The Long Arm of the Law

After that rat-bastard in Norway killed all those people, (props for you for not being a media-saturated shithead if you still remember that this event even happened) there came about a debate about whether police officers in Norway ought to be armed, as many are not.

It's funny, but I can think of a lot better things to debate than that: like, Fruity Pebbles vs. Fruit Loops, for instance.

Before you write in angrily to give me shit about trivializing an event as horrific as the brutal murders in Norway unquestionably were, I'm not doing that at all. What I'm doing is trivializing a debate about a question that should not even be a debate, let alone a question. The whole point in having police officers in the first place is to have a uniformed group of specially-trained individuals who will act in a professional, procedural manner to protect law and order, life and property.

When shit goes awry, they are the end of the line. Confrontations between psychopaths and ordinary citizens are supposed to be effectively terminated by law enforcement officers as quickly as possible. How police officers can be expected to perform those aforementioned duties/tasks while unarmed is absolutely beyond me.

I realize that the American way of doing business is not the only way of doing business, and I wouldn't presume to forcibly rape other cultures with our own big, swaggering dick, but I think that any nation that puts uniformed police officers on the street without deadly weapons should be ashamed of itself for asking ordinary human beings to do Super Man-style deeds, for putting police officers (and citizens) in unreasonable jeopardy and risk without giving them the tools that they require to do their jobs effectively.

Is it true that a police officer's gun can be taken from him/her and used against him/her by a determined, enterprising, and physically overpowering suspect? Of course, and it's sadly been done many times. Does that mean police officers ought not to be armed? No. It doesn't.

Is it true that, sometimes, police officers use deadly force when they should not? Of course, and there are also times when officers should have used deadly force but did not, and that is also tragic. Still, that does not mean that law enforcement officers should not carry weapons.

Is it true that gun violence in countries where police carry firearms is higher than in countries where officers do not carry guns? I don't know-- I haven't seen research to that effect, but it's probably true, however, I doubt very much that the relationship is causative. Take away police officers' guns in America and you won't see a drop in gun violence, you'll just see an increase in police funerals.

I'm always willing to hear new angles on this debate, but it just never has made an ounce of sense to me. You're welcome to try, though. After all, it is audience participation week.

By-Ass

If I hear one more thing about the bias of the media, I think I'm going to eat a container of sour cream with a whole bunch of overripe bananas mixed in there and then throw up on some old lady at a bus stop.

Don't judge me-- it's how I feel, so I can't be wrong.

NPR is liberal. Fox News is conservative. Mainstream media-- like "The Today Show" and "ABC World News Tonight" and all those annoying shows with John Stossel have routinely been accused of having a "liberal bias". That Andrew Breitbart (who, you know, has a few more followers than me, but whatever) went on "The Today Show" on Tuesday and repeated the oft-repeated line about the mainstream media's liberal bias when discussing his role in bringing down Weinermobile. Really, I think we talk so much about bias in the media that, after a while, we don't even know what the fuck we're talking about.

Not that this stops anyone, of course, nor should it. This is America, after all, where the less we know, the more we talk. And God Bless Us, everyone. Except that Tiny Tim, who hardly ever says shit, so fuck him.

If you've taken any 100-level journalism course, you of course know that journalism is supposed to be objective. What does that really mean, though? You're supposed to report a story, give both sides, let the reader make up his or her mind. Ja, Mein Fuhrer? Sounds simple, no? Well, it's not. If you ever listen to news on the radio, you can tell by an announcer's inflection what he or she thinks of the story, or what the news organization's parent organization would like the announcer to reflect in his/her recitation of the news item. Oh, Knight Ridder: stop telling David Hasselhoff how to drive.

I don't think it's anything revolutionary or anything that will have Dianne Sawyer taking off her top to say that there is no such thing as true journalistic objectivity. "The News" is always trying to get us to think a certain thing. For example, "The News" wants us to sympathize with people who "Overcome Adversity." Remember the homeless guy with the golden voice that every asshole from here to Omaha was Tweeting out their tuchuses about? Oh, yeah, remember when "The News" lionized him until he was given a job or two and some respectability?

Oh, yeah-- remember when he relapsed because he was given money but no counseling, support, or life skills to assist him with his new, improbable circumstances?

Oops!

Which was more reported? The YouTube sensation of finding him panhandling, or his (most recent) fall from grace?

Right.

The unfortunate latest turn of events in this story created what is known as cognitive dissonance, that is to say, it didn't fit with the "packaged" news item that "The News" wanted to feed you. It was like finding a sprig of cilantro in your chocolate mousse. And nobody wants that. Except food pervs.

I was thinking about this tonight because I just happened to spy a story that piqued my interest on Yahoo! News. (Can you really trust any "news" source that ends in an Exclamation Mark?[!])

"Cop Fired After Helping Fellow Officers in Distress"

From the opening sentence that follows this clever hook of a headline (hey, got me[!]), it is abundantly clear what this 'news' organization wants you to feel: that this officer was fired unjustly.

"It was a Saturday on campus when David Sedmak, a Rice University police officer, heard "Officer down, officer down!" on his scanner: Two members of the Houston Police Department had been shot downtown. Sedmak rushed to the scene to help his fellow officers."

"Wow! That guy's a hero!" Yahoo! News wants you to say, either out loud or in your head. The article picks up right where this statement you just made ends with:

"But Rice [University!] didn't see Sedmak as a hero. Instead, the university fired him, citing "dereliction of duty."

*GASP!* They "didn't!" you're supposed to say.

Oh, but they did. And, call me a contrarian, but I think they were right to do so.

See, the only reason Officer Sedmak heard that two Houston Police Officers were shot was because he had a scanner in his car. Had he just had his Rice University Police Department issued radio on him, he would not have known, because this Officer Down call would not have been broadcast over that frequency. Sedmak's response was unnecessary, seeing as half the Houston Police Department was flying to the scene of this double shooting (both wounded officers survived, by the way).

So, Sedmak responded to a call for help from another department, which might have been okay had he radioed his dispatcher to tell him/her that he was doing so. But Sedmak didn't make radio contact with his dispatcher, or his supervisor. He just sped off into the night to assist the officers. Which is an unfortunate error, because Rice University dispatch had no idea where Officer Sedmak was for around an hour, during which time they probably thought he was lying dead somewhere, and who knows what frantic efforts went on to raise him and/or search for him. When a police officer doesn't respond to dispatch over the radio for an hour, that's a crisis, because he's usually either incapacitated or dead.

Sedmak's heart was in the right place, but his body wasn't. As a law enforcement officer for nearly 17 years, that man should have known enough to contact dispatch and request permission to proceed to the scene of the shooting. But he didn't. And, in a job where following protocol is paramount as a safety issue, there needs to be accountability and consequences. Should he have been fired? I don't know. Maybe he should have received a reprimand. A suspension. Re-education. Or, maybe he should have been fired. Maybe there's other shit in his personnel file that we don't know about, and this was the straw that broke the sergeant's back.

The thing of it is: the Yahoo! News article, and its author, Zachary Roth, is guilty, through tone and text, of telling us what we ought to think and feel. And I don't need them telling me what to think and feel, just like I don't need Tiny Tim blessing me when I don't want to be blessed.

Thanks anyway, though.

Aw, Shewt...

So, I've been learning a lot about myself lately.

One thing that I've learned, looking at my resume (as I have been doing quite a bit lately) is that I've had many jobs, but no careers. A dear old friend of mine has been trying to convince me that many people my age are this way, and that, if this were the 1920s, we wouldn't be having this conversation.

He's probably right on both points. A great many people my age flit from job to job, wandering directionless well into their late twenties, searching for a place where they fit, whilst spinning their wheels in a lot of places where they don't. And, were this the 1920s, I most likely would have apprenticed in some trade, and stayed with it for the rest of my life, or perhaps changed paths once, if at all.

This friend, by the way, decided that he wanted to be a physician when he was 24, requiring a post bac year to get himself up-to-speed. So I guess he knows what he's talking about. As much as anyone I know, at least.

But I still can't help feeling, I don't know, insecure. Singular in my inability to prove myself on a career path. Different. I guess that what comes from your parents telling you you're special, unique, apart. Didn't your parents tell you that, too?

And so I've got my job, and I'm using it as a place-holder until the career in law enforcement starts. To prep myself, I've been lifting weights-- turning my spindly little arms into, um, less spindly little arms? I've been running, jogging, sprinting, sit-upping....

Oh, and shooting.

A month ago, I had never fired a gun. Seven years ago, when I tried to become a cop the first time, I took apart a 9mm semiautomatic handgun, and I put it back together again in a small classroom in front of a retired police officer. Oh, and I also did a fill-in-the-blank ditto sheet, identifying the parts of the gun. I never fired it. Realizing that I would be amongst individuals who are ex-Army types, and huntin' types, and people who've been popping off rounds since before they had any peach fuzz to speak of, I decided that it was time to bite the bullet.

Ha.

My wife and I are fortunate enough to live in what I feel is a sort of neighborhood that is on the cusp of upper-middle class. In any case, you have to drive for a while before you can arrive at a destination where people shoot guns on a regular basis. The closest firing range open to the public that I know of is around fifty minutes away. I've been twice, and Mrs. Apron went with me both times. The first time was after a very strenuous hike, and Mrs. Apron had slid down a rocky embankment, mostly on her butt, but some of it on her arm, which she managed to gash up.

"Did he do that to you?" the gun shop clerk asked with a wry grin on his face the first time we went. We were covered in dirt, gravel dust, and sweat. He was dressed in a denim collared shirt, denim shorts, and he wore a Glock in a holster on his hip. I guess it's like waitresses at Flingers needing to wear 36 pieces of flair. I was surprised he wasn't wearing 35 other guns. I'm sure there was at least one other one that we couldn't see.

Mrs. Apron vacillated on whether or not she wanted to shoot or watch. Finally, she capitulated. The clerk was very friendly, in spite of the Tea Party literature all over the place and a sign that said, "Gun Control = Two Hands on a Gun" and he didn't make us feel like the incompetent Jews that we were. He started us out on a .22 caliber handgun, which felt extremely dangerous.

Until we went back the next time and fired a .38. That motherfucker was big, and heavy, and loud.

Firing a gun is very strange if you've never done it before. Then again, I guess anything is strange if you've never done it before. While we were at the firing range the first time, I can remember putting the bullets into the gun and thinking about my "firsts." I couldn't remember the first time I was behind the wheel of a car, and what that felt like. I do remember the first time being behind the wheel of an ambulance, totally convinced that I would kill my partner, the patient, and myself. I remember the first time I had sex. Let's just say shooting the .22 went better. It lasted longer, too.

I felt much more confident the second time we went, and I kind of got a little smitten with the .38, even though the ammunition cost a LOT more. I'm, of course, ashamed about the fact that I enjoyed utilizing an instrument of death and destruction. In Tad Friend's book, "Cheerful Money: Me, My Family, and the Last Days of Wasp Splendor" he writes of a choice abbreviation that his mother frequently employed: "NFOCD."

"Not For Our Class, Dear."

When I first approached my mother at the tenderish age of 22 and announced my intention to take the police officer exam and enroll at the academy, that is, essentially, what she said to me.

"That's not for you," she informed me seriously.

"Oh, it's okay for some other mother's son, but not for your son?" I asked, expecting that to be a retort that would sting her into a shocked silence. It didn't.

"That's exactly right," my mother replied, before descending into the basement to do laundry, which was, and still is her way of avoiding any unpleasantness more unpleasant than laundry.

She's doing a lot better seven years later. Now, she actually asks me questions about my preparations, she wants to know timelines and takes an interest in where I am faxing resumes and when tests are coming up. When I told her I had applied to the FBI, she didn't flinch. Maybe it's because I'm older, or because she's older, or because my middle sister is the squeaky wheel-- with a baby that my mother is basically raising and a marriage on its way to dissolution, and my eldest sister having moved back home under topsy-turvy circumstances.

"I guess I just don't know where to start worrying first," she told me this week.

"Oh, mom," I said, "you started decades ago-- and you'll never finish, so just kind of start in the middle, in the thick of it all. Maybe you'll stop worrying when you're dead."

She laughed.

"Maybe."

"I guess that's why some people call it their 'sweet release'," I said, pushing out the screen door after a brief visit with her and my nephew.

"Well," she said, ever the pragmatist, "I'm not especially looking forward to that either."

Hypocrites Are a Gift From God

On Sunday morning over breakfast, I made it a point to thank my wife for watching shows like "COPS" and "The First 48" with me, and I mentioned that I was grateful that she didn't watch them grudgingly either, that she actually enjoyed them.


"Sure, buddy," she said to me, taking a vivacious bite out of her home-made egg & cheese bagel sandwich, "the thing I just don't like about cops is, like, they're really just out there all the time trying to catch people doing the wrong thing."

I popped a piece of turkey bacon into my never-shutting trap.


"Fuckin' aye right," I said, crunching happily.


At my old ambulance company, they called me a narc, and I relished in the moniker. You bet your asses I'm a narc. Of course, I was a narc who stole routinely stole armfuls of nitrile gloves from E.R.s all over Philadelphia, stole bedsheets and blankets from coworkers ambulances and even pilfered a penlight from my own truck so my wife could use it on her practicum. While I would have been petrified if someone had caught me doing the wrong thing, I love catching other people doing the wrong thing. I love holding them accountable for their inappropriate actions. And I love, love, love, love, hearty kissy poo love seeing people get into trouble.


"So, is that why you wanted to become a cop?" my wife asked me one day long ago, "to catch people doing the wrong thing?"


"Absolutely."


A prime example fell into my lap on Sunday afternoon. We were filling up my wife's car at the gas station when a gold Taurus wagon pulled up to the pump next to us. Some ugly hagitha was filling up the Taurus while the three children in the backseat played impishly around with each other. They were between the ages of seven and eleven and they were jumping around all over the place like Mexican fucking jumping beans.


"How much do you want to bet they don't buckle in when she leaves?" my wife asked me, glaring at the car's occupants. One of the little kids glared back.


"Well, I don't know," I said, trying on optimism to see if it fit, "they are stopped at a gas station.

The hagitha got into the driver's seat and, without a word, put the car into gear and drove away, the jumping beans still at it. As the Taurus wagon passed us, I caught sight of its bumper-sticker.

"Children Are a Gift from God."

I looked over at my wife for the punchline. She did not disappoint.

"I guess they're such a great gift that she's trying to give them back."

I have to think that the joy of being a cop isn't just in taking illegal guns off the streets, or shitheads who bust their wives in the mouth for not having the potroast done on time-- I have to think that some of the satisfaction and pleasure of that job is derived from pulling up behind a fucking hypocritical biatchburger like that, dragging her by her hair to the back of her vehicle and pushing her face right into that bumper-sticker, breaking her nose against the car's sheet-metal in the process. Of course, you can't behave like that, unless you're a rogue cop, which is really no cop at all, but you can certainly pull her over, issue her a citation and, if you're feeling really ballsy, point out the contradiction.

It would have been a wonderful career-- hypocrites and all.

Commentary

I like to know what's going on.

It helps to know what's going on when you ask the question, "What the fuck is going on?"

And I ask that question. Frequently.

I ask that question because events in the world baffle me. They confuse me. They annoy me. They are, more often than not, beyond me. There's been a good number of crazy, stupid, frightening and unfortunate events in the news in recent days, and I've been conspicuously silent about many of them, because, well, I've needed to blog about cars and undershirts.

You know how it is.

But I love commenting on world or national or local events. The kind of writing I love to do, second only to blogging, is editorial writing after all. So, let's look at the week that was, and see what we think of that.

The Party-Crashers

As I'm sure you've heard, some aging turd and his blonde wifelette faked their way into a state dinner at the White House and got photographed shaking Obama's hand and checking out Mrs. First Lady's much-lauded biceps. No, they weren't invited, and, no, they weren't supposed to be there-- but there they were. They even got formally announced, like in that old Saturday Night Live sketch ("Presenting My Lord & Lady Douche-Bag!") Apparently, the bitch-in-question wanted to flaunt her exhibitionism even further by showing up in a fire-engine-red sari. Lots of questions have been raised about what should be done with these people-- should they face criminal charges for this security breach or should it be treated as a harmless incident and chalk the whole thing up to necessary Secret Service training revisions.

My advice? Execute them.

Tiger Woods

Tiger Woods wrapped his 2009 Cadillac Escalade around a neighbor's tree at around 2 o'clock in the morning, a time when megasuperstar athletes typically discover that they're out of 2% milk and need to visit the local Circle-K. My question isn't whether or not Woods was drunk, or stoned, or had just had a fight with his wife or his Pomeranian, or whether there's a police coverup or legal consipracy or public relations spin.

My question is: what the fuck was that dude doing driving a Cadillac? Isn't he Buick's bitch? I mean, I realize that Cadillac & Buick both belong to the General-- but still-- where's the loyalty? Where's the love? Tiger-- you fucked up.

Black Friday

(No, I'm not still on about Tiger Woods.)

Walmart opened early. Kohls and Old Navy were both open at 3 o'clock. Best Buy was probably never not open-- who can keep track? In the words of my wife, "They're all just a bunch of filthy disgusting hookers anyway."

Nevertheless, people pounded down the doors for the newest Wii Fit and G.I. Joe-- PTSD American Hero, and Assrapeme Elmo to shove down their kids' throats this Christmas. Nevermind that we're in a recession and unemployment is at 98.7%-- where's my new iPhone, mom, you out-of-work bitch?

Thanksgiving

Thank God the media finally has a secular holiday on which to report. I hate the awkward, uninformed way newscasters report on Jewish holidays, in their inept, bumbling fashion.

"Jews everywhere wail at the Passover plate in celebration of 10 days of Chaeynakippccchhccchveroshasteinberg. This festival of light and money honors the time when Jews split the sky and ate the tablets of despair. They wear a loincloth of... um... cloth and grow beards for several days in this beautiful, pagan ceremony."

A Hometown Massacre

Not to end on a total downer, but, as hard as it is to believe, there was actually real news this week. On Sunday morning, four Lakewood, Washington police officers were sitting in a cafe, using their laptops, catching up on paperwork and easing into their caffeine buzz when a gunman entered the cafe and shot them all to death. 3 officers, 1 sergeant -- 3 men, one woman, all assassinated because of the little piece of metal on their chests.

And today, as you remember your family meal and your good feelings from the holiday, as you return to your regular life, give one extra thanks for those four cops who won't be returning to theirs.

And that's the news, diverse and silly and stupid, and sad, from My Masonic Apron.

Pain-In-The-Assery

I'm a pain in the ass.

(Some of you who know me well are nodding your heads. God, I love you.)

I was realizing this pain-in-the-assery last night when I pulled out my big, blue binder labeled "POLICE FILES."

I started this binder in the year 2000, I think, when I was doing research for my book. I have copies of police radio room transmittals from December 9th, 1981-- the night Mumia Abu-Jamal blew Daniel Faulkner's brains out on the sidewalk. These copies of the radio calls for that night were, by a strange coincidence, submitted by the radio room supervisor to my step great uncle, who was a Staff Inspector in the department in those days. I also have copies of witness statements from that night, diagrams of the crime scene, and microfiche copies of New York Times articles of other police murders, again used in my book.

There are also pamphlets and prayer cards from the dozen-or-so police funerals and viewings that I have attended since I was twenty.

The aforementioned material doesn't make me a pain-in-the-ass, it just makes me weird.

What makes me a pain-in-the-ass are the letters.

They're letters that I have received in reply to pain-in-the-ass letters I wrote. I have letters from:

Office of Prime Minister John Majors

Office of the Mayor of New York City

Parole Board of England & Wales

New York State Board of Parole (at least five)

Citizens Outraged at Police Being Shot (COP-SHOT)

MTA Division of Bridges and Tunnels

Pennsylvania Bar Association

Philadelphia District Attorney's Office

Camden County Prosecutor's Office

Fairmont Park Commission

Oh, and... lots others. These are just the ones I can remember off the top of my head. Most of them concern blocking upcoming paroles. Some concern other things, but all relating to the same thing: pain-in-the-assery.

One day, a slain New York City patrolman's daughter got in touch with me. Her father had been killed by four shots to his back on May 21st, 1971. He was black, patrolling the streets of Harlem with his white partner, who was also killed-- felled by thirteen shots to his back. The precinct where they worked honored the two men by planting two trees outside the stationhouse and adorning each tree with a plaque. Over the years and decades, and due to some construction outside the precinct, the black patrolman's plaque had become disturbed. She had tried to get the department to fix it, but they were slow to do anything about it-- so she got in touch with me.

Being a pain-in-the-ass, I immediately shot off a stern letter to the commanding officer of the precinct house. I wrote that "it sends a very poor message to the people of Harlem that the plaque of a black officer who died next to a white officer is left to languish and the white officer's plaque is just fine. These two men saw each other as equals in life, and that is how they should be treated in death." I was a junior in college at the time. I can remember being in the theatre building rehearsing for an acting class when I called my apartment to get my voicemails (that's how we did it in those days) and there was a phone call from this Captain. I called him back, and he was very apologetic. The black patrolman's plaque would be immediately restored to its former state.

A similar situation arose in Philadelphia. In 1970, a police officer named Frank Von Colln was sitting at his desk in the Cobbs Creek Guard House when two men walked in and shot him five times. Von Colln's revolver was sitting in his desk drawer. A park on the Ben Franklin Boulevard was named for Von Colln and, again, the weather takes its toll on these things. Passing by the sign one day in 2002, I noticed it all broken up and decaying. So I wrote a letter to the Parks Commission. For good measure, I paper-clipped a photograph of Von Colln's bloody body, lying next to his desk that I had found in an old newspaper article.

"That should make these fucking people pay attention," I said as I slapped on the stamp.

A month later, there was a brand-new sign up.

As I was leafing through these flimsy envelopes of my past and, strangely, my present, I tried to remember what my first act of pain-in-the-assery was. You may call it activism, but I like pain-in-the-assery better. Activists, in my mind, wear Peace sign t-shirts and dredlocks. They march and shout into bullhorns and chain themselves to things and have sit-ins and lie-ins and die-ins. I'm no activist; I'm just a firm believer in pain-in-the-assery.

I think my first act of pain-in-the-assery occured in 1994. It was Monday, April 25th. Richard M. Nixon, the only U.S. president forced from office, had died over the weekend. As my bus pulled into the middle school parking lot, I noticed that the flag was flying high.

Instead of throwing my books into my locker and reporting to homeroom, I walked into the administration office.

"Can I help you, dear?" the blonde secretary asked, putting her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone she had been talking on.

"Yes," I said. "The flag isn't at half-staff."

"It.... isn't?" She asked quizically.

"No, and it should be. Richard Nixon died on Saturday. I know he wasn't very popular, but he was the President."

She looked at me.

"You're right," she said. "I'll call the custodian."

And, five or so minutes later, an 8th grade pain-in-the-ass stood outside and watched our head custodian lower the American flag to half, for a liar, for a cheat, for a crook.

For a president.