So this week was fairly eventful. I got a mess of comments on Facebook after I tweeted the following:
"If minorities know racism when they see it, then patriots know disrespect when they see it. Own your speech."
That went on for several days and of course got acrimonious, but that's Facebook. Same bourgeois mix that loves this kind of drama. If Facebook cares to preserve it, you'll find that whole thread here. What's interesting of course is the extent to which most people talk about subjects that are presented to them via the slovenly media, and in particular this week's edutainment came from a sitting, standing, kneeling or absent NFL. If you're not already saturated in that fat, consider yourself lucky. Meanwhile, however, I've had my own interesting experiences with various police departments. You want to hear? Of course you do.
The first story was that I went out to North Hollywood this Sunday to the Gathering of the Pack. It was extraordinary. Some of the most thrilling combat I've watched in a long time. If you're not up to speed on how I think about combat, you can get a good introduction by checking out MindSmash. Anyway, so I take the long way home and I don't get back until about 9pm. As I pull into the driveway, I notice that my front door is wide open. I had an armful of groceries at the time. Without thinking too much about it, I drop the groceries into my living room. Then I come back to my car thinking that if there's somebody in my house, I'm going to have to kick their ass. Since I brought my sticks with me to the Gathering (although I wasn't registered to fight) I figured I'd go back in the house and be a badass. But suddenly I realized that I was tired and I had such a good day. As I'm walking back to the driveway a car is driving past quite slowly. People in the car are gesturing to my house, it gives me a hinky feeling. I watch them drive slowly up the street as I'm getting my sticks out. The possibility enters my mind that either they are casing the joint, or their expecting their buddy to come out with a TV. Crap.
So I call the cops. The 911 operator takes my information and tells me to wait in my car until the officers arrive. And so I sit for about the longest 10 minutes ever. The first few officers arrive and ask me all the reasonable questions. What time did I leave home? Should anybody else be there? The lead officer asks if I mind that they take the K9 into my place. No, of course not. I draw a map of the bottom floor on the palm of my hand, like a quarterback drawing a pattern for his receivers. A couple more officers show up. They call into the house and announce that anyone inside should come out with their hands up. Twice. Flashlights and pistols are drawn, they stack up around the front door and head in. Four officers and a dog. I hang outside on the sidewalk, arms folded. Now there are 4 squad cars and an SUV, a couple more officers show up. It has been a while since they've gone in, about 20 minutes, and suddenly I remember that I didn't tell them about my pistols upstairs. Now I'm worried for them and pissed that I forgot to mention it. After all, my keys are right there. A bad guy could figure out how to unlock them, and then use my pistols on any of the officers. No gunshots. They come out looking something odd. Not bored. Not disappointed. I can't quite identify the expressions. I think it's how you look when you have to slow down your breathing and swallow your adrenaline.
The lead officer wants to check the garage. Of course. It checks out. The supervisor has the lead officer go with me on a walkthrough through the house. Everything is how I left it. Relief all around. I think it was a good exercise for all involved. I say thanks. They say thanks. All comfortable and wrapped up. It's nice to live where it's nice. Redondo Beach cops are great. I text Doc. He doesn't get the message until the next day. I'm glad my daughter hadn't come back home yet and ran out. It wasn't her. I call my wife and tell her it's all good, but that she probably left the door open.
Today I'm working and trying to get some security stuff working on my machine again. Then Doc texts me and his daughter and my sister. He injured himself on the job. It turns out that while he was on duty, some woman tried to hang herself on an overpass. He rescued her, action hero style, but unlike the action heroes, it wrenched his arm. He's going to be on injured reserve for a week or so. Her life was spared, so that's the important thing. I'll probably head over to his place tomorrow and we'll talk about it in detail. I'll bring him a bottle of something nice. He called Pops who was kind of nerve-wracked because when he tried to call back, Doc was already motoring home. I think he left a message about needed a ride, but Pops didn't get the message until it was too late. Well, Doc made it home alright. Another day.
People have been griping about white privilege and cops and the NFL. I'm not even going to write an 'obligatory seriousness' essay on that one. This is my life. Yours may vary.