Father’s Day: What About Mine?

IT’S NOT YOUR TYPICAL FATHER’S DAY STORY: THE AUTHOR ASKS WHY HE COULDN’T HAVE HAD THE FATHER THAT HIS DAD USED TO BE

Richard M. Herd

I WAS EIGHT WHEN WE MOVED from Martinez in California to Tulsa. Dad, mom, me, my brother. But we drove back to California for three summers in a row and went to Trinity Lake with my mom’s parents, in the far northern crevices of California. We rented a houseboat and tied the ski boat to the side and drifted to various beaches. My dad skied for hours, and my grandpa drove the boat. Grandpa yelled, “Just follow along.” I sat and watched my dad carve huge rooster tail curves. Sometimes he went so fast, he caught the boat, no slack left in the rope, and sprayed us. That meant he was done. Grandpa made the huge sweeping turn to pick him up. There he was: my dad floating on his back, completely exhausted, endorphins pumping through his veins, and just staring up at the sky, his bare chest, yellow flotation belt, green swim trunks, and a wooden ski. He said, “This is the life Richie. This is the life.” I wish that guy was still my dad.

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Cleanup on Aisle Ulysses

IN HONOR OF BLOOMSDAY, CONQUISTADOR ASKED THE AUTHOR OF FINNEGAN’S WAKE TO COMMENT UPON THE CURRENT AMERICAN POLITICAL SITUATION.

James Joyce

COMES NOW PAUL, PAUL, a handsome lad with eccentric hair, a small triangle of it pointed down upon his brow, making him appear sometimes demonic, sometimes more demonic, who said you cannot make this stuff up and he is correct because no one on the seven continents, including Antarctica with its daft but pretty penguins, Antarctica, a land cursed and blessed with cold—and the cold is the curse; but it is such cold that it keeps the humans away, and the cold is the blessing—no one would have spun the tale of an unhinged tycoon who has touched the deep inner spirit or lack thereof of the people and they have thus anointed and appointed him the sage of the realm and now ask him to lead them into the future or the past—depending on their point of view and interpretation and level of nostalgia for an idyllic era that never existed—and, our unhinged one, all fecund in his nuttiness, despite of or because of that, he has been named the presumptive and presumptuous candidate for the party of elephantine capitalists, to battle against the also-presumptive and presumptuous candidate for the party of equus asinus capitalists, in

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The DWP Can Suck My Hydrant

DON OCHACHER ASKED WHY HIS HOMEOWNERS ASSOCIATION WAS BILLED
$2,555 A YEAR FOR ‘FIRE SERVICE.’ THE ANSWER: IT’S A MASSIVE
DWP RIPOFF OF RATEPAYERS WITH PRIVATE HYDRANTS.

By Steve Silkin

PART 1: THE NEWS

THE LOS ANGELES DEPARTMENT of Water and Power has been charging property owners with private hydrants at least $7.5 million a year for “fire service” which in fact is nothing of the sort, and in exchange for that money does absolutely nothing: zero, nada, zilch.

Additionally, when ratepayers with hydrants on private property call to ask about the charges and services, phone representatives have recently said the utility tests service to hydrants—a blatant lie because the city’s Fire Department does that.

To make this whole sordid case even more revolting, DWP does not pass along any portion of the revenue to the Fire Department, not the least dime, while the utility pays the firefighters $5 for each hydrant tested on sidewalks and other public property.

By best estimates, DWP charges property owners $2,555 for each hydrant, and there may be more than 3,000 private hydrants in the city. This insanely rampant thievery now totals at least $100 million, because it’s been going on for at least 14 years.

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