Nothing, but Nothing Is Sacred Any More
It’s every reporter’s dream to lay aside his battered old felt hat, shred his press card into confetti, turn his World War II surplus trench coat over to the Salvation Army, take his smudgy copy pencils one by one and snap them into little pieces, and — casting a defiant look at his city editor as he leaves — go home, strip down to his waist, put on his imported silk smoking jacket, retreat up to the attic with his favorite pipe, wipe the dust off his lonely, long-idle portable, sit down, squeeze into his slippers, and knock out the great American novel.
(And if his novel includes one sentence like the above, he might just as well forget the whole thing.)
Anyway, that’s every reporter’s dream — but mine.
Here’s the former 
Note: This is an encore post from 2008.
Citizens can be thankful for policemen like Dalton Robert Patton, whose funeral was held yesterday.
No, the object at left is not a flying saucer on a stick. It is, in fact, Los Angeles’ earliest attempt at street lighting in which carbon arc lights were mounted on tall poles around the city. This one was near 7th Street and Alameda, where a 20-story wireless telegraph antenna was being built. That’s some skyhook, folks.
ladailymirror.com 