Pigs

Get a load of these three bastards:

They're three of the biggest scumbags to have ever worn a badge on their chest and a gun on their hip. Their names, left to right, are Robert Snyder, James Venziale, and Mark Williams. Take a good, hard look at their faces and their names.

They are pigs.

They're not pigs because they're police officers, for two reasons. One, I absolutely despise and detest the practice of referring to police officers as pigs. Former NYPD Police Commissioner Patrick Murphy was once asked by a reporter how he felt about "cops being referred to as pigs." "In my family," Murphy replied, "we weren't allowed to call police officers 'cops'."

The second reason they're not pigs because they're police officers is they aren't police officers.

Anymore.

Well, in the words of PPD Commissioner Charles Ramsey, they're "in the process of being terminated." And, they're in jail, which is absolutely, without question where they belong. May they rot in there for a very, very long time and, if that hasn't punished them enough for defaming their badges and their fellow officers, Hell would be a fine epilogue.

These three ex-police officers conspired, planned, and executed the theft of nearly three hundred grams of heroin from a known drug supplier. Then, they went and sold it to an individual they thought was a drug dealer.

Except, he wasn't a drug dealer. He was an undercover narcotics agent. Gotcha, you motherfuckers.

I am broken.

There aren't enough obscenities, there isn't enough vitriol, there is an insufficient quantity of bile for me to sling in the faces of these appalling human beings, the detritus of the earth, the scum to end all scum-- people who would hide behind the power of a badge and commit crimes against the people of this city. At least run-of-the-mill drug dealers have the decency to commit their crimes in oversized t-shirts, do-caps, and baggy jeans; they don't pretend to be something they're not.

Pictured above are three marvelous pretenders, yet their game is far more sinister than charades; it is the callous deception and disgusting, calculated endangerment of the people of the city of Philadelphia. When a normal police officer needs money, he moonlights as a security guard, he picks up extra shifts, he makes it work. He doesn't abuse his authority for the purposes of personal gain, putting drugs back out on the street to potentially end the lives of the people he has sworn to protect.

Motherfucking pigs. I may only be 136 pounds, but put me in a locked cell with these three fuckjobs, and you might be surprised at who would emerge intact. My fingers are shaking with anger such that it is taking me a while to type this post.

When you've wanted to be a cop more than anything in the world, more than anything else in your life, (including all the shitty jobs you've held in a futile attempt to keep that passion at bay), every transgression committed against the badge by a selfish piece of shit like this rips apart your guts, throws you down the stairs, and slashes at your throat. I want to believe that the majority of the 6,000+ Philadelphia police officers are good, decent men and women who signed on to do an impossible job and stay clean till retirement day...

But sometimes I'm not so sure, and that doubt is very painful. Very.

The local paper has a "Rogue's Gallery" that features the name, face, and deed of every errant Philadelphia police officer, and I'm scared to admit that it's growing. It's really growing. Meanwhile, the city is under a hiring freeze so that new Philadelphia Police Academy classes may not proceed as there is no money in the budget to hire new officers.

But maybe that needs to happen, because I'm not so sure about the apples in this current barrel anymore. And it really scares me to admit that. And, sure, any new crop would contain within it some shitheads and assholes, as with any group of people there are those who are undeserving, but maybe we need to usher in a newer generation of cops in this city. I don't know if they need to be college educated, or if they need different or sporadic psych evaluations, or more thorough background checks, or if recruiting needs to be done in a different way-- I don't know what the answer is. All I know is that the Philadelphia Police Department is putting itself in jeopardy for lawlessness and violence directed at its officers if things do not change. If people view the peacekeepers as corrupt, vile, odious pigs, believe me, that is how they will be treated.

And we cannot, absolutely cannot afford to have that happen.

So, please, don't give up on our guys and gals just yet. And, PPD officers: don't give up on your dignity either.

------------------------------

EPILOGUE: I am suddenly reminded that it's not just Philadelphia.... there are pigs running wild in New Orleans, too, but they have just been caught and placed inside the pen inside of which they deserve to rot for all eternity:

Four NOPD Police Officers were just charged with murder in connection with multiple shootings on the Danziger Bridge while most of New Orleans was still underwater immediately following Hurricane Katrina. Two supervisors were arrested for helping to concoct an elaborate coverup story. If convicted, the four officers charged with murder could face the death penalty.

And may God have mercy on the rest of us.

MOVE

Usually, anniversaries are happy occasions.

This one, well, isn't.

It's the 25th anniversary of MOVE today, and, if you don't know what that means, well, you're in for a real treat. I don't think the Philadelphia Tourism Board will be sending me any thank-you letters for this one.

(Though, really, Philly is more fun when you sleep over-- and we have a spare bedroom and an air-mattress!)

All major cities, I feel, have some sort of negative past association. New York City, of course, will forever be dismally associated with 9/11. Dallas will always be known as the city where we lost our coolest, (pre-Obama) president. And lots of people can't spell Cheyenne right, which is annoying.

And Philadelphia? Well, we're just the only city in the United States of America ever to drop a bomb on its own people.

On May 13th, 1985, after a stand-off between the Philadelphia Police Department and members of MOVE, often described as a "radical, back-to-nature cult," after a fire-fight that lasted hours and during which MOVE members and Philadelphia police officers exchanged thousands of rounds of ammunition, the decision was made to fly a Pennsylvania State Police helicopter over the scene, and drop a 4-pound bomb on top of the West Philadelphia rowhouse in which MOVE members had barricaded themselves.

6221 Osage Avenue. Gone. Burned to the ground. Obliterated. Oh, along with 61 other homes.

6 adults were killed, including MOVE founder, John Africa. 5 children perished. One adult and one child made it out alive.

And the City of Philadelphia received a black eye that calls out to the world still today, as a reminder of its stupidity, its brutality, it's recklessness, and its thorough dishonor.

Of course, to understand how things came to this, it's necessary to step back into even further history. Before MOVE inhabited its doomed dwelling at 6221 Osage Avenue, they lived in another West Philadelphia home in the Powelton Village section of the city. Because they eschewed everything that had to do with government, science, and medicine, their lifestyle was not exactly conducive to city living.

Their children ran around naked and defecated wherever they could. Dozens of stray dogs lived in the MOVE compound and did likewise with their bowel movements, and the dogs feasted on raw meat supplied by MOVE members. Trash was not collected and was piled high. Because MOVE did not believe in harming any of nature's creatures, rats and cockroaches flourished and began to infest the neighbors homes. Neighbors got pissed, and this drew the attention of the Philadelphia Police Department, who staged what was essentially a one-year standoff, with a constant police presence around the compound.

MOVE, not to be outdone, set up public address systems and unleashed profanity-laced tirades directed at city government, the neighbors, and, of course, the police. Death-threats were commonplace. MOVE members, well armed, barricaded the front of the house with wooden plank structures. Finally, warrants were issued for violations against city ordinances and a court order to vacate the residence was issued. This was all announced by the police, and MOVE ignored the order, refusing to leave. A bulldozer was brought in to clear the wooden structure in front of the house and police moved into position to take the house when MOVE opened fire.

"Oh my God, they shot a cop!" a Philadelphia Inquirer reporter covering the scene screamed into the phone to her editor. When the shooting stopped, Philadelphia Police Officer James Ramp, 52, a survivor of World War II and the Korean War, lay dead. Seven other police officers, four firefighters, and three bystanders were shot down in the street. Three MOVE members were also shot, and nine MOVE members were arrested. All were charged with 3rd degree murder in Ramp's death. One member died in prison, and now, the parole hearings for the MOVE 8 occur yearly.

In 1981, MOVE moved to 6221 Osage Avenue. After months and months of complaints by their new neighbors about the 24-hour loudspeaker preaches that included "FUCK THE MAYOR!" and "FUCK THE POLICE," and more feces and more stray animals, and more disease-spreading bacteria and filth, the police came again.

As move survivor Ramona Africa defiantly said in a recent interview, "They came to our house with guns strapped on ready to do murder."

Whether the Philadelphia Police Department came do do "murder" is a matter for debate-- but one thing is for sure: this time, they came ready for what MOVE promised: war.

"We will kill any cop who sets foot on our property!" they shouted through the loudspeakers, also stating that the police on the scene should tell their wives goodbye and make sure their insurance policies were paid up, "cuz you ain't goin' home."

With memories of 1978 and James Ramp coughing up blood in their arms, they had every reason to believe MOVE.

The Philadelphia Fire Department used two high-powered water cannons to try to dislodge a wooden and steel structure on the roof of 6221 Osage, which police feared might be a bunker containing MOVE members with guns who could pick off police from above. They poured a deluge of water on thes structure for over an hour, but could not successfully dislodge it. On the ground, while tear-gas was being lobbed into the house, members of the Philadelphia Police Department Stakeout squad entered the rowhome directly next to MOVE's house and attempted to blow a hole in the wall using explosives so that they could insert a pepper fogger (a device to immobilize MOVE members and make for a safe tactical entry into the house) but they could not successfully blast through the wall. And then the shooting started.

To avoid being shot to death, three Philadelphia police officers hid in a small, cramped closet together next door to the MOVE home, barely with room to breathe. Meanwhile, in the MOVE home, members were soaking blankets and hiding under them, to keep from being affected by the tear gas.

And that's when the decision was made to drop the bomb.

The Police Commissioner said that the Fire Commissioner told him his men would be able to control the ensuing blaze. The Fire Commissioner said that he claimed there was no way of knowing. The City Manager said. The Mayor said. They all said. And, those who are still living, say on.

Say on.

Whatever you say, it doesn't change the fact that eleven lives were lost in one of the most horrific, barbaric events ever to occur in this or any supposedly civilized society. The Philadelphia Police Department's relations with the black community were irrevocably damaged, in spite of the fact that Philadelphia Police Officer James Berghaier risked his own death to go out, completely in the open and in the midst of heavy gunfire, to rescue little Birdie Africa, the only child survivor of the MOVE blaze.

MOVE destroyed Berghaier's police career, and his marriage, and he spent time in a psychiatric institution. One of the largely unknown casualties of MOVE.

Everybody in Philadelphia has a different opinion about MOVE, and being Philadelphians, they're not shy about sharing their opinions with you, if you want to hear them or not. And I suppose I'm no different.

"The cops were animals-- butchers."

"Those MOVE people had it coming."

"It was the shame of the city."

"Disgraceful."

"MOVE got what they asked for."

Me? I don't know what I think. I think MOVE was begging for a confrontation, but did they get what they asked for? No. Nobody asks to be bombed. I think the police had a very lousy plan. In theory, to pepper-fogger and tear gas the basement and the second floor, to force MOVE to come out the front on the main floor sounds like a good idea on paper, but, in reality, well, it was a disaster of virtually unbelievable proportions.

Watching the hearings, watching Mayor Goode and Police Commissioner Sambor defend the decision to drop the bomb-- well, how can you stomach watching someone defend the decision to drop a bomb on a residence containing children? And how can you just let it burn, destroying almost a whole neighborhood?

But then you remember 1978-- four firefighters shot down. How do you let them near the fire? How do you make that call? How do you just send a team of cops through the front door like they're delivering the milk when there are people with stockpiles of guns inside?

How do you do MOVE differently?

And the answer is, of course, you can't. All you can do is sit and shake your head and live with the knowledge that, twenty-five years ago today, we bombed on our own people. All we can do is ask you to pray for us-- for our sins, for our frailties, for our failures.

And, when you meet us, try not to stare at our black eye. It still hurts.

Tase Me Out to the Ballgame

So, your little Apron is conflicted.

See, as a blogger who frequently takes interest in and writes about issues surrounding law enforcement, I feel compelled to write about the kid who got tased by Philly PD at a Phillies game as he ran around on the field.

Then, as someone generally resists the urge to involve himself in and comment on moronic antics that somehow always become water-cooler issues the following day, I feel compelled to ignore the kid who got tased by Philly PD at a Phillies game as he ran around on the field.

But, on the other hand, as someone who thinks tasers are FUCKING AWESOME-BALLS (my birthday is May 12, visit www.taser.com for details), I feel compelled to write about the kid who got tased by Philly PD at a Phillies game as he ran around on the field.

Of course, as someone who knows that this is, in essence, a silly story that will most likely blow over by the time I hit "Publish," I feel compelled to ignore the kid who got tased by Philly PD at a Phillies game as he ran around on the field.

But, as a Philadelphia-centered blogger, I feel compelled to write about it.

Yet, as someone who knows nothing and cares nothing about sports, I feel compelled to ignore it.

FUCK!

Well, I think we all know by now that I'm not ignoring it.

Because, let's face it: when some jerkoff gets bejouled in front of 44,817 semi-inebriated sports fans, it's pretty hard to ignore.

I struggled with how I feel about this one-- and I struggled hard. It might surprise some, or most, of you to know that my gut reaction was that the officer acted in the wrong. From the video (which people are watching on YouTube more often than they're watching the "30 Rock" clip where Alec Baldwin impersonates various members of Tracy Jordan's family-- "Now do the white dude that my moms left my dad for!") it's clear that Steve Consalvi, 17, known as "The Tased" was not acting in any threatening manner that put the pursuing officer, the other security personnel, the overpaid players, or any of the 44,817 semi-inebriated sports fans in serious jeopardy. He wasn't involved in a struggle with the officer, where the officer's gun could have become intentionally or accidentally torn from its holster and used against him, or any of the other aforementioned individuals. Consalvi was just acting like an asshole, like lots of 17-year-old high school students have done before him, and will likely do after him.

Should you get tased for acting like an asshole?

It's an interesting philosophical question. Had the officer been a little more fit, a little more fleet-of-foot, he would have easily caught up to Consalvi and tackled him to the ground and arrested him, the way streakers, etc were dealt with back in the bad old days, before hand-held devices that fired Neuro-Muscular Incapacitation jobbies that made you dance, Monkey.

And, sure, that would have been cool to watch, too-- might have even seen a replay or five on the Jumbotron, but it never would have made headline news on www.philly.com, where the kid's father states, shockingly, that his son should never have been tased. (One eloquent comment on that site stated that Consalvi's father should be tased as well. I laughed. Tases for all involved!)

But, getting back to the question: (Should you get tased for acting like an asshole?) I'm just not sure. You can act like an asshole in your basement all you want, of course, and it's nobody's business but your own. Want to sit on your basement floor, cover yourself in creosote and a wool blanket and bang pots and pans together while singing the Chinese national anthem? Hey, this is America, brother-- and a man's basement is his castle/porn-trove. Of course, when you step out into the public (and the public arena, I might add) the rules change a little bit, don't they? We can't just walk up to every beautiful woman we see strolling about in a tank-top, honk her right breast and shout "A.M.!" and honk her left breast and shout "F.M.!" because we think it's fucking hilarious and a fitting tribute to Marchese Marconi.

No.

In public, we must exercise something called restraint. And that's a challenging concept for most of us, especially seventeen-year-old kids who have hormones leaking out of their eye-sockets on a regular basis.

(.) A.M. (.) F.M.

N'yah mean?

Everybody knows stepping onto a baseball diamond while a game is in play is a bad idea. Consalvi knew it, that's why he called his daddy to tell him he was going to do it before he did it. (Dad advised against it, just so you know-- before you weigh in with whether or not Papa Consalvi ought to be visited in the night by a Taser X12.) He knew it was wrong, but he did it anyway. And then, when a police officer got behind him and shouted "STOP!", well, I'm sure Consalvi knew it was wrong to keep running.

Here's a little lesson in police vs. civilian etiquette:

When the police officer says "STOP!" that means it's game over time. Because now you're not just acting like an asshole, you're fleeing and eluding and resisting lawful arrest.

In the '70s, they shot you in the back for that. Fortunately, there were no Jumbotrons in the '70s.

Did the officer have a legal right to fire that Taser round into Consalvi's back? Most likely. Was there another alternative avenue of force to explore besides firing the Taser? Most likely. Taking out his legs with an asp (retractable baton) is always fun-- but isn't possibly breaking this kid's leg on national television maybe worse than momentarily stunning him and having him involuntarily piss himself with no after-effects other than soaked shorts and bruised pride?

Truthfully, I don't know what the answer is-- and that's rare for me, as an insufferable fucking knowitall.

Maybe, because this happened to Consalvi, people will think twice before trying to get in on the action at a sports game. Maybe, because this happened to Consalvi, people will do it more. Maybe the officer fired his Taser because he knew he couldn't catch Consalvi on his own steam, and he was worried about being embarrassed in front of his fellow officers, and 44,817 semi-inebriated sports fans. Maybe he tased Consalvi because that's what it says to do in the procedures manual that we civilians don't get to read. Maybe there are consequences to our actions, even if, to some, it's just a case of "boys being boys."

Maybe you'll really buy me a Taser for my birthday. Don't bother with the wrapping paper, Bro.

Philly's Phinest

The collective uniform of Philadelphia's public servants has gotten a little more wrinkled, a little more stained in recent days.

There's some tarnish on the badge-- and it won't be buffed out especially easy.

I hate using the word "alleged," because I'm not a news anchor and I'm certainly not a lawyer, but I'll use it because I know, before you get excused or body-slammed by a jury of your peers, you're an alleged everything, except an asshole. Juries don't lay on that title-- just guilty or not.

In the Philadelphia Police Department, we have an alleged pervert-- and a definite asshole. A 7-year veteran of the force, working in plainclothes, was alone in an apartment with a 21-year-old female. While conducting an investigation, or whatever it was, the officer in question "committed a sex act during which he exposed himself," according to Internal Affairs. The officer has been suspended for 30 days with the intent to dismiss. He's also been arrested and charged.

In even more shocking and depressing news, a Philadelphia firefighter and his son allegedy beat the piss and shit and brains out of a pedestrian who made the unfortunate decision to step in front of the firefighter's car in the Northeast section of the city. The District Attorney's office has charged them both with aggravated assault and conspiracy charges, and, after further evaluation, murder will probably be added to that charming little list.

I guess it's just a matter of time before a Philadelphia paramedic cuts somebody's nuts off in the back of an ambulance with a grapefruit spoon and sells them on E-bay.

These kind of things do tend to happen in three's, right?

I knew that, when I read about these awful, disgusting stories, I wanted to write about them-- but I really didn't know what I wanted to say. It all seems rather obvious, doesn't it? It's appalling and degrading to think that public servants, people given positions of power and authority can go so callously and cruelly wrong. On a selfish level, for me, as one who often stands up and bangs the drum in support of emergency service workers who I feel have been wrongly maligned in the press or in the court of popular opinion, it's personally offensive, because it makes me feel like an asshole-- like a dupe or a stooge. Someone who has been used, someone who has thrown his support behind some of the wrong people.

And, of course, I'll say what I always say when one or two go wrong: they're not representative of the whole-- but they are infected with an illness that could destroy the whole, most certainly. Popular opinion is a funny animal, and it is easily swayed. All it takes is one or two negative stories about one or two assholes to entice the public to turn against its protectors. And that's a dangerous thing.

Of course, in the heat of the moment-- either charged with rage or with sexual energy-- miscreants, corrupt cops, or volcano-headed firefighters aren't even thinking about the immediate, personal consequences of their actions-- let alone the consequences to the men and women with whom they served-- the people who are left to clean up the elephant shit with a feather-duster. This is the danger of belonging to a large organization comprised of lots of people of different educational, social, etc, etc differences whose emotions and actions you cannot control. One acts out, everybody suffers the consequences because, to the civilian population: the uniform is the same, and it's what defines first responders.

I have no tolerance, no patience, and no sympathy in my heart for anybody who stands up, accepts an oath, and then behaves in a manner that completely destroys the public faith and trust. It's reprehensible and selfish and stupid, and it is the mark of a true animal. More than that, I suppose, it's the mark of someone who is in it for the paycheck. And it's not a terrible thing to want to become a cop or a firefighter for the paycheck and the benefits and the job security-- but there's got to be something else behind that, or turning becomes too easy. Too seductive. Too tangible. We're all in danger of turning, of course-- you and me-- but the consequences of an office jockey turning are far less severe and far less over-reaching than when a public servant decides to turn.

And it is a decision.

That decision to take that graft. To unzip that fly. To get out of that car with fists at the ready. To fire into that suspect's back. To turn. To turn your back-- on your partner, on your City, on your oath.

It's just a fluke, right? Please tell me it's just a fluke.

In slightly related news-- you certainly can't compare it to the aforementioned atrocities, an African-American female Philadelphia police officer has filed a complaint with the Pennsylvania Human Relations Commission after her captain ordered her to change her hair color before returning to patrol duties. The captain claimed the color was purple, which is not allowed. The officer claims it was red, which is.

PPD Uniform Patrol Directive 78-D states that an officer's hair may not be of "unnatural color," such as purple, blue, or green. Trolls have also filed similar complaints, but they are further barred from being police officers because they do not reach the height requirement.

All you can do sometimes is laugh.

Right?

Rage and The Machine

I've written some things in the past that I'm not proud of.

Let's just get that said right at the start.

As some of you know, one of the things I wrote that bore my name got me excused early from a temporary job that had all the trappings and promises of a possibly excellent career. It was that very regrettable incident that might have led me to silence myself forever, for fear of it, or something worse, ever happening again. Ironically, it was that very event that started my blog.

Lucky you.

I'm proud of most of the things I've written on this blog, except for maybe one or two things I've said about Meredith Vieira that probably border on slander, if you're a real stickler for that sort of thing. Though I can't say for sure, because I haven't written it yet, I'm pretty sure I won't be prouder of another post than this one.

Why? Because, today, I'm raging against the machine. And that always feels good.

You've probably heard of the band "Rage Against the Machine," right? Morello, etcetera... They're part of a large contingent of folks who support a new trial or the outright release of convicted cop-killer Mumia Abu-Jamal. Just like Ed Asner, Mike Farrell, Danny Glover, Tim Robbins, Susan Sarandon, and a lot of other famous people who, apparently, are very bored and have already given as much time and money as they can to Greenpeace, the Sierra Club, Barack Obama, and Angelina Jolie's Give-Me-More-Children Foundation.

It's kind of funny, actually, that a band calling itself "Rage Against the Machine" is a notable member of what is arguably the most organized, well-coordinated, web-savvy social movement engaged in attempting to gain freedom for a killer in the 20th, 21st, or any century. "Rage Against the Machine," and the thousands and thousands of Mumia supporters all over the globe are, effectively, "The Machine."

They've got the power, they've got the money, they've got the sexy message, the alluring cause, the first-rate legal assistance, the constant web and media exposure. And they've got you Googled. Google "Justice for Mumia" and you get 396,000 hits. Google "Justice for Daniel Faulkner," Mumia's victim, and you get less than half that many.

It sure sounds like the Free Mumia Movement is The Machine to me.

In case you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, let me take you back in time-- 28 years to the day, in fact. It's December 9th, 1981. 3:50am Picture yourself standing in the freezing cold of a Philadelphia night at the intersection of 13th and Locust Streets. It's a pretty seedy block in a seedier time-- it's not the bustling, jovial gayberhood of today. A scuffed up, dented, blue Volkswagen Beetle is traveling the wrong way down the street. It does so a couple times. Officer Daniel Faulkner, with five years on the force at the age of twenty-five, observes this behavior and activates his patrol car's emergency lights, pulling the car over.

He keys his radio and reports the location of the traffic stop: 1234 Locust Street. Moments later, it appears that he is going to effect an arrest, as he calls for back-up, and then changes his mind and requests an EPW (emergency patrol wagon) to come to the scene.

He'll be dead in a minute.

Faulkner moves in to arrest the driver of the Beetle for an unknown reason. As Faulkner is searching the driver, he swings around and punches Officer Faulkner in the face. A scuffle ensues. From a parking lot across the street, a cab-driver named Mumia Abu-Jamal witnesses the fracas and runs over, pulls out a revolver and shoots Daniel Faulkner in the back. Faulkner spins around and shoots his assailant once in the chest. As he lies there on the pavement, looking up, Mumia Abu-Jamal straddles Faulkner and fires a high-velocity bullet into his brain, killing him instantly. Jamal takes a few steps before he collapses, wounded and losing blood, on the pavement as the sirens of an approaching police unit are heard. The first responding officers found their dead comrade, Jamal's brother standing there with his hands up shouting, "I ain't got nothin' to do with it!" and Mumia, bleeding, his gun next to him.

Jamal was immediately arrested, treated at Jefferson University Hospital, and tried for murder at a trial he routinely and obscenely disrupted-- threatening the judge and berating his defense attorney. He was convicted by a racially-mixed jury and was unanimously sentenced to death. That was back in 1982. Since then, the Free Mumia Movement has grown like an aggressive cancer, and it has been just as devastating to Officer Faulkner's widow, his police colleagues, his friends and his family. His conviction has been upheld time and time and time and time again.

It seems, unfortunately, that there just aren't enough people out there raging against this particularly insidious, misguided, ill-informed, often abusive and threatening machine.

28 years later, the Mumia Machine is operating as smoothly and efficiently as ever, organizing parades and protests and misinformation campaigns, conducting benefits and raising money. Jamal speaks and writes from beyond prison walls, though the one thing he steadfastly refuses to speak about at any length and detail are the events of December 9, 1981, and I suppose that is with good reason-- it seems like he has finally decided to start listening to his lawyer.

They call him "The Voice of the Voiceless" which I find kind of ironic, seeing as Mumia supporters don't really seem terribly voiceless to me-- their shouts ring in my ears constantly. Daniel Faulkner is really the one whose voice was silenced, 28 years ago, by a bullet to his brain. If Mumia is the supposed voice of the voiceless, who is being Daniel Faulkner's voice? Sure, he has friends and allies, and they may be strong in numbers, but their voices do not always get the attention they deserve, perhaps because there are precious few celebrities who can claim Justice For Daniel Faulkner on their roster of favored charities. And that's a shame, but I guess supporting an incarcerated African-American "political prisoner" is a lot sexier and does more to boost your star power in Hollwyood than backing a dead 25-year-old policeman and his now middle-aged widow.

I suppose you may be asking yourself right about now, "Well, okay, but, what does he want from ME?" I don't know, really. Maybe I just wanted to let off a little steam. Maybe I just wanted to recognize what went down on that Philadelphia street corner twenty-eight years ago. Maybe I just wanted to rage a very little against a very large machine. Maybe I just want to be David to its Goliath. Or maybe I want to influence you-- to make you care about something I care about, to see it from another perspective. I hope you don't think I'm shoving it down your throat. I don't want to do that to you-- I'm very fond of you after all-- and you have such a nice throat.

Just take a moment today. Send up a quick prayer for Daniel Faulkner, if you do that sort of thing. If you don't, noodle around online and take ten minutes out of your day and educate yourself a little more about this case. Maybe write something. Tell your friends. Join a Facebook group. Learn about it. Talk about it.

And rage.

The Exioma

My father refers to people who puzzle him and the world as "exiomas."

We know the word is "enigmas," but his version if funnier if nothing else. Israelis. Always good for a ha-ha.

I'm an exioma, I suppose. We probably all are, to some extent, though I think some of us are probably guilty of overcomplicating ourselves for the sole purpose of appearing more interesting. And I can understand the motivation for doing that. It's like-- why wear a plain t-shirt when you can wear one with a snappy "Daily Show" quote on it, or a picture of Gandhi, or a Bob Dylan song lyric nobody understands. In the book, "The Killer Angels," Confederate General James Longstreet jokingly says to General George Pickett,

"George, you certainly have a talent for complicating the obvious and trivializing the momentous."

Well, people like to do that, and people do it well.

I think I realized I was an enigma yesterday when someone was discussing the proposed sales tax on Philadelphia cultural events, like tickets to see live theatre. The arts community in Philadelphia is in an absolute uproar over this proposed tax, and Philadelphia theatre companies are claiming that it will rob them of already-dwindling audiences, and will threaten to exterminate an cultured and essential art form that has long been teetering on the perilous edge of exinction.

Theatre people. They're such fucking drama queens, aren't they?

Well, the person who was discussing the proposed tax hike on arts and culture was, I think, expecting me to share in her indignation over such an obvious affront to the arts in Philadelphia, a scene which I am a part of, however marginally. I'm an actor. I am an avid theatregoer. I teach theatre. I'm a playwright, of sorts. Shouldn't I be leading the parade, the protests, shouting rabid slogans into a megaphone with a hypothetical Molotov cocktail in my hand?

Meh.

I turned to my colleague and I said the following:

"You know what? I think everybody needs to quit crying in their fucking beer, okay?"

She looked at me. And blinked. Twice.

"Going to the theatre in America has always been a rich man's game, and it's always going to be that way. Do any of these fucking 'artists' have any idea how to balance Philadelphia's budget? No. Do any of these goddamned fru-frus and morons know that nearly 300 Philadelphia police officers were almost laid off in order to balance the budget? Is that what they want? Would they volunteer to get fucking deputized and patrol the streets of North and West Philly for free to stave off this stupid theatre tax? No. They wouldn't. This city would be brought to its knees, to its knees if we laid off 300 cops. But do they give a fuck about that?! No! They just want to live in their own protected world where accessibility to the arts is the only important thing in the world."

She blinked again.

"Well," she said, "I guess, when you are involved in one aspect of life, that tends to be what you choose to fight for."

Did I mention that this woman is my boss?

"I would have thought," she continued, "that as an actor and as a theatre educator that this issue might be more important to you but, obviously, it's not."

Obviously not.

And why not? I am a theatre educator. I appear onstage and lustily lap up applause that I probably don't deserve. I see plays far more frequently than I see movies. I was a theatre major in college. Shouldn't I care that the city of Philadelphia is taxing arts events, and not sporting events? Well, yeah. And it's unfair to tax one form of entertainment and not the other, but I'm certainly not going to bust out an editorial to the Philadelphia Inquirer about it, and I'm not going to write a letter to some politician's lover (excuse me-- secretary) about it either.

Why? Because I'd rather pay $8.00 more for a ticket to a play in this city than see 300 prematurely retired cops working at local Targets and Shop-Rites as rent-a-badges for $9.00/hr.

It's really that simple.

And, as I was having this conversation (or was it a monologue?) with my boss, I wondered yet again if I am not in the wrong profession. The performing arts are important to me, but they are certainly not where my overt passions lie. If I could find some way to turn the fervor of my beliefs into a tangible job with a steady income, I'd do that. But I don't know how to do that.

A staunch proponent of law-and-order with a theatrical streak. Or is it the other way around?

Exioma indeed.

Black and Blue

There's been a lot of ink spilt, both very recently, and in the short history of this country about the relationship between African-Americans and law enforcement. Two very recent incidents stick out like sore thumbs as concerns the ever-flowing controversy that surrounds the black and the blue: the arrest of Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates, Jr. in his own home in Cambridge, Mass, and the whirlwind that has erupted here in Philadelphia surrounding the unofficial online meeting place for Philadelphia police officers, www.domelights.com.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with both or neither, here's a quick sum:

1.) A few days ago, Cambridge Police were summoned to a home by a passerby who observed two African-American males trying to force entry into said home. When the police arrived, there was a verbal altercation between officers and one of the males who was identified eventually as Henry Louis Gates, Jr., a Harvard professor and the person who lived at that home (he was having difficulty opening his front door, and so he had forced his way into his own home). According to the arresting officer, Gates became "agitated" and disruptive, and he was placed under arrest for disorderly conduct. The charges were dropped after a maelstrom of protest from the Cambridge community, Gates' lawyer, and Al Sharpton. Last night, during his press conference about healthcare, President Barack Obama addressed the incident, stating that the did "not have all the facts" but that the "Cambridge Police acted stupidly."

2.) Also a few days ago, the Guardian Civic League, Philadelphia's local chapter of the National Black Police Association, filed an injunction to attempt to ban on-duty officers from logging in and posting articles or commentaries on the website www.domelights.com. Domelights was created and is maintained by a Philadelphia Police Department sergeant and is, according to its own text, a "forum for interaction, information exchange and friendly debate among police officers and law enforcement agents, as well as their friends and supporters." The Guardian Civic League claimed that hostile and/or racist comments are frequently posted on the site about black police officers, creating a hostile and racially charged work environment. The League wants the site shut down, but the courts have requested that all parties involved preserve all relevant comments on the site and settle the matter out of court.

I have no idea what to say about the first incident. Is breaking into your own house a crime? No. Did the police initially know the man they approached was breaking into his own house? No. Was Professor Gates being verbally abusive? I don't know. Did the arresting officer "follow the letter of the law" in arresting Gates? I don't know. What exactly happened inside that house, blow-by-blow? I don't know. So I really don't feel it's fair to comment on the case, and I really don't think it was fair for President Obama to do so, either. People are talking about how this was a case of "racial profiling." That may be true, but the police aren't to blame-- blame the white passerby who summoned the police to the scene. She's the one who observed the two black men trying to gain entry to an upscale home in suburban Mass, after all. All the police did was respond.

There is a problem with profiling in this country, that's for sure. African-American males are assumed to be miscreants and felons, and that's a tragedy-- just ask the family of New York City patrolman Omar Edwards. He was off-duty and out of uniform, just leaving his precinct house after a tour-of-duty when he saw a man breaking into his car. Edwards drew his gun and chased the thief, only to be gunned down by several officers who mistook him for a criminal. Edwards was black. This tragic incident is just one of many like it, and it proves that we have a long way to go in this country before race relations are normalized. So many stereotypes still exist about African-Americans, and in spite of successful recruiting programs to hire more and more black officers in metropolitan and suburban police departments across the country, that divide is most keenly felt when black and blue come together on the streets of America.

The www.domelights.com debacle is living proof of that.

The Philadelphia Police Department hired its first black police officer in 1881, and, today, the Commissioner of the department is African-American, as are many of its officers, but don't let that fool you into thinking that Philadelphia's police department, or any other police department for that matter, is a cross-racial utopia, with black and white police officers singing "Kumbaya" while holding hands at roll call. I've been a posting member of www.domelights.com since January of 2008, when I found an editorial that I had written for the Philadelphia Daily News reposted on domelights without my knowledge. I tried my best to post comments that fit within domelights specified message: to foster interaction and friendly debate. I quickly realized that my way of doing things was not appreciated, understood or welcomed at domelights. When I complained to a friend of mine in the EMS industry about the hostility I encountered on the site, he laughed and said, "What do you expect at dumblights? Those guys are all assholes."

Go see for yourself-- the blatantly offensive and racist material that gets posted on this site, by men and women who still patrol the streets of Philadelphia, will make you cringe at best. I have no doubt that, if I were African-American and a police officer and I went on domelights and spent even just one hour on there, pointing and clicking, I would be afraid to return to the station house the next morning. Furthermore, if I were a black citizen of Philadelphia and I went on that site, I would be outraged and appalled that people who are openly expressing these views and using that kind of language are charged with protecting me and my family. It's disgusting and disgraceful. The behavior exhibited on that website is not just an affront to African-American police officers, it is a violent slap in the face to the citizens of Philadelphia, who deserve better knights errant.

Yes, I know that there will always be racist police officers, just as there are racist lawyers and doctors and teachers. I know that policing is better off than it was in the 1950s, when officers could openly and proudly serve as both police officers and members of the Klu Klux Klan and fear no repercussions. I know that black police officers can find meaningful, important employment in police departments across the nation, and that's great, but we're still really, really, really far away from where we need to be as a society.

Police officers, like anybody else, should be able to express themselves openly and candidly, however, the need to remember that they are public servants first and foremost, and that their conduct must be above reproach twenty-four/seven, for they are representatives of law and order, integrity, equality under the law, and fairness.

The motto of the Philadelphia Police Department is Honor, Integrity, Service. You can't hide behind a screenname and call African-Americans "monkeys" while claiming to uphold those ideals.