LA isn’t so bad. While a few readers say it’s worse than I reported, more say I slipped in melodramatic muck aimed at justifying martial law, or at least distracting Angelenos from the real issues—whatever those are. I’m told the celebrated flanking maneuver at Harbor Gateway was merely the accidental arrival of a bunch of well-armed gangsters who were fleeing from the cops when they saved their lucky allies from a bloody defeat. How reassuring!
I’ll stick to writing what I see from now on: The bald guy’s windows are sealed, silent, funereal. Has his wife died yet? My block is asleep or cowering silently.
Sneeky is licking his belly far too much. I see hairless patches with red sores. No idea what this could be.
Ric called. He sounds worse off than I am. Still, I bet his house is neater.
I’m watching Hurricane Luke on TV as I write. Reporters in foul weather gear stand manfully in rising winds, suffering for us in front of Disney World. Viewers seem delighted to kick back and experience Luke, an old-time disaster, on their big flat screens. We all know The Mouse will make it. This will be a comforting spectacle.