Archive for July, 2009
Thursday, July 30th, 2009
There have been, I’m sure, billions of words written about it; breathless and overheated. Conservatives screaming about reverse racism and progressives screaming about fascist states and all of it’s bullshit.
Sergeant James Crowley and Henry Louis Gates tete’a’tete has dick to do with anything beyond two giant egos clashing in a kitchen and on the sidewalk. Both acted stupidly, like spoiled children, and both are going to keep that façade up until the day they both shuffle off to whatever is next.
It’s all about ego, baby. And trust me, I know from ego.
Gates is a Harvard professor and if the police report can be believed (and there are parts of it that have the ring of truth and other parts that are obvious ass-covering lies) one of the first things he said was that the cop had no idea who he – the cop – was dealing with.
Uh…yeah, I can see that being said.
Because I’ve been there.
I had a drunk driver last fall. Happened to be Queen High Shit in my town’s power structure. Lots of money, lots of power, lots of friends. Admittedly, she never said anything to me about who I was ‘messing’ with, but her body language, her attitude, the names she dropped, all served as a reminder that she was the Most Powerful Banker In The History Of The World and I was just a cop, probably not all that far removed from being an –inbred hillbilly and obviously not smart enough to do anything else except push people around with my badge.
A BMW and a large house and a husband who wandered around the state playing the best golf courses and friendships with all the lawyers in town and power over who knows how many people’s financial lives. On the stand, during trial, she called me a liar and a bad police officer and did it with that kind of shrugged shoulder, ‘I am sorry but he’ll never amount to much, I’m sure his Mother did her best,’ attitude that everyone in the court – except her friend the Judge – found appalling.
Can I be honest? I wanted to blast her right the fuck outta my life. I wanted to get in that woman’s face and unload the most vile, horrible, unprofessional venom I could come up with. There were even moments during her perjured testimony (and yeah, I can document a handful of straight up lies) when I wanted to jump over the table and bust her right in the puss.
But you don’t do that. You can’t do that. You sit there and take whatever bullshit she and her ilk, looking down their noses, sling.
You do that because you’re a police officer. You do it because this is the job you chose and believe it or not, there is a segment of society that dislikes you and will let you know whenever they have the chance. Tough titty, said the kitty. This is the gig you chose. Don’t like getting yelled at? Get a job as an mortuary assistant.
Now, I don’t believe my drunk driver and Professor Gates dislike the police because they are the police, I think they dislike the police because they are so much better than the police. They are richer, more accomplished, richer, smarter, richer, have more friends, richer….
Which is my certain bet what drove Sgt. Crowley batty. To be metaphorically spit on by someone whose home he was trying to protect.
I do not condone what Sgt. Crowley did. I think he was wrong. I think he, and the department, acted stupidly. I think he let Gates win that skirmish by letting the man get under his skin. And he reacted by arresting a man in his own home (or on his property, the curtilage…which is a boring legal construct that basically means the residence and immediate grounds, enclosed or not).
Gates got the better of the battle because he forced Sgt. Crowley to do something I certainly wouldn’t have done. But let’s be clear: in Illinois, the cops can’t be ‘alarmed and disturbed,’ which is the basis for a disorderly conduct arrest. Is it the same in Cambridge? Who knows? But I find it suspect that Crowley mentions in his report seven ‘unidentified’ witnesses who appeared surprised and alarmed.
Conveniently unidentified and who appeared surprised and alarmed? But none of the multitude of officers on the scene thought to get those witnesses’ information and actually ask if they were alarmed and disturbed? Come on, that’s just bad police work.
At the same time, this entire incident is over if Gates accepts that a passerby was concerned his house was getting burglarized, tried to help, and that the cops were there to check it out. Could Crowley have handled things better? Absolutely. Could Gates have gotten off his class-horse and cooperated? Abso-fucking-lutely.
So in the midst of a recession, a health care debate, two endless wars, staggeringly high unemployment, and the pain in my left knee, this is what the country is talking about: two ego-driven idiots who had to prove whose dick was biggest.
And as a short aside, before I leave you, wouldn’t this entire thing have been settled if the cops on the scene had as many cameras as I think law enforcement should have? Personal digital pocket recorders, which I think ought to be damn near required for officers, would have proven the situation one way or the other.
Except, honestly, the situation wasn’t one way or the other and we all know it. The truth of the situation is to be found in the muddy middle, the place where no one is satisfied.
Here’s a link to Crowley’s police report:
http://www.samefacts.com/archives/Police%20report%20on%20Gates%20arrest.PDF
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Wednesday, July 29th, 2009
“Get me a dog,” I yelled at the young, part-time officer. “I don’t give a shit where you get it. See if P- has theirs on, or S-V-, or State, even. Get it from the damned Mounties, for all I give a shit, just get me a fucking dog.”
But there was no drug dog.
I knew – not legally but absolutely – the car was full of drugs. It had been stopped before. And the occupants had been loaded down with drugs before. There was a history. And the occupants knew it and I knew it and another county officer – who called me on the phone breathlessly to remind me who it was – knew it.
But the part-timer, the young cop who’d stopped the car, hadn’t a clue. His inexperience had driven him to pull a car over for a loud muffler (which I’m probably too lazy to have done) and that was good. But that same inexperience left him with no idea who he had.
I raced to help him. “You know who this is?”
He shook his head.
“Get me a dog.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause this car is full of crack.”
His eyes lit up and yeah, it was excitement, but it was also a measure of fear. This suddenly wasn’t about a loud muffler and whether or not to write a citation that the State’s Attorney’s Office would probably throw out anyway. Now this was about arrests and evidence and reports and court testimony.
Except it wasn’t going to be about anything if I couldn’t get a dog because all of us knew the dance. The vehicle’s occupants knew, the moment I as a second officer arrived, what tune had been called. I knew what tune had been called. The young officer, though he didn’t hear the music clearly, knew what tune had been called.
So with all of us in our places, we started dancing.
The driver started talking. Laughing and conversational and as though he hadn’t a care in the world. Under the glare of my flashlight, he kept his hands on the steering wheel and made no sudden moves. The woman, who’d once been pulled from a car and had given up handful of drugs, sat in the passenger seat and mostly straight ahead. The rear passenger, who’d been in jail numerous times for low-level drug offenses, laughed and carried on as though it were a Sunday afternoon and we were all headed to a damned picnic.
I sang and sang, giving them all my best lines, most conversational attitudes. I worked and worked and worked to lower the tension and lighten the atmosphere. They watched me watch, they said nothing offensive or stupid, did absolutely nothing to ratchet the situation up. They knew I wanted inside that car and they knew, as long as they were cool and calm and gave me nothing else, I would stay on the side of the road, frustrated.
We ran their names and the plate and everything came back clean, as I’d known they would. I asked at least three times, in various semantic versions, if I could take a look through the car. They always smiled when they answered but the answer was always no.
And there was no dog coming.
In the end, there was nothing. I had no probable cause to force them to do anything. I could ask and cajole and try to convince all I wanted, but if they said no, I was screwed. In the end, I told the officer who’d stopped them that I had nothing and the stop was his again (yeah, I had taken it over in the same way that the older cops used to take over my stops…it drove me nuts then and that I’m sure drove this new guy nuts).
“Let ‘em go?” he asked.
“Unless you’ve got something you haven’t told me about.”
He shook his head.
“Write ‘em or let ‘em go.”
And so they left.
And I straddled the double-yellow line on this lonely county highway at 2:00 in the morning, two miles from town and at least a mile from the closest farm, engaging in primal scream therapy, “Fuuuuuuuuuuccckkkk….”
The upshot? There had been a dog on duty in one of our small towns. But the night had been so slow I hadn’t heard him on the radio so I hadn’t known.
Almost made me wanna go back to that lonely spot on the highway and do some more primal scream therapy.
Posted in CopStories | 1 Comment »
Sunday, July 19th, 2009
“Don’t get all horny on me….”
Overheard at an afternoon cookout today. The Mrs. said it to the Mr. after he began to imbibe. She said it in a near-whisper and with what might have ben traces of disgust in her voice…which is what makes it so funny.
Posted in ...uh...what? | 1 Comment »
Tuesday, July 7th, 2009
Respect.
Obey.
World of difference between those two words…world of difference. And not just in the dictionary definitions, but in the real world application.
Hell, even Cartman managed to get it right. Guess we can’t all be as smart as Cartman, fictional cartoon creation that he is….
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Tuesday, July 7th, 2009
You know, as sugar comas go, it wasn’t intolerable.
Okay, let me clear something up: I’m not a fan of weddings. I like the theory behind them – people are in love and want to proclaim their love to the world and cash in on married couple benefits like the ‘Spouse Eats Free’ nights at the local Bob York – but weddings in and of themselves don’t do much for me.
Mine, obviously, was different. Actually, mine was a hoot when the Justice of the Peace – a 973 year old guy who drove a 27 foot long Cadillac and parked it crooked – said, “If anyone here has objections, let them speak now….” Then he leaned down to us and whispered, “Like it would do them any good.”
So anyway, to make a short story fully verbose and maybe slightly annoying, I’m not a fan of weddings. The sugary music and schmaltzy poems and mind-numbing happiness just drive me batty.
LuAnn told me recently we were going to a wedding and I said, “What the hell, only thing I had to do was clip my toenails,” so I went.
It was hot, first of all. Damn hot, like Africa hot (the hell movie is that from?). Hot and sweaty and everybody’s perfectly coiffed hair – mine included – wilted like Joe The Plumber when faced with an actual plumber’s liscensing exam. Everyone was sweaty and hauling around cameras and video cameras and trying not to get in the way but still be close enough to the ‘action’ to get some good ‘action’ shots (of a pastor talking then the happy couple talking and then everyone smiling).
The chosen colors were cool: purple and white. Always loved purple myself, it once being the color of European royalty. But there were fukin’ balloons and when all was said and done, everyone let their balloon go to, I shit you not: “Up, Up and Away In My Beautiful Balloon.”
I almost yaked. Come on, only could have been worse if they’d chosen ‘Wind Beneath my Wings,” which I actually kept expecting to hear.
The happy couple – looking studiously happy while trying to furtively wipe away a tsunami of sweat – descended the stairs behind a friend who tossed rose petals to the ground for them to walk over. Yeah, yeah, I know, the very definition of cheese and high-drama.
Then the pastor did her thing and a friend of theirs read a poem that no one could hear because we were outside at the Mississippi River, and then it was over. Everyone kissed and everyone air-kissed and everyone laughed and smiled and all were happy.
But the happiest of the day were, if not the happy couple, then certainly the owners of the bar where the reception was held.
Holy Balls, Batman! Those assorted guests could put away the booze. Look, I’ve been out for drinks with reporters, with cops, with writers and theater queers. I thought I’d seen me some drinking but none of those groups had squat on the guests at that reception. It was an impressive display, I have to tell you. It reaffirmed my faith in the righteousness of a Daniel’s shot with a Corona back, baby!
But see, here’s where the pro-gay marriage lobby fails in their mission -
Oh, didn’t I tell you? It was a gay wedding. You saw the clues, right? Mississippi River? Female pastor? Theater queers? No mention of the bride or groom? Come on, you saw this coming.
Where the pro-gay marriage lobby fails is that they’re trying to convince people they’re right on moral grounds. That it is immoral to deny people the right to sign a piece of paper with the person they love. What they should be doing is selling the economic benefit.
Based on the sheer amount of money spent this past weekend in Iowa, I believe that if every gay couple who wanted to marry did so, the economy would right itself in about 37 seconds. Wanna get gay marriage passed? Talk to the merchants who’d make the dough. ‘Cuz America may not know what morality it wants, but it sure as fuck knows what dollar it wants.
All kidding aside, it was a terrible wedding…for me. It was boring and cheesy and too cute by half. But for those two men, only one of whom I’d ever met, it was the most amazing thing. They never thought this would happen. They never thought they’d be considered equal with the rest of us.
And they cried. And the better than 100 people there – including a pile of children – cried. And the pastor choked up.
And I swear to whatever is holy in your life, it was just as bad and just as boring and just as blech as a ceremony for ‘opposite marriage’ (quoth Carrie Prejean before she was ‘persecuted’ by the ‘left-wing’ media ‘elite.’)
So my question is this: how is getting whole families together and celebrating the love between two committed people every going to destroy this country?
Obviously, I know that question won’t be answered with any seriousness. It’ll be answered with vague nods to the Bible (like in the African-American community, which goes absolutely bugfuck over gays – based on words in the Bible – but says nothing about the Bible’s words ordering slaves to obey their masters…hmmmm, hypocrisy?) and no actual argument detailing why letting people get married is wrong.
Because there is nothing wrong with it. It makes some people squeamish, it makes some people uncomfortable, but you know what? So do most things. I get uncomfortable watching bankers try and figure out how to attach new fees to accounts. I get uncomfortable watching a Super Bowl where the number one advertiser is Viagra but when a boob pops up, the country goes insane.
Okay, got off in the weeds here. All I really wanted to write about was my discovery that a gay marriage ceremony can be just as eye-rolling – to me – as an opposite marriage ceremony.
Wow, I guess gays really are people, too.
Who’d'a thunk it?
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