The way things are.

How are things? The general consensus is: "Not great."

A quarter of the nation is unemployed, thanks to a novel virus causing international lockdowns for social distancing.

Large cities are powderkegs of "protesters" and police clashing.

Cultural wars are in full swing. We have strong evidence (hell, let's just say "confirmation") of outside influence by international online arsonists who are fomenting hate and discontent on social media.

The President says that he does not trust:
The news media.
Scientists and doctors.
Our nation's intelligence services.
Our nation's criminal justice system.

The Left is cast as being full-bore socialists who want to tear down free enterprise, and get rid of the police.
The Right is being portrayed as racist, war-mongering, radical conservative, gun-obsessed zealots who care nothing for the nation's environment.

Police are being portrayed as focused on killing or at least hurting people of color whenever they can get away with it, who totally would get away with it, if The Left let down their guard.

Every use of force by police is now suspect to the public eye, if there is not a long history of the actor being a dangerous criminal, and there is not beautiful video of the event, depicting the recipient of police force committing indisputably heinous crimes (i.e., not just against police) when the police step in and expertly execute maneuver which stops the crime.

Police are assumed to be part of an inherently racially unjust system.

Because of this, people have taken to the streets in demonstrations which have repeatedly become riots. People will en masse block highways, blocking other people, to "raise awareness" of their issue. (This, to me, is akin to punching out a random old woman to raise awareness about breast cancer.)

People are stressed.

Listen to me: 

WE WILL GET THROUGH THIS.  

We as police will adjust some of the things we can, and the public will have to understand what we cannot adjust.

A vaccine is coming, and the greatest nation on the planet will get back to work again.

The current dumbass President will leave office, and another dumbass President will assume the role.

Do not get worked up over what someone says over the Internet-- chances are, they're just some Russian 'bot trying to goad you into a position of rage, to contribute to our chaos.

I and my brothers and sisters in blue will continue to try. And dammit, we'll try to do better. We have to.

I am sorry for our collective Troubles, and I will take a drink when they are past. For now, the liquor cabinet remains shut, because we have work to do.

If you can, try to be understanding of that idiot neighbor of yours, and do something kind.
If you can, let that comment box with the flashing cursor in it go unfilled with furious text.
If you can, send a little olive branch to that person that you used to think well of, before finding that they were just a little over on the Other Side on some divisive issue or another.

It's nice to have creative friends. (By which I doubly exclude both Dan Zimmerman and Robert Farago.)

I have some amazingly talented friends who can write*. Some even get paid for it. Some don't.
I have some amazingly talented friends who can photograph. Some even get paid for it. Some don't.
I have some amazingly talented friends who can sing. (You see where this is going.)
Then there are those who have talents for putting things together creatively into a multimedia fashion that defies labeling. One such friend is my friend the Ambulance Driver. Given that he's published a couple of books and is on a regular speaking tour, and teaches a class of his own invention on Shooter Self-Care, and put together a great fundraiser in Kilted To Kick Cancer-- I think that it's probably okay to let the cat out of the bag to say that Ambulance Driver is Kelly Grayson. Kelly, a fellow admirer of my friend Tamara Keel, took a regular piece of hers and made it a multimedia slide show.

Back around 2006, Tamara, in her love of all things Gun Show/ Fun Show, wrote her own words to "These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things", and posted them on her blog as "The Gun Show Song." She posts it most of the time that she goes to a gun show. I can't even find the first time that she did so, but it's almost a decade ago, and she has posted the words to it maybe a score of times:

Flintlocks and Flop-tops
And Number Three Russians
Black-powder Mausers
From jackbooted Prussians,
Shiny Smith PC's from limited runs
These are a few of my favorite guns.

Socketed bay'nets
On Zulu War rifles,
Engraved, iv'ried Lugers
That make quite an eyefull
Mosin tomato stakes sold by the ton
These are a few of my favorite guns.

Rusty top-breaks!
Smallbore Schuetzens!
And all of Browning's spawn
I just keep on browsing my favorite guns
Until all my money's gone.

Kelly cast around to find someone who could sing the song in as Julie Andrews would, and Squeaky stepped up with her trained voice, and recorded it (and very nicely, too) for him.  Then Kelly put the song to slides on a YouTube video of his own creation, and voila! He had made his Christmas gift to Tamara. She liked it.

See? Creative.

But then Dan Zimmerman and Robert Farago over at that The Truth About Guns website did what they do: they stole the content. No attribution was given. They took credit for Kelly's work and Tamara's writing, and Squeaky's singing, without acknowledging whose innovation had created it.

This is not just rude and classless-- it's thievery. Tamara gets paid to talk about, write about, and shoot guns-- which is what The Gun Show Song is a product of that. Kelly gets paid to produce online content. This is their business, however lovingly they may practice it.

Well, stealing things is what Dan Zimmerman and Robert Farago do. They take content of value, host it on their site (without attribution), and then use it as click bait for their links along the sidebar. It's about profit without creating, for them. Notice that I will NOT link to their site. They can die in the cold, and I'm asking you, gentle reader, NOT to go there. Going to their site runs up their hit count meter, which they make money from with their advertisers' links. When they do it to me (and they have), it's just forgetting to attribute a hobbyist. But when they do it to Tamara and Kelly--- they're taking profit from professionals without giving them their due.

Roberta X put it neatly:

   Dan Zimmerman, widely held to be a longtime intellectual property thief and, I am given to understand, founder of Dead Hooker Magazine, has stolen Tam's "Fun Show Song" and posted the lovely video made as a Christmas present for Tam by Ambulance Driver and Squeaky and posted it over at TTAG, the other sink of iniquity and inequity with which he is associated, utterly without attribution to anyone but himself.

     Other than polite reminders (already issued) and the distant possibility of lawyering up -- Tam's a writer and her stock in trade is the unique groupings of words she creates -- there's not a whole lot that can be done.

     But there is one thing.  Cato famously ended every speech he made in the Roman Senate with "Carthage must be destroyed," even if all he was talking about was proclaiming Junior Vestal Day.  The phrase I'd like you to remember and to post all over the Internet is "Dan Zimmerman. Intellectual property thief. Dead Hooker Magazine."  And good morning, search engines! 

Oh, I see that Jennifer has already written a very similar article. Great minds, and all that.
______________________________________
*Okay, when I started hot-linking friends of mine who can write, it didn't really cross my mind that I have a HUGE number of friends who can write, so I gave up pretty early. Don't feel slighted that I didn't link you, friends of mine; I didn't link a LOT of writers.

This is not who we are.

This is indefensible.


This is abhorrent.

No police officer can defend this action by Michael T. Slager, formerly of the North Charleston, S.C. Police Department. Happily, I haven't seen a single officer try to.

Go to 1:35 in the video, and watch as Slager tosses a black object down next to the body. Immediately after cuffing the dying man, he is seen jogging back to where the struggle began, and at 1:08 he picks up that object. I will bet you a month's worth of paychecks that the object is a Taser. I've seen them and handled them for years. It is a gun-shaped black item, seen when he drops it to be a figure L.

So, seconds after the shooting, Slager is tampering with the scene. Hell, that's a third degree felony here in Texas.

And about that shooting. Even before Tennessee v. Garner (1985), this wouldn't have washed with regard to the Fleeing Felon doctrine.  But even if it were legal, it isn't right. You don't kill a man whom you have identified, just because of brief struggle and he ran away.

That video is hard to watch, but I'm so glad that it was made, and released. Because it will help us seek justice. It won't be enough, but it never is, in any shooting of any human.

That's not us.

Let's just stop this and maybe be the good guys again.

Good guys take responsibility for their own actions. When they hurt someone by accident, they still own up to it.

Good guys weigh the danger of what they're doing against the good that can come from it.

Good guys try not to hurt kids.

So when we throw a flash-bang stun grenade into a baby's crib and critically injure the child, and claim that we've done nothing wrong because OMG drugs!, well, we're not being the Good Guys anymore.

I'm done with people's grandparents dying in a hail of bullets as they respond with a gun in hand to the intruders in their house, who happen to be cops serving a search and arrest warrant on their grandkid.

I'm done with no-knock warrants. 

If there's not a hostage involved, we do it by the numbers, serving a felony warrant. We knock on the door, LOUDLY, and announce, LOUDLY AND CLEARLY, that we are the police. We explain that they have an extremely short time to open the door, or we will open it for them. We make clear that we are the police, serving a lawful order. We then make entry, announcing our identity and intent very clearly (Not just hollered incoherently.). We then go about making the scene safe, and serve the warrant.

Will some evidence be lost? Yes. You bet there will be. And that's a damned shame.

But it's not as big a shame as what has become to be far too commonplace, in the case of the No-Knock Warrant.

Lest we forget...

Daniel Harless' disciplinary hearing is scheduled for December 1, 2011.
The guy he threatened and cussed out has been cleared of wrong-doing (beyond a traffic offense), when the judge threw out the State's case against him on November 9th.

There's still time to write the Canton, OH PD to express your disgust and concerns as to what message they're sending if they don't dismiss Officer Harless.  Remember to address it also to the IA bureau.

You want to fix the medical system? You want reform?

I've got a very simple law that we could pass that will go a LONG way toward medical healthcare reform.

Require that, within one business day, the healthcare provider give you a straightforward answer to this question:

"How much is this going to cost?"

Mom is in rehab for her new knee, which she had put in last week. The orthopedic surgeon called it one of the worst --if not the single worst-- knees that he's ever had to replace. He told me that Mom should have come in 10 years ago to get that knee swapped out. Mom's answer (she walked 150 yards in to the pre-op room, unassisted) is simply, "Yeah, but think of how far that replacement knees have advanced, in the last ten years." Good point.

Mom's a super star at rehab, and is actually being released early. This makes her cranky elder son very happy; we've been missing her next door. (Yes, I've been visiting daily, but it's not the same.) But when her family liaison person called me to ask me if I had any questions, I asked her, "What's the cost of this? How much are we saving daily by having her come home early? What is the average daily cost of her care?"

She didn't know, but turned me over to a person at their facility who could "better answer my questions." That lady didn't know, either. "We don't do any billing here," she told me. "That's done from the corporate offices in Pennsylvania."

But she went on to assure me that the bill was to be sent to Mom's insurance companies, who typically covered most of these things, before we'd ever get a bill.

"But somebody, somewhere, knows what this costs," I protested.

"No, we won't really know, until we bill the insurance companies, and see what they pay," she told me.

This is ridiculous.

The attitude that it doesn't matter, because there is insurance, is the reason why the costs are spiraling.

On the first of this month, I changed over from my old PPO to a new Health Savings Account*. Thus, when it's medically-oriented, I want to know what EVERYTHING costs.

I know what I make per hour. I know what the overhead is for my job. I could, after checking a few figures, answer the question "How much does it cost to run the police department in Matt G's little town for a single day?"

Why is this so hard?

________________________________
*I've got a $3000 deductible to fill each year, before my account turns into a classic PPO. My job kicks in $180 a month to a savings account that I pay out of.

Proving his point, exactly.

I've always prided myself on being able to look at and try to understand the opposing viewpoint, even when I don't agree with it. Sometimes it's admittedly for irritainment, but often I'll review a viewpoint that I may believe is largely biased, in search of actual content. For the last 18 years, I've listened to a lot of National Psocialist Radio. I can't help it-- the stories are longer, the soundbites are longer, and sometimes the stuff in insightful. Other times while shouting at my windshield, I would have to call it incite-ful.

While Nina Totenberg and the rest can drive me nuts with their bias on occasions, I've generally been pretty impressed with one of their news commentators, Juan Williams. Don't misunderstand me-- I disagree with his views a lot. But I've respectfully disagreed with the man. He's not an idiot. He doesn't just parrot PC speech. But he's by no means on any particular wing of the political spectrum.

I was a bit surprised to learn that Fox News had him as a political contributor, but apparently, they hired him before they had decided to become The Voice Of The New Conservative. (Yes, I'm just as irritated at Fox as I am at NPR. Maybe more so, because Fox doesn't even hide that they're bending their broadcasts right, apparently in an attempt to straighten out the left-biased other reporting.)

It didn't surprise me at all that Juan Williams would be on as a guest on "The O'Reilly Factor." After all, Bill O'Reilly routinely takes on guests that he disagrees with, lets them say something that he finds discordant, and then talks over them, drowning them out to the glee of his followers. It's so common, it's hardly even an ambush anymore, as anyone that he interviews that has even seen his show knows that he's going to do it.

I suppose that Juan Williams thought that, given his other status as a paid commentator for Fox News, he would get a little professional courtesy out of Bill O'Reilly, and would be allowed to finish his point before being interrupted in a discussion about whether it was correct to generalize all Muslims as dangerous. Williams, who was making the point that it was wrong to make such sweeping generalizations, opened a comment with a disclosure of how he personally had a long way to go before he could drop his own stereotypes, citing an example of how he had felt uncomfortable on an airplane with several traditionally-dressed Muslim persons. He was then cut off, and that comment was left to hang, out of context.

Today, NPR has fired Juan Williams, saying remarks "were inconsistent with our editorial standards and practices, and undermined his credibility as a news analyst with NPR."

Apparently, the Council on American-Islamic Relations had complained.

I'm confused. The NRA has complained about how Nina Totenberg has shown blatant anti-2nd Amendment bias in her statements, but she hasn't been fired. (For that matter, the only time she has been fired was when she got caught plagiarizing, back in the '70s.) So you can rail against a constitutionally-guaranteed right on-air, but not candidly admit elsewhere (in a non-journalistic capacity) that you are overcoming personal biases that you find distasteful?

The meat of what Juan Williams was arguing with Bill O'Reilly about, at the time of the discussion at issue, was political correctness. And as Alan said to me this morning, "of course, NPR proves his point about paralyzing political correctness."

And so it goes.

What we get paid the big bucks for.

An Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department officer named David Bisard killed Eric Wells on August 6th, and critically wounded two others, when he drove his police car into the motorcycles that they were riding. Bisard was running lights and siren to a call for service. (To serve a felony warrant? Strange.)

Bisard's blood alcohol level was later found to be 0.19%.

The chief is making lots of appropriate noises. The Mayor is, too, with a possible rush to judgement about Bisard's co-workers, saying that "Someone knew of the human weakness that was present and failed to act or to inform others." Probably. But not necessarily.

The IMPD says that they just drew Bisard's blood as a normal procedure, and didn't get the criminal investigation on Bisard started until after they got his BAC results back on August 10th, because they saw no evidence of his being intoxicated. If that's the case, then Bisard really is a long-time drunk. At that level of intoxication (more than double the legal limit), I would be doing well to simply stand up and walk. Everyone within 50 feet of me would know that something was seriously wrong with me, were I at that level of intoxication.

But I've missed the occasional drunk before. Masking agents, showers, distractions, inability to smell, and presupposition of innocence have all caused me to believe that a person was sober when later evidence indicated that the person was not. (In at least one case, the evidence was the statement by the drunk.)

Good on the IMPD for proceeding with a criminal case against their officer. Want to see the seven charges they put together against their own officer? See them here. In that PDF is also the Probable Cause Affidavit at the end. I note that the affiant is Sgt. Douglas Heustis of the IMPD. They're throwing the book at their own.

But I'm irritated by the Fraternal Order of Police President Bill Owensby's comments. See, back in April, Bisard got in a shootout with a bank robber, and won the fight. Bisard was commended for the good shoot, and received a medal. But here's what Owensby claims that

"The officer's a victim in this to some extent and it's, there's just no, there's nothing good that you can say about this. The whole thing is just a tragedy."

[Emphasis mine.]
He says,

"Not only is he faced with having to have taken a human life, but he heard the bullets whizzing by his head at the same time," Owensby said. He said, "If all this pans out to be true, I don't know if that played a role in this. I don't know how it couldn't have."

Now, to give the F.O.P. their due, they are distancing from Bisard, saying that the accident is inexcusable (after having just made an excuse), and only ask for a DNA test of the blood to show that it came from Bisard.

But friends, that's what we get paid the big bucks for. If we can't handle a shootout with the bad guys, in which we come out of it uninjured but for the weight of the medal on our chest, then we shouldn't get into this profession. When you win a fight, you should not dwell on being the star of your own victimology movie. Move on, bolstered by the knowledge that when the balloon goes up, you can do what needs doing. (Unless you're drunk. Then go do nothing, beyond learning how to deal with life unaided by ethanol.)

Let's have no more talk about David Bisard being a "victim." He killed one, injured two, and endangered countless others. He could have pulled his car over at any time and stopped. He's not the victim. He's a criminal. May his trial be just, and productive.

Verklempt

Think of the coolest married couple you know.

Now make one of them your best friend of a quarter century.

Now have your best friend come tell you that he doesn't know why his marriage is suddenly at the brink of divorce.

There is no answer. There's no "reason," in the traditional sense.

There's no advice to give.

These two wonderful people are together so much greater than the sum of their wholes. Yet here they are, and they don't know why. I sure as hell don't.

Damn it.

Word.

I've gone back and re-read Tamara's rant about the state of our upcoming national elections, and it seems that I need to link it:

"And before you even think about puffing up and sputtering something about "Are you just going to give Hillary the White House?" just put a sock in it, because it wasn't me, brother. It was all you idiots who put candidates out there that got tied up in pointless jackassery like rearranging the 'gay marriage' and 'flag burning' and 'stem cell' deck chairs after the USS Conservative had already hit the iceberg. Your typical Republican these days is worried more about what's printed on the money than where it comes from or what it gets spent on."

Deadly parenting.

Mom gives some insight from the perspective of a retired Child Protective Services caseworker into how children go emotionally dead before they physically die.

Yeah, it's tough stuff to read, but it's interesting, and it's fairly brief. Worth the read.

September 11th: Memories

6 years ago today, almost to the minute, our nation was attacked.

19 foreigners, who were welcomed to our nation with open arms, murdered 2,974 fellow human beings (most of whom were my fellow citizens, but many of whom were also foreigners). At the same time, the attackers killed themselves. And they did it here in the United States.

How do you stop madmen who are willing to die to hurt you?

Well, our nation has tried.

Some would say that we've been successful. They can make a good case: no more major attacks by al-Qaeda on US soil, Bin Laden's still hiding and on the run.

Some would say that we've failed. Our reaction to the attack was to change the lives of United States citizens in incremental but very real manners. We passed a bill called The Patriot Act which allowed our government to bypass lots of protections to US citizens. It literally allowed our federal law enforcement to suspend habeas corpus. We began holding people without showing probable cause for a crime, or as proper prisoners of war. We made it possible for wiretaps to be set up without a court order within our nation, on US citizens. We made it possible for library records of citizens to be reviewed. We invaded two countries, and have more soldiers, airmen, Marines, and sailors in Iraq and Afghanistan now than ever before. They are daily being attacked by new and growing sects that are offended by being overseen by an occupation force.

I personally happen to disagree with the way that our federal government has and is responding to the terrorism threat. I'm pretty critical of our President these days. But he's my president. I personally believe the man is doing what he thinks is right, even if it's not what I think is right.

There's a lot of conspiracy theories about September 11, 2001. Well, I guess they're unavoidable, since the very act of 19 men coordinating a secret simultaneous attack on three targets in 4 airplanes *is* a conspiracy. But I don't hold with the "US Government Attacked US!" conspiracies. Similarly, I don't hold with the "US Jews Attacked US, So That We Would Go To War!" conspiracies. For the most part, in fact, I don't even think that our government has lied about the events that occured on September 11, 2001.

Call me a fool if you want.

But you have to hang your hat on something, and I'll start with that. I have my reasons for what I believe. (And you can fault them and debate them elsewhere; attacks on my naivete, and diatribes on how our government orchestrated 09/11/01 will be deleted from the comments of this post.)
_ _ _

I'm writing this to plea to you, gentle reader: please remember that, six years ago this morning, 2,774 people died because someone hated our country. I cannot believe that any living adult doesn't recall his emotions on that day, but I think that some need to be reminded of it. Here are some of my memories:

--I remember being angry.

--I remember having lunch with my father a week later, both of us nearly breaking into tears while discussing the number of Americans who had died.

--I remember losing my cool and going off on a Middle Eastern man who accused me of writing him a speeding ticket just because he was a Middle Easterner. I had never yelled at a person on a traffic stop before, and haven't since.

--I remember discussing with my wife the issue of my duty. I gave serious consideration to quitting my job and joining the military to help attack those who had attacked us. She made clear to me what my more immediate duty was.

--I remember how helpless I felt. I wished I could have been there.

--I remember how angry --furious-- I was, that our citizens were so cowed that they would let some terrorists take over planes that way.

--I remember how proud I was of the impromptu heroes aboard United Airlines Flight 93.

--I remember watching the smoking ruins on television, and arguing with my best friend Scott that we couldn't use nuclear force to respond to the attack. I remember being afraid that he was right, though, and that our nation would use the nuclear option.

--I remember being proud of our nation--prouder than I'd ever been-- in the days that followed.

I remember.

Do you?

Interesting class, I suspect.

Heh, imagine being in Cranky Professor's English class, during one of her rants.

Her use of adjective, adverb, and interjective would be positively inspiring.

And go ahead and try to tell me you didn't feel your blood pressure rising a tad when you started reading. Just try.

(That's why the release at the end is so good.)

Ridiculous rancor

I will never understand sports rivalries.

I will never understand why adults will get so worked up over 'em.

I will never understand why people who have no affiliation with a school (didn't go there, doesn't have immediate family there) will attach themselves so powerfully to a team. People go around wearing sports T-shirts that they bought at Wal*Mart. Is that really your goal? To define yourself as a "Sooner?" As an "Aggie?" As a "Longhorn?" (Although at least affiliation with a college team makes mores sense than the way people define themselves as a professional team's fan. Those teams aren't even regionally-oriented; the free-agent system and the draft system means that they could come from anywhere, and will likely end up somewhere else.)

What just leaves me gobsmacked is when I see that people are getting physically violent over the sight of another person wearing a shirt that expresses affinity for a given ball team.

It's a game. A child's game.

Get over it, folks. Seriously.

Frustrating.

I've got to admit that it feels like a kick in the gut to have people (in comments) think that I"m a part of the jackbooted thuggery. I'm loudly decried in graduate criminal justice classes on terrorism and criminal procedure as being a "damned liberal" for people's rights. I'll bear that badge. But to be told that I don't understand the Constitution or understand the spirit of the amendments to it?

Got to admit-- that's an insult that upsets me.

I KNEW I forgot to do something!

*RING*

*RING*

*RING*

Groan. Thump. Stagger. Stagger. Stagger.

Collide with furniture.

I pick up the phone.

"This is Matt," I say with gravel in my throat.

"Mr. X?"

My wife's maiden name. That's how we list our phone in the new directory, because we don't want to be hassled by folks wanting to argue a ticket I wrote them (or worse), and we're too cheap to pay the $2.00 a month to be unlisted.

"No."

"This is Tasha Johnson. May I speak to Mr. X?"

"Who are you with?" I know it's a marketing scam.

"I told you sir, Tasha Johnson. May I speak with Mr. X, please?" She's sounding impatient. And East Coast. I have to listen to this, first thing in the... well, okay-- late --morning? Damn, is it almost 11:00? Well, it was almost 5:00 when I went to bed...

"Once again, Tasha: Who. Are. You. With?" I'm not yelling. I'm not cussing. I'm not sounding like I'm going to find her house, burn it down, shoot her dog on on the embers of her own front porch, and poop on her newly-delivered edition of Telephone Annoyance Monthly.

I am a hell of a guy. I may make coffee to celebrate.

But first, this bitch.

"We're with the Fraternal Order of Police, and..."

"Don't call me. Place this number on your do-not-call list. Don't ever call me again." At this point, I'm afraid that my voice might have been a teensy bit direct. Oh, darn. She might not have me over for catfish and beer this weekend.

"Are you Mr. X?" Oh, I can fairly hear her thought processes now: I'll show him! Only the registered telephone customer can tell me not to annoy him! That's the Law, and you have to obey the Law!

No, it's not. But anyway.

It's time to draw our telephone meeting to a close. I didn't want to have it in the first place.

"Mr. X does not exist. Mr. X is a pseudonymn. You may regard me as him. Remove our name from your call list. Do not ever call us again." And I hung up.

+ + +
I refuse to give money to ANYone who calls me and asks for it. If I want to donate to a charity, I will. I've sought them out before. But I don't give money to people who make money by calling me to ask for money. "But it goes to a good cause!" some of you may be saying. Some of it might, if it's not a scam. (Trust me: people do that.) But as this news story out of Houston shows, even the Texas State Troopers Association's fundraising sees only forty cents of every dollar going to the actual association that they're claiming to benefit, and most of that money goes to... LOBBYING. Nice.

Next time a local group puts on a barbecue fundraiser for a cop or firefighter who's sick or hurt, do 'em a favor and make a donation. But please don't ever donate to the associations that call you on the phone.

Oh, and those little stickers that you put in the back window to show that you're an upstanding member of the TSTA, or whatever? We don't give a tinker's damn about 'em. (And if we did, you'd find that the attention you got would probably be more negative.) Stickers in back windows do not get you out of traffic tickets-- they just imply that you think that they do, and that you spent $20 to try to get one like Thai folk buying Jatukams from temple holy men in an attempt to become prosperous.

+ + +

I flipped up the laptop, Googled and found the National Do Not Call Registry, and put my phone number on the list. Can't believe I'd forgotten to do that.

Peculiar priorites.

Most of y'all have probably heard by now the story of the recent Arizona execution of Robert Comer.

Mr. Comer, when asked if he had any last words to say, responded, "Yes. Go Raiders."

The article listed above goes into great detail to discuss how Mr. Comer left this as his self-spoken epitaph, and then discusses at length the debate over whether it's cruel and unusual to inject a man with a heavy dose of Sodium Pentothal to put him to sleep before stopping his heart with pancuronium bromide.

Curiously, at NO POINT does the article detail what Mr. Comer was convicted of doing 20 years ago. Talk about your misplaced priorities-- that should have been the lead. Instead, the information wasn't just buried; it was simply ignored.

This information is readily availible, and I'll list it here. Be forewarned: It's disgusting.

Robert Charles Comer

Date of Birth: Dec. 14, 1956

On Feb. 23, 1987, Comer and his girlfriend, Juneva Willis, were at a campground near Apache Lake. They invited Larry Pritchard, who was at the campsite next to theirs, to have dinner and drinks with them. Around 9 p.m., Comer shot Pritchard in the head, killing him. He and Willis then stole Pritchard's belongings. Around 11 p.m., Comer and Willis went to a campsite occupied by Richard Brough and his girlfriend. Comer stole their property, hogtied Brough to a car fender, and then raped his girlfriend in front of Brough. Comer and Willis then left the area, taking the girlfriend with them, but leaving Brough behind. Brough's girlfriend escaped the next morning and ran for 23 hours before finding help. Willis pled guilty to kidnapping and testified against Comer.

Trial Verdict: Jan. 21, 1988.
Sentencing: April 11, 1988.
Aggravating Circumstances: Prior convictions involving violence. Pecuniary gain. Especially heinous/depraved.
Mitigating Circumstances: None sufficient to call for leniency
Source: "Profiles of Arizona Death Row Inmates," Arizona Attorney General's Office.

Why did it take 19 years along with a sudden withdrawal of appeals to get Comer's sentence carried out? If he was crazy when he committed those crimes, how could he now live with himself now that he's been treated? If he's still that crazy, then he's still an active menace to the world, and we don't want him on this planet. Murder, Theft. Rape. Kidnapping. What does it take?

Remember that campsites are dangerous places primarily because of the two-legged critters. Remember George Comer's misplaced values, and arm yourself accordingly.

But forget about his stupid last words; his priorities were already messed up, to begin with.
A nice, pleasant Sodium Pentothal-induced nap, versus murder, robbery, violent rape in front of the victim's boyfriend, and kidnapping before the victim had to run for a day in the desert. Keep in mind the condemned man's actual actions when listening to those who would claim that the death penalty is "cruel and unusual punishment."

Oh, you think *that's* bad?!?

Tamara made an amusing rant about how the local Knoxville rag felt the need to post on the front page an ongoing story about teens at a party having alcohol. Some jeering might have occured.

The editor got wind of it, and responded that this is what the people are interested in.

And it's true that this time of year is a rather pertinent time to discuss teen drinking. If you've not seen any yet, brace yourselves for the late-May/early-June series of stories that will follow the seemingly inevitable, unfortunately ubiquitous, alcohol-related teen fatalities, most of which feature the Salt Of The Earth kids who Had Their Whole Lives Ahead Of Them, and who Had A Real Bright Future. Shoot, talk about your "Sun Rises!" headline. But they'll be there, and they'll be legitimate news, too. I've bought papers just to read such stories.

But my wife cautioned me to stop yelling at the television lest I wake up the children one night, as I was getting ready for work. I want to say it was our local Fox affiliate (but I may be wrong) which ran, toward the end of its regular news broadcast, a segment, which ran for every bit of two minutes, on "Neuticles."

These are artificial testicles for neutered dogs and cats and bulls and horses. Why make them? Why, because they give the poor boy back his confidence, and make him feel better about himself after he's been physically altered by being neutered. The story featured a relatively legthy interview/voiceover with an owner, while showing footage of his bull terrier. . . complete with zoom-in footage of the canine's scrotum.

My hand to Gawd, I'm telling the truth.

I'm not talking about one of those quick, almost subliminal flashes of a view; I'm talking lingering, changing perspective views, to give the viewer a look at the surgical scar, as well. Talk about your "well I really hadn't expected to see that over my evening coffee" moments.

Apparently, the war in Iraq wasn't worth spending time on. Nobody saved anyone's life. There were no life-saving medical discoveries. No insights into the war on terror. Nothing else that could pre-empt a story on the amazing efficacy of ovoid chunks of variously firm silicone in restoring Fido's life vigor. That two minutes was NEWS, by golly! If a 30 minute broadcast only gets 24 minutes of content due to commercials, we were watching 8.5% of it drain sickeningly down the drain, as this schlock. I will spare you the photos or the direct video.

Mom was a journalist with a large regional newspaper, and apparently her questions about the difference between the definition of what's "news" and what's "entertainment" were passed on to me, somewhat.

Just because people are interested doesn't make it newsworthy.

News hound.

Crazy Man With A Gun

"34**, I need some help here!" I heard Art's voice coming shakily over the radio, like he was running. Don, my corporal who was working deep night shift and who had relieved me 20 minutes before, had been chatting with me at the P.D. He swung his feet off the desk and onto the door as I rebuckled my duty belt back on. We hit the door at the same time, heading toward our respective cars.

"I got it!" Don declared. As my corporal, he could tell me to not go to the call. Doing so anyway, after I was off-duty, in a city car, would be a bad idea if he had ordered me not to. But he hadn't precisely told me not to go. He just had said that he "had" it. I kept going to my car. "I said I got it...!" he repeated himself. Uh-oh. He was about to directly tell me not to go, and I was going to have to make a decision. I knew Art.

"34**, he's got a gun, and he's chasing me around with it pointed at his own chest--- get me some help out here, now!" We both ran the last few steps to our cars, with no more discussion. Gravel flew, light bars lit up, and sirens wailed as we ran code in.... opposite directions. We had different ideas of where he was. I kept going. Heck, Don may have a better idea, or I might. But we could double the chance of getting that deputy some help if we kept on. I asked for a vector-in, from a now highly-harried dispatcher. It took some time. During that time, I made a bad guess on a dirt road that, while technically going more directly toward my destination, was rutted and potholed. I risked wrecking at 45mph. I stepped it up to 55.

"I NEED SOME HELP!" Art's voice was pointed. He was panting, and running. Involuntarily, my foot responded, and the speedometer briefly flirted with 60. A pothole the size of New Hampshire almost disabled my car, sending me half into the ditch. I slowed it back to 45. If I wrecked, I couldn't help. I finally got to blacktop, and found triple digits quickly. A railroad crossing immediately before a stop sign had me settng my tires down again about halfway through the intersection. I had every light and sound device on the car broadcasting.

Another brother with a badge from another agency arrived just about a minute before I did. When I got there, Art and Jeff were behind Art's car, and Jeff had a shotgun pointed at a man standing in the road about 20 yards away, who was holding a pistol and a beer. Art had just gotten a less-lethal beanbag shotgun out, and was yelling to the guy over it. At 20 yards away with lots and lots of open range behind him, the man with the beer was frankly a little far out for the beanbag gun.

We all found ourselves yelling to the guy. Art, whose call it properly was, also had a little bit more training with this stuff. He quite correctly told the rest of us to shut the hell up. And, thinking again about it some more, he put away the beanbag gun and got out the Mini-14 patrol rifle. At least now we had a rifle pointing at the guy, who was a good 30 yards from Art's car, by this point. The guy kept walking toward and away from us, with the pistol pointed at himself or to the side. He never pointed it at any of us, though. I made a point of getting my car spotlight and headlights on him, not only to help us see him, but to keep him from being able to see us. Putting a guy in a pool of light allows you to move about with a lot more stealth.

It began to rain cops. I decided to move alongside the guy. His pickup was parked at a cross street about 50 yards off and he'd already gone back to it for a beer. He kept moving as if to return to it. Well, I figured, maybe I can get to that pickup, and cut off an option. I began moving along a steep ditch to our left, to parallel the guy. The ditch had a lot of loose shale and brush, which meant that moving without giving my location away was hard. I got to a point about halfway to the truck and realized that I wasn't going to make it without a lot of distraction. I looked for cover. Ah! A utility pole! I snuggled up to it, and found that I could hide behind it. I took a practice sight picture on the guy with my Kimber, and found that, at about 20 to 25 yards, I felt confident that I could hit the guy in the upper body, but was NOT confident that I could make a first round headshot. I cursed my old chief for dragging his feet on adopting the proposed patrol rifle policy that I had written. (I now work for a more enlightened chief.)

About this time, the guy declared, "Well, that's it. It's time," and he poured the last of his beer out and dropped the can. He then began to stride toward Art's vehicle, behind which about 10 other cops were now gathered. I could hear Don now among them. I hoped he had good cover. I prayed that the guy didn't come my way, drawing all those muzzles in my direction. The guy pointed his pistol out to his right, straight out, and kept walking toward Art's car in that manner. I realized that the pistol was pointing straight at me as he passed me. He never knew I was 15 yards (at that point) beyond the end of that pistol. Rather than holler at him to watch his muzzle, or shooting him, I made myself a splinter on the far side of that creosote-soaked utility pole.

He kept walking toward Art's patrol car. Jeff had his shotgun aimed at the guy's center. Art, kneeling in the crease made behind his open driver's side door and front door post, had a good rest and was looking through the sights of his Mini-14 at the guy. Art began yelling for the guy to stop. Stop. "STOP!" The guy kept coming. As he got right to the front of Art's patrol car, it was reported to me that his sergeant began murmuring to Art, "Take him. Take him!"

I couldn't hear that just then. I too was yellng for the guy to stop and was fully expecting to hear the shot. The guy began to swing his right arm, with the gun, toward the cops. The gun, however, was reversed now. He slid it up onto the hood of the Crown Victoria, and stepped back. EVERYone began yelling for him to get down on the ground. He did so, and was quickly handcuffed as I secured the pistol. It was a... Hm. what did they call them? Ah yes, a Vektor. Cute little South African plastic pistols that were a good example of style over function. With no magazine in it, it felt light. I checked the chamber. Empty. I handed off the pistol and went to the truck. On the bench seat was the magazne, and a 50-round box of Winchester Western 9mm FMJ ammunition. He meant to die that night. He just wanted a good man to do it to him.

Thank gawd Art didn't.

The distance from Art's rifle's flash supressor to this bozo's chest couldn't have been more than 5 feet when the guy leaned over the pushbumper and slid that gun up the hood toward Art. Probably more like 4 feet. Call it a meter and a half. There were probably 10 guns pointing at the guy, and nobody dropped hammer on this armed man refusing to stop when ordered to. Remarkable, really. But Art was closest. His call. He was talking to the man in a clear, direct manner while looking through the sights. I'd like to believe that it was his confidence in his ability to stop the guy that saved the man's life. In the light and shadow there that night, no one could see the empty magazine well, and that wouldn't mean anything, anyway-- who wants to be the unlucky one to catch the single round in the chamber of an improvised single-shot?

Art's sergeant started telling cops to clear out. Some of us who had hurried to get there almost got our feelings hurt. But we cleared out.

The next morning, I checked on this crazy guy that had:
-gotten drunk,
-led Art on a short pursuit after being called in by his family,
-held us all to a stand-off for almost half an hour, and
-then nearly caused an officer to be victimized by his actions.
He had been booked in for DWI and Unlawful Carrying Of A Weapon (both misdemeanors), and had been bonded out by noon. No psych hold was placed on him. (Did someone drop the ball? Oh HELL, yes.)

He can legally buy a gun, drive a car, etc.

Why is it so hard to put correct tags on the legitimately unstable guys? So much so that, with two sergeants and numerous other cops on scene, no one had the gumption to ask for one?

We need to find a way to better deal with the people whom we've identified as crazy (like Cho Seung-Hui). Right now, there aren't enough beds as the public or or private hospitals, and you pretty much have to be activelly hacking off digits and throwing them at people to get committed. How about bringing about a simpler mechanism to get a person some help BEFORE it gets to that point?

Because, right now, I'll tell you: it's pretty frickin' bleak to us who run across 'em. And saying "I told you so" isn't much solace.

On self-defense.

Tamara expresses her dismay with the Illinois State Police's take on what a woman should do in the instance of an attack.

She's right, of course, that puking on your assailant is not only of questionable efficacy, it's completely self-demeaning. Now there's a concept for you-- survival without giving up your dignity.

Being raped or murdered is pretty undignified, and I hope that my friend Tam will even lower herself to such indignities as puking to avoid them, should, you know, her pistol go to slidelock and her BUG jam and... well, whatever. It's just another tool in your box. You don't have to use it, but it's nice to have should you need to.

So, at the risk of looking sexist, the following appears to be addressed at women. It's completely applicable to men, too, if they'll listen.

It's a tired old saw that you should have a good idea of your surroundings, so that no one can ever attack you by surprise in the first place. It's quoted so much, we find ourselves nodding and responding before the sayers are even done spouting off about tactical awareness. Yes, we're aware. Yes, we watch behind us. Yes, we see who just walked through doors, parked, ... yadda yadda. But the reason folks say it is because it's frickin' true. If you have an idea that you're being stalked, you can make some incredibly important decisions in your favor.

You can call someone. Got a cell phone? No? GET one. No money for service? Not a problem. Everybody and their dog has their old worn-out model and charger, and 911 calls don't require you to pay for service. If someone is approaching you, and they make you nervous, dial 911Send, and start talking. Even before the operator answers, start talking. No one wants to attack a person that's on the phone and can tell of his wherabouts. He'll wait. When the operator comes on, give your location and demand help before your give the details. Note: Older phones are harder to triangulate position on. Try to give your location, even if you have to drop the phone to yell it.

Are you scared of looking silly? Let me tell you this as a cop: I have NO problem answering a call for help and finding out that the lady in question over-reacted. That's my job. Let me prioritize. Trust me-- that's the kind of call I got into this business to answer.

Next, consider-- what about running? Are you afraid that he'll chase you? Going back to that whole situational awareness issue, the earlier you see him, the better chance you'll have of running away. Remember, you don't have to outrun him-- you just have to make it to an area where he wouldn't risk attacking you.

And on that point: I used to walk a fellow student to her car after math class every night. We discussed the concept of what she would do if an armed attacker confronted her. She spent a lot of time on campus, where weapons like guns and some knives and all clubs represented felonies to carry. She also said that she was non-violent. "That's fine. There are ways to deal with attacks that are pretty non-violent," I started. . . And then she parroted off to me the things she had been told: how she was supposed to be non-confrontational. Give him what he wants. Tell him that she wasn't going to fight him. Make herself human to him... blah blah blah. You know what the main problem with all this was? She was talking like she was going to be in the same city block with him. This young lady was in her mid-twenties, and a dance student. She could have outrun me like a deer can outrun a bull. Why in Gawd's name would she consider submitting to anyone? But the guy would be armed! With a gun! Oh, yikes. Um, here's some news for you: Most people who threaten with guns don't know how to shoot them very well. I promise you, if you run from your assailant in a criss-crossing pattern (not straight away!), and he's armed with a handgun, not one bullet in 10 will find you. And that 10th bullet? Well, I'll tell you a little secret: Handguns are hard to kill with. Handgun rounds are inherently ineffective except for center hits. KEEP RUNNING.

Where do you run to? Well, my friend told me that she would run for the best, deepest, darkest cover possible. NO! The things attackers hate most are bright lights, open spaces, and crowds. They also hate noise, which means that they're most likely willing to do anything not to shoot that gun. But if they have to, make 'em chase you toward a crowd to do it.

Once a big lummox like myself has his hands on you, a lot of your most effective options go away. Don't let him touch you. If he grabs you, don't let him continue to have a grip on you. Break it by whatever means you can, and run like a striped-arsed ape.

SCREAMING. Make a really, really loud nuisance of yourself. "Get away from me!" and "I'm being attacked!" and "This man is hurting me!" are good ones to bring the cavalry. It also makes him want to be somewhere else.

Something that I'm really impressed with, and which is legal to carry in most states (Texas included) is the Taser. They've got a special one for non-cops now, that looks quite purse-or-pocket-friendly. I'm seriously thinking about buying one for my wife. Expensive? Yep. But if we're talking about something that may save the life of a person who won't or can't carry lethal force, they're a pretty interesting option. Trust me-- they knock me down.

Mace and pepper spray have their uses, but mostly in the contexts security and law enforcement, in my opinion. The cross-contamination issue is considerable-- I would estimate that, in my own experience, observations, and discussions with fellow cops and bretheren in the jails, that good guys take a hit about 3 times out of 5 uses of pepper spray. Add to that the fact that it's slow to incapacitate, if it ever does, and you have a questionable weapon. I still carry it... in my patrol bag.

Impact weapons like batons, kubatons, etc require training. They also can be regulated, sometimes to silly degrees. In Texas, you can get a Concealed Hangun License and carry all over town with very few exceptions, but if you're caught walking around with the ASP baton that I carry on duty, you can be charged with Unlawful Carrying of a Weapon. You can carry a shotgun, but not a spear. You can carry a rifle, but not a sword. Yes, I know that the laws are silly. But don't expect that to save you from the ride, or even the rap, for that matter.

Knives are damned useful. Every adult should carry some kind of knife. I do. My wife does. My mother does. My girls will, when of an age and not in public school. They're also extremely difficult weapons to wield effectively without drawing your own blood. Hey, if a lockback is all you have when the threat comes to you, do what needs doing. But understand that it's good to consider the issue before you ever have to. Brandishing a little knife may just get you into exactly the struggle you don't want, or it could make the narsty fellow leave. Waiting to make a sly fast cut with the hidden knife might be effective, or it might not. I'm kind of lukewarm on knives as self-defense weapons.

Feet and hands are always on you. You can deliver the hardest blows with your feet, and the most accurate blows with your hands. Understand that fair hits are a ridiculous concept. If I, a 6'5" 270 lb 35 year-old man am attacking you and you're under 6'0" tall and under 200 lbs, we're not talking about a very fair fight. Trust me-- I know that lots of trained people can throw me over the horizon, but on the average, physics says that I've got an edge. Don't fight fair! My eyes are soft spots-- make them go away. (Got a pen?) My throat is unprotected-- crush it. My cojones are right there for a good high kick or swift knee, if you're too close-- drive 'em through the uprights. It takes very little training at all to learn how to kick my knee or the common peroneal pressure point to make my leg fold up under me. Use your claws. Use your teeth, particularly on hands and face and neck. Bite something off, spit it out, and bite some more.

While we're on the subject of fighting back-- what kind of lethal force do you have? Gun in the trunk? Not much good, is it? Gun in the glovebox? Mmmmmaybe. If you realize that you're being carjacked before they're in the car. Gun on your person? Properly carried, this is ideal, if you're trained. Don't assume that ownership equals competency; get some range time with a qualified instructor.

If you're in a car, what would possess you to get out when threatened? You're in a two-ton weapon that you control-- get to weilding it!

Remember that you are at least 100 lbs of clawing, hitting, screaming, running, ranting, biting, kicking, shoving, cutting, shooting, squirting, slashing, spitting, and yes, even puking, rage, whom some poor bastard has made the mistake of trying to pick on.

Who the hell does he think he is?
Don't submit. Ever.