This and more from rainy, beleagured L.A.
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There is a point here, though. We pay taxes to have a responsible, lasting fiscal structure. Somehow the idea that taxes are per se bad has taken hold and it is a dangerous idea.
Yes, we want taxes to be low, but we do not want to live by the printing press. That way lies genuine ruin.
One of the other panelists noted that Chicago and Detroit also have high taxes and are falling apart, which supposedly proved that high taxes kill cities. “I think there are other factors involved,” I said. But my makeup artist shot me a warning glance, so I went no farther. In any event, I love Chicago and I don’t think it’s falling apart at all.
The high point of the show: Charlie Gasperino was talking about restaurants that offer discounts to families with well-behaved, quiet children. “When I was a kid, I’d get the back of my father’s hand if I talked too much,” said Charlie.
“He obviously didn’t do it enough,” said Adam Lashinsky. He was referring to Mr. Gasperino’s constant interruptions of everyone, especially Adam. It was a great wisecrack and we all laughed like mad, even Charlie. Fun to be on a panel on TV.
Then, back to makeup to get to see pictures of my makeup girl’s super sweet baby girl, Mayzie Joy, and then home in the rain.
That manifesto-writing cop-killing psycho is apparently up in the high Sierras and the cops have lost the trail. Great.
I got home and felt exhausted. So did my wife, so we slept all afternoon with our dogs — my gorgeous, loving Julie, and her pitiful, hairless, asthmatic Pomeranian. It was bliss.
Every so often, I would check on the super blizzard hitting the northeast. Scary. But probably beautiful if you live in a high rise or as my sister does in Brooklyn Heights, in a co-op with a panoramic unobstructed view of the harbor. Great if you can lie in bed with your dog and watch the snow fall.
At about 5.30, I went over to the house from the guest house and had some chicken soup. Great stuff. My messenger appeared with tragic tales of her medical mystery tours and almost simultaneously, one of my beneficiaries appeared to get a check. She also had her tales of medical woe. They swapped stories of how many painkillers they were taking and which anti-depressants and which benzodiazepines. They were also carefully looking at me and the other perhaps trying to figure out how to kill the other so there would be one less mouth for me to feed and therefore a bigger share for her. Maybe that’s just my imagination.
I was glad to see them both leave so I could go back to the guest house (which is just a large room above the garage) and lie down with my wife and my Julie Goodgirl. I am really a very blessed man to have them in my life and to live in a warm, dry space.
The only sure way to instant wealth — gratitude.
So this is how it goes if you are a police officer. You’re sitting at a stoplight in Los Angeles with your son and a madman with a high-powered weapon and a low-powered brain opens up on you, killing you both. Or you’re on patrol in Riverside with your partner and the same madman shoots you and kills one of you and wounds the other. He has just a few minutes before that shot at two other law enforcement men in the nearby town of Corona.
So, that’s your life if you’re a cop and that’s your death. A crazy person with a grievance figures he can make it right by shooting you.
I wish this were a geographically confined phenomenon, but it’s not. It can happen in Texas or Illinois or even in New York City. By virtue of wearing the uniform that promises law and order to the rest of us, you get a target painted on your back.