Better And Better

If you don't draw yours, I won't draw mine. A police officer, working in the small town that he lives in, focusing on family and shooting and coffee, and occasionally putting some people in jail.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

When disaster strikes, you're on your own.

Staghounds tells the story of how the Norwegian massacre could go, if we taught our kids to respond and think.

If it has to be your last act, stop the threat.

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Friday, July 22, 2011

The written word is more powerful.

If you would like to lodge your distaste with the Canton Police Department over Officer Daniel Harless' actions on 8 June, 2011, may I suggest that you write them a letter?

The appropriate address would be:

Dean L. McKimm, Chief Of Police
Canton Police Department
221 Third Street S.W.
Canton, OH 44702

Please be courteous. Please use calm, acceptable language.

Worthy talking points are the Canton P.D.'s Officer Code Of Conduct, Officer Harless' apparent cowardice, Officer Harless's continued rant beyond his initial surprise, the potentially criminal nature of his implied threats, and the damage that it does to the public respect for police.

Mine is mailed out.

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Thursday, July 21, 2011

We can do better than this.

I've cussed people while in uniform, before. I'm not proud of it. As a matter of fact, I'm generally ashamed of it. But it's happened.

The most recent circumstance was as I was investigating a Visiting Burglar who was loitering around downtown at 3:00 AM, with a car full of burglary tools. I casually asked him his name, and he lied to me. I knew it. He knew that I knew it, and my cover officer knew it. When a check of that name and date of birth came back as "No Record Found," (strange for a guy covered with prison gang tattoos), I investigated until my cover officer discovered V.B.'s real illustrious past, and that V.B. had a warrant. I told V.B. to turn around, so that I could pat him down. I asked him carefully and clearly if he had anything on him that could cut me or poke me. He assured me that he didn't.

The last pocket that I checked had a used syringe in it.

"What the f**k?!? G*dD***it, you said that you didn't have anything like that! S**t!" I blurted out. He began to apologize profusely.

Now, I have to admit that I'm scared of being poked by used needles from a guy like this, who was in fact a bug-carrier. Still, I should have conducted myself more professionally. If my chief or city council or one of my citizens ask me about this, I shall have to apologize for my actions. I already have apologized to the arrestee, just before I took him to jail, as a matter of fact. Apologizing for unprofessionalism doesn't excuse it, but it's the second step* in beginning to make it a little better.

_ _ _ _

Friend Gay Cynic passed on this little video of a Canton, OH police officer losing his mind over what he perceived as a late notification by a concealed carry license holder during the traffic stop.

I haven't watched the whole video, because I got to 9:08 before I couldn't listen to any more.** This isn't a "days off" offense. This is a "pack your stuff, and move on" offense. I would actually consult with the city attorney to consider charges against the officer for terroristic threats made against the driver. As a street cop, I'm disgusted at this.

*Everyone knows the first step, right?
**Okay, I've listened to a bit more. It gets worse.

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Monday, July 18, 2011

Climate vacation

I was caught at a weak moment.

My wife and I had been talking about where we were going to go for our vacation. Somehow we had managed to get the same 10 day period off in July. We had talked about how we didn't have much money. We had talked about maybe taking the kids up to the foothills-called-mountains up in northeastern Oklahoma and western Arkansas.

I got distracted from finishing this conversation, when I was returned to it abruptly whilst in an attic.

Attics in Texas are not very fun places to be, in the mid-summer. In this one, I had just finished blowing insulation into it, and was cutting a hole for a gable vent. Because I was doing this in the morning, the temperature outside was still just under 100 degrees. The temperature inside the attic was a little hotter.

*Ring* [I scrabble to get my cell phone out of my pocket.]
"Hello?" [Sound muffled by my air filter.]
"Matt? Is that you?"
"It doesn't sound like you."
"It's me." [Getting a little annoyed, and trying not to fall through the ceiling from the joists that I can't see, buried under blown-in insulation. Finally, pulling up the filter and taking a gasp of dusty, insulation-enriched air.] "Now, can you hear me?"
"Yes. Better. So I've been thinking about where we're going for our vacation."
"Do we have to do this now? I'm in..."
"Yes. Now. Our elder child's in band camp that week, and our younger child can stay with your mother, and..."
"I want to drop the hammer on tickets for you and me to Seattle."
"What's the price?" She told me.
"What about a car?" She quoted me a price for a rental with unlimited mileage.
"What's the weather doing up there?"
"Highs in the 60's. Unseasonably low temperatures."
"Do it."

A week later, we were both moist in the face from our dash to the gate. (The remote lot that we had first gone to turned out to be full.) It wasn't dawn, yet, it was 81 degrees Fahrenheit. Today was going to be warm.

We finally landed in SEATAC airport at about 3:00PM their time. It was 64 degrees. I checked back home, where it was 5:00PM: 105. More than 40 Celsius. I felt no regrets for coming.

After getting our car and assuring the lady at the desk that we did NOT need the spacious luxury vehicle or the satellite radio, or the GPS, or the upgrade in insurance (good lord, the upgrades would have been double the price of the car rental), we headed south. I was a bit tired, so we stopped in Tacoma for a cuppa coffee.

Friends, they drink gooood coffee, up there. And the barristas know the name of the guy who roasted their bean. And the latte art is amazing. My wife laughed at herself for getting her mocha iced, out of habit. No need. It was cool out.

In Portland, we stayed at a friend's house. She was actually not there, but had left a key. She also had left a tiger trap. It seems that she'd been looking at replacing the wooden (!) grate over the updraft floor vent. I walked to the window to look at the view, and fell through, with my legs dangling into the basement. A small and ultimately unnecessary patch of skin the size of Montana was removed from the love handle covering the crest of the right ilium. As I flailed, I managed to chicken-wing my right elbow into a ceramic pot (RIP) and its brass stand (RIP). I like to think that they slowed my descent, ultimately caught at the right armpit and left leg.

Ever had the floor just fail to be where it should have been? You feel rather shocked and unable to explain yourself as you stop your descent. In this case, the crashing sound of me going through the sheet metal below the vent (removing about a yard of unnecessary skin on my right shin) made me terrified that I had oafishly broken the 1920's vintage Gibson banjo hanging on the wall about one foot from where I had fallen. I notified my friend (en route to a music festival), and she responded, "Holy crap! You're there for five minutes, and you're already breaking stuff!" I informed her with a sniff that, in my defense, I had actually been there for eight minutes.

Ibuprofen cures many ills, friends.

We continued south to Eugene, Oregon, and stayed with dear friends of my family, and ate like kings. Blake characteristically was cooking for his neighbor's wedding, which my wife and I were invited to. It was held outdoors. The groom wore walking shorts, and the bride wore a sun dress. The music was performed by a band of kazoos. As a man who's played a little kazoo in his time, I sat in with the band. The vows were moving. House finches played in the hemlock. We ate Texas barbecue. It was a great wedding, and I had only met the bride and groom 2 hours before the wedding. May they always be happy.

The next day, my bride and I went with friends to the Oregon Country Fair. This is not like a little local county fair, like I had grown up with. It's a gathering of hippies. Honestly, it's fun to step into their world, and see what they'd like to believe the world can be like. It was very clean. People were very friendly. They wore amazing costumes, or nearly nothing at all. (A cache sexe was required.) The food was good, the music was good, and the art was good. The weed was smoked only in designated places. No alcohol was served. Great coffee was. I met a friend from my youth (my best friend's little brother), just strolling around the 40,000 people, 1900 miles from home.

We came back to my friend's house tired and happy, and my friend Shannon brought out some GREAT local wines. (May I suggest the 2007 Gold Note Zinfandel?) We ate locally-caught grilled fish of four varieties. I had never eaten grilled sturgeon, and was surprised that it was every bit as good as the grilled tuna steak. Who knew? The salmon and the haddock were both good, too. My friend Shannon and her parents fought over who got to host us that night. That's a mighty hospitable position to be in, friends.

We went back north, ate pie and drank more great coffee with tiger-trap owner Meredith, and had her give us a tour of downtown. We went to the local Chinatown, and then couldn't resist an hour in Powell's. Don't know Powell's Bookstore? That's a shame. It's several stories on a city block, of what a used bookstore should be.

We continued on to Olympia, Washington, to visit my friend Billie Jean at her new house. It was cool and wet, and after an incredible dinner prepared by her boyfriend, I borrowed a jacket (forgot to pack one) to go for a walk with the dog with them. Olympia is a lot like Austin used to be-- small, friendly, easy to get around, and still the state capital. Austin, alas, is now overgrown and is hard to negotiate.

The next day, we visited my wife's neice in the oddly-named Sedro-Woolley, and held her new baby. Then we continued north to Canada.

The crossing was easy, as I had no weapons other than a Spyderco that John Shirley gave me for Christmas. We exchanged some money, and were shocked to realize that the U.S. dollar is now worth $0.95 Canadian. All my life, our dollar has been worth a fair bit more than the Canadian dollar. Now? Theirs buys more. Sad times, friends.

We stayed in Vancouver, and found it to be an interesting city. The Asian population there seems to make up half the city, and our hotel was in the Asian district. We had some congee soup. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't good. Probably my last bowl.

We took the ferry to Vancouver Island to Swartz Bay.

These things are huge. Large trucks on deck level with the water. Passenger cars above that deck. Passengers in the decks above. The three lowest surface decks load at the same time. 30 miles for $15 isn't bad for passengers ($2 for your bike), though $60 seems pricey for a car. We left our car and cruised at 21 knots to Swartz Bay, and took a cab to Butchart Gardens. I can't do justice in explaining this place. It's a theme park for gardens. Each garden is like a ride. They do things there with flowers and color that I've never seen before. Good lord, it's lovely, and worth the trip. People come from all over the world to see these gardens, with good reason.

Well, for example, check out this view as you come through a tunnel in the trees to the Sunken Garden, a former limestone quarry that the owner's wife had started fixing up after it played out back in 1907:

It got better. My little Sony CyberShot literally could not process the depth and pop of the reds of some of the flowers, as witnessed by this washed out pic:

I cannot describe the fragrance. Intoxicating.

We bussed to Victoria, and found it to be a very pedestrian and bike friendly city. We stayed outside of downtown, and just walked in the next morning. We went to an organic bakery and coffeeshop and ate and drank things the likes of which I'd never had before. I demanded to speak to the baker, to thank her. The night before, we giggled when we saw the weather forecast, where they literally apologized for the cold weather, but reminded us that it could be worse: we could be in Texas, where it was 41 degrees (C) or hotter. I'm not kidding.

We bussed back to Swartz Bay and took a bigger ferry back, through the San Juan Islands, in what is now called the Strait of Juan de Fuca, lately called "The Salish Sea."

This trip is worth it for the sights to be seen on it, in its own right. Though it was chilly (64 degrees, humid, and with at least a 22 knot wind) out on the observation deck, it was worth stepping out to see the sights there.

Wear a sweater or a windbreaker.

We arrived back at the Tsawwassen ferry port, and drove back to the U.S. We coordinated on the way, and met up with Gay Cynic, who directed us to a fantastic seafood place (Duke's) where he took us to dinner. He let me buy dessert at a place on Capital Hill that he described as being like "a gay Denny's." We ate very, very well. He then showed us a very nice view of Seattle, where I stretched my camera's capability of taking night shots.

(Okay, okay-- the reason it's tilted is that I sat it on a post to take the timer shot.)

The next morning, as we were leaving the motel in Renton, my wife pointed up at a cellular tower over the motel parking lot. A nesting pair of osprey were flying to and from their giant nest of sticks built atop the tower.

I waited until I got the picture that I wanted:

We boarded our plane back to the heat of Texas very unhappily. We had ended our climate vacation.

We landed back in Texas just before midnight. It was 83 degrees. Back to life. Back to reality.

The next day it was 105 degrees again. That's 40.5, to you Canadians.

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