On Tuesdays I open a document reviled by some exasperating types as a "liberal arm pit", the Los Angeles Times, quite carefully. On the day-after-Monday op-ed page a columnist I will call Mr. Old Terms has his usual rant about a political party whose name does not begin and end with "R" and "N" using oxygen which could be better used to burn the paper in which he is writing----or something. I'm watching blood pressure and have learned not even to peek.

On this recent Tuesday there seemed no need to open section "A" to the last page for a jolt. Generally the Times runs a feature article on a certain side of the front page. Why, it used to be called "Column Left", surprise. But here was something right in the middle, from the top, feature photo and all.

Going from "that armpit" to three hours' drive above the reputed one of California, a wrestler working the pro circuit in and around Stockton bills himself as the son of the Governor of Arizona and rants about immigrants. Of course, Hispanic fans turn out in tidy numbers to boo and watch him "fight" opponents who are often Hispanic.

Darn, I usually regard articles on semi-frivolous subjects as wonderful things to read while listening to the such as late Michael Brecker drop-kick his saxophone, often while drinking pine-scented foaming delights from the great northwest. This one did not make breakfast.

Later in the day I skimmed this article enough to want to read it. The wrestler is a soft-spoken fellow who has created what the business calls a "heel" character. He has a lot of Hispanic friends, is not the governor's son by any stretch of our mutual sun-belt, and definitely does not want to court the crowd of the "mad city motorman". Apologies to fans of Pacific Electric and other classic trolley's, but you know about pseuds' corner in blogging.

So that evening the article did indeed become a part of this balanced evening of suds and stormy saxophones. But do I think all is right with the world? Probably not. Mr. Old Term's piece that day was about how Mitt can better serve the rich. Or something. Maybe this week he can tell us about a Lepus which births chocolate eggs.