HLS - The Letters Of Harvey L. SlatinNovember 25, 1990

Hey, they’re, Udo!–

We had Thanksgiving dinner at the new home of stepson and daughter-in-law, who have agreed to pay us off for staying here a year by inviting us to holiday dinners for the next 35 years.  That takes a great load off our minds.  The dinner was excellent, with so many courses that I lost count after eleven.  (I was barely conscious on the couch, holding my tum with both hands.)  We are invited there for Christmas, when I look forward to counting beyond eleven.

My daughter-in-law is into food, and invents at least one new meal a day.  All good, too.  This is our reward for being such wonderful people.  (But I didn’t have to tell you.)

I’ll never believe that Anne “doesn’t have that much clout with the Village snow-removal crew.”  All she has to do is raise one disapproving eyebrow at Council meetings to strike fear into the hearts of all those time-servers.  If more than a thin layer of snow falls in front of your house, they had better be out there at three in the morning, OR ELSE!

The van we drove to Claremont was a 1984 Toyota, which now has about 90,000 miles on it.  The 1973 Toyota sedan, which I drive to the store and back, has over 500,000 miles.  The odometer (from the Greek hodos + metron = road + measure) broke at 412,XXX, and now shows 12,XXX all the time.  It has good tires, a new starter, and a fighting heart.  I have been asked by total strangers if I want to sell it.  It may be some kind of a collector’s item, because it has a 6-cylinder engine and was made for only 2 years.  In another ten years, I’ll sell it for $50,000 unless I can get more.  (For you, $49,990.)

To date we have had 7% of normal rainfall for the season.  At least twice a week the Bee’s weatherman predicts rain, and of course nothing happens.  The western edition of the New York Times has better forecasts.  I think the Bee’s weatherman is the editor’s son, working on a merit badge in the Scouts for weather prediction.  (He already has the badge for Journalism.)

In the recent election our ballot carried an initiative for combining the City of Sacramento with the county.  It was rejected.  This is the third time it’s been “offered to the voters” and shot down.  To answer your question, “Why does it keep showing up on the ballot?”  let me fill you in.  Lukenbill and his developer buddies want it.  That would give him a chance to siphon money from a population of about 1,500,000 instead of 280,000.  The city voters are all for it.  They are stuck with Anne Rudin’s infatuation for Lukenbill, which will obviously cost them a bundle.  He has been out of the headlines lately, which is a surprise because he’s a favorite of the Bee’s editor, too.  The editor figures that the more developing Lukenbill does–at his own expense or the public’s–the more population Sacramento will attract, and the more advertising and circulation the Bee will gain.  Aside from that, Rudin, Lukenbill and the editor are motivated entirely by concern for the public interest.

LEAF-RAKING TIME IN STAMFORD.  I think your neighbor is behaving badly.  Your best move would be to gather a Ziplock bagful and have Anne wave it at the Council and demand that Mr. Neighbor keep them on his own property.  Get a small rubber stamp with his initials, and stamp each one to show ownership.  If that doesn’t work, Anne can order the snow-removal crew to pile your street snow in front of his house.  He wants to play hardball, you play snowball.  All bets are off, Udo.  He brought it on himself.

Meanwhile, I am working on sequels to Atomic Slavegirl and Pueblo of Doom.  The American people are clamoring for more books from Udobbs Press (delivered via the Udo & Dobbs Railroad and Hudson River Day Line).  I won’t tell you the plots because I want you to read them objectively so you can overprice them.  So keep the IGA Whittlers at work on those wheelchair wheels, and the track clear of snow.  And never forget our obligation to the American People.  Write to Lukenbill for a copy.

Enclosure: cold-fusion news.

Best to Anne and Thomas

Fred C. (“Dustbowl”) Dobbs

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