourley won yesterday because they scored more runs than their three rivals, draw up an easy chair, sip from your lemonade, and let us see if we can deconstruct the School Board election.
Starting with the No. 1 vote-getter, I was slightly surprised when I walked into the Ehrlich home in Sunkist Park in mid-evening. Mr. Zeidman, clearly drained from a satiating campaign, was almost slumped on the couch. He was so fatigued he probably could have nodded off before the first live-ballot count rolled in at 10:30 with half of precincts reporting.
Except for the manly medicine that resides on the ground floor of a tall, sylph-like, coffee-colored container bearing the label, “Serious Spirits for Seekers of Uplifted Spirits,” no known remedy prepares one for queueing up in a Los Angeles County courthouse.
Unfortunately, I left my mask at home, and an old pal recognized me.
Judging by their marginally humorous garb, overall homeless appearance and discouragingly depressing conduct, I would estimate that of the 300 people who joined me in the queue this morning at the Airport Courthouse, three were Republicans.
All but three miserably failed the test of dignity.
I probably should have saved a portion of my omelette from breakfast this morning to apply to the faces of those oh-so-certain City Hall officials who have been panting over the imminent arrival in Culver City of the Expo light rail line.
Loosen your neckties, boys, unknot your shoes, unbutton your jackets, and unstring your girdle, Myrtle. We are going to be hanging out in the Waiting Room for a long time.
Would you believe a generation? Would you believe never?
Methinks the two new School Board members to be elected on Tuesday night will be stunned when they confront one of their campaign promises, reducing the number of permit students.
Freighted with personal complexities, fiscal and political considerations, permits is a large, stubborn, virtually unbudgeable bureaucratic reality of life in Culver City. It is Culver City’s Berlin Wall.
Our version of the Wall probably will be torn down some day, but not necessarily in this generation.
