Showing posts with label cops. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cops. Show all posts
15 May 2014
13 September 2013
A New Miracle Gun Lube?
The Rev. Paul reminded me of a story with this post.
This is how I learned what the slickest substance known to man is.
In Monterey they still have the remnants of a fishing fleet that works squid in season. Calamari don't you know. Well, they process it in a building on the wharf and then load it into large semi trailers. Open top trailers. It's really a quite disgusting process what with the squid sliding down the chute, making disgusting plopping noises when the hit the mound in in the trailer. Massive flocks of Seagulls then swoop down in search of an easy handout while a foreign worker stands in the back, armpit deep in eviscerated squid bodies and waves his hands in the air while yelling vile and unintelligible curses at the birds all to no avail. It's all quite exciting.
One day a trailer was a bit over filled and as it made the left turn onto Del Monte Avenue a good bit spilled out onto the road. By a good but I mean several tons and by on the road I mean pretty much curb deep.
Well, we got the call and, what with Patrol being busy with actual police type things going on and all, me another Motor Officer headed over. He got there first. Fortunately. En route I heard one squawk from his radio and then utter silence. Um, probably not good but, I mean, what's the worst that could have happened? Unless there was some radiation involved and Zombie Squid were suddenly hell bent on world domination the call was absolutely routine. Right?
Well, not so much as it turned out. When I got there this is what I saw. A mass of raw squid covering the road with a very Motor Copish looking trail right down the middle. Standing on the side of the road, next to an unexpectedly Cephalopod encrusted Kawasaki KZ1000P, was my partner. The entire left side of his uniform, from helmet to bitchin' Motor Boots, was covered in a thick, viscous slime that looked exactly like the ectoplasm from Ghost Busters. He was dripping with the stuff. It didn't smell too good either. Imagine a fish that's been dead for about a week or so that has been farted on by drunken hobos on a daily basis and you'll at least be in the ballpark. Though why anyone would ever imagine such a thing is quite beyond me.
I parked well short of the disaster and sauntered over, sauntering being something they teach you on the first day of Motor School. I majored in sauntering with a minor in RayBan sunglasses. Anyway. As I approached my by now quite distressed partner I stepped in a little of the disgusting glop, just the edge really, and nearly ended up on my can myself. It was like walking on ice while wearing butter soled shoes that were made by the Grease Gnomes in their ancestral snot tree.
My buddy tried to explain it all away, using every excuse in the book from "I didn't see it" to "Those stupid Gnomes" but in the end he had to admit that he'd tried riding right through the mess and ended up trying to pilot an already inherently unstable contraption through a squid tsunami while trying not to look like a 5 year old on his first two wheeler calling for Dad to come rescue him before he hits the mailbox. Obviously he didn't quite make it and ended up on his side, sliding through about a thousand Surf & Turf dinners worth of dead squid. We laughed and laughed. Well, I laughed. He mostly glowered and swore dire imprecations upon me if I didn't stop.
I learned two things that day.
First, never admit anything on the radio. If it didn't break nothing happened that some chrome cleaner and a good dose of Tide and Kiwi won't fix.
Second, Raw squid is the slipperiest substance known to man. Why some Mad Tyrant doesn't use this stuff to grease the treads on his Tanks of Inevitable Destruction will forever be a mystery to me.
I offer this story to you both for your amusement (If you can't laugh at someone else who can you laugh at? Hey, it didn't happen to me) and as a free tip to all the gun lubrication companies out there searching for the next great answer to the eternal question of why my Raven Arms .25 won't cycle.
Squid grease. I'm tellin' ya, it's the bomb. Just ask a certain motorcop somewhere in California (but nowhere near anything that even vaguely resembles a squid loading Wharf). He'll be the one with stained breeches, a newly washed motorcycle and a very chagrined look on his face.
Approach from upwind. Trust me on this.
Six
This is how I learned what the slickest substance known to man is.
In Monterey they still have the remnants of a fishing fleet that works squid in season. Calamari don't you know. Well, they process it in a building on the wharf and then load it into large semi trailers. Open top trailers. It's really a quite disgusting process what with the squid sliding down the chute, making disgusting plopping noises when the hit the mound in in the trailer. Massive flocks of Seagulls then swoop down in search of an easy handout while a foreign worker stands in the back, armpit deep in eviscerated squid bodies and waves his hands in the air while yelling vile and unintelligible curses at the birds all to no avail. It's all quite exciting.
One day a trailer was a bit over filled and as it made the left turn onto Del Monte Avenue a good bit spilled out onto the road. By a good but I mean several tons and by on the road I mean pretty much curb deep.
Well, we got the call and, what with Patrol being busy with actual police type things going on and all, me another Motor Officer headed over. He got there first. Fortunately. En route I heard one squawk from his radio and then utter silence. Um, probably not good but, I mean, what's the worst that could have happened? Unless there was some radiation involved and Zombie Squid were suddenly hell bent on world domination the call was absolutely routine. Right?
Well, not so much as it turned out. When I got there this is what I saw. A mass of raw squid covering the road with a very Motor Copish looking trail right down the middle. Standing on the side of the road, next to an unexpectedly Cephalopod encrusted Kawasaki KZ1000P, was my partner. The entire left side of his uniform, from helmet to bitchin' Motor Boots, was covered in a thick, viscous slime that looked exactly like the ectoplasm from Ghost Busters. He was dripping with the stuff. It didn't smell too good either. Imagine a fish that's been dead for about a week or so that has been farted on by drunken hobos on a daily basis and you'll at least be in the ballpark. Though why anyone would ever imagine such a thing is quite beyond me.
I parked well short of the disaster and sauntered over, sauntering being something they teach you on the first day of Motor School. I majored in sauntering with a minor in RayBan sunglasses. Anyway. As I approached my by now quite distressed partner I stepped in a little of the disgusting glop, just the edge really, and nearly ended up on my can myself. It was like walking on ice while wearing butter soled shoes that were made by the Grease Gnomes in their ancestral snot tree.
My buddy tried to explain it all away, using every excuse in the book from "I didn't see it" to "Those stupid Gnomes" but in the end he had to admit that he'd tried riding right through the mess and ended up trying to pilot an already inherently unstable contraption through a squid tsunami while trying not to look like a 5 year old on his first two wheeler calling for Dad to come rescue him before he hits the mailbox. Obviously he didn't quite make it and ended up on his side, sliding through about a thousand Surf & Turf dinners worth of dead squid. We laughed and laughed. Well, I laughed. He mostly glowered and swore dire imprecations upon me if I didn't stop.
I learned two things that day.
First, never admit anything on the radio. If it didn't break nothing happened that some chrome cleaner and a good dose of Tide and Kiwi won't fix.
Second, Raw squid is the slipperiest substance known to man. Why some Mad Tyrant doesn't use this stuff to grease the treads on his Tanks of Inevitable Destruction will forever be a mystery to me.
I offer this story to you both for your amusement (If you can't laugh at someone else who can you laugh at? Hey, it didn't happen to me) and as a free tip to all the gun lubrication companies out there searching for the next great answer to the eternal question of why my Raven Arms .25 won't cycle.
Squid grease. I'm tellin' ya, it's the bomb. Just ask a certain motorcop somewhere in California (but nowhere near anything that even vaguely resembles a squid loading Wharf). He'll be the one with stained breeches, a newly washed motorcycle and a very chagrined look on his face.
Approach from upwind. Trust me on this.
Six
01 March 2013
Another Cop Story
During my career I spent quite a few years as a Safety Nazi Traffic Cop. I heard all the excuses from "I gotta go to the bathroom, like right now!" to "What do you think of these Officer?". The best ones were those thought out well in advance. Though this one particular guy may have had motivations other than to convince the nice officer not to write him a ticket.
I was working radar speed enforcement on a local feeder. That's a street that runs through a nominal residential district but has a higher speed limit due to engineering and because it carries high transient traffic between other commercial streets. 35 mph. I clocked a Bronco doing 57, fired up the BMW and pulled the miscreant over. I advised him of the reason for the stop and requested his information. He handed over his license and was searching for registration and insurance information. I glanced at the DL and did a classic double take. The name on the license?
Buddha.
Just that, nothing else. No last name no nothing. Just Buddha. I caught him staring at me out of the corner of my eye. He was waiting for me to ask the obvious question. "Is that really your name? or something along those lines. I noticed he was a....rotund man. Caucasian but that means nothing. Maybe his latest reincarnation took him to the Western world? I knew he was waiting, anxious for the conversation even. But there's a little known fact about motor cops most people do not know. We crave the unusual, the odd and the farcical. We constantly try and outdo each other for the best story. Here I have the Spiritual leader of about a billion Buddhists and I'm going to let him go without proof of the encounter? I don't think so.
I firmly tamped down my inclination for followup questions, stifled my gleeful giggling and walked back to my bike. I could feel the astonishment and disappointment following me from the drivers seat of the Bronco. I checked with DMV. Valid DL. I filled out the cite and walked back to Mister Buddha. I presented him with the ticket and requested a signature.
During the entire encounter he never once spoke. I was expecting words of wisdom or perhaps a koan pertaining to the use of personal conveyances operated at supra-legal speeds. Even just a warning not to mess with the God of the Buddhists. Nothing. Nada. I was so disappointed. I did get to post a copy of the ticket of the Traffic bulletin board where it still hangs to this very day so there's that. Going down in Traffic Cop lore is nothing to sneer at.
Still. In the months and years after that ticket I was involved in 4 accidents on my motor at work. I hurt a hip, my back and tore my Achilles tendon. My hair started falling out. I shrank from just over 6 foot to my present 5-11. ish. I got a rash that won't go away. My dog bit me. Someone shot out the window in my truck. 3 times. My feet got larger and my penis smaller. I started growing hair in places where hair ain't supposed to grow and none of it was on my head. Unless my ears count. And my nose. My wisdom teeth grew back. As well as my tonsils and appendix. Which then all needed to be taken out again. I developed an intense fear of small, furry rodents and rotund, cherubic white guys.
Maybe that ticket wasn't such a good idea after all.
Six
I was working radar speed enforcement on a local feeder. That's a street that runs through a nominal residential district but has a higher speed limit due to engineering and because it carries high transient traffic between other commercial streets. 35 mph. I clocked a Bronco doing 57, fired up the BMW and pulled the miscreant over. I advised him of the reason for the stop and requested his information. He handed over his license and was searching for registration and insurance information. I glanced at the DL and did a classic double take. The name on the license?
Buddha.
Just that, nothing else. No last name no nothing. Just Buddha. I caught him staring at me out of the corner of my eye. He was waiting for me to ask the obvious question. "Is that really your name? or something along those lines. I noticed he was a....rotund man. Caucasian but that means nothing. Maybe his latest reincarnation took him to the Western world? I knew he was waiting, anxious for the conversation even. But there's a little known fact about motor cops most people do not know. We crave the unusual, the odd and the farcical. We constantly try and outdo each other for the best story. Here I have the Spiritual leader of about a billion Buddhists and I'm going to let him go without proof of the encounter? I don't think so.
I firmly tamped down my inclination for followup questions, stifled my gleeful giggling and walked back to my bike. I could feel the astonishment and disappointment following me from the drivers seat of the Bronco. I checked with DMV. Valid DL. I filled out the cite and walked back to Mister Buddha. I presented him with the ticket and requested a signature.
During the entire encounter he never once spoke. I was expecting words of wisdom or perhaps a koan pertaining to the use of personal conveyances operated at supra-legal speeds. Even just a warning not to mess with the God of the Buddhists. Nothing. Nada. I was so disappointed. I did get to post a copy of the ticket of the Traffic bulletin board where it still hangs to this very day so there's that. Going down in Traffic Cop lore is nothing to sneer at.
Still. In the months and years after that ticket I was involved in 4 accidents on my motor at work. I hurt a hip, my back and tore my Achilles tendon. My hair started falling out. I shrank from just over 6 foot to my present 5-11. ish. I got a rash that won't go away. My dog bit me. Someone shot out the window in my truck. 3 times. My feet got larger and my penis smaller. I started growing hair in places where hair ain't supposed to grow and none of it was on my head. Unless my ears count. And my nose. My wisdom teeth grew back. As well as my tonsils and appendix. Which then all needed to be taken out again. I developed an intense fear of small, furry rodents and rotund, cherubic white guys.
Maybe that ticket wasn't such a good idea after all.
Six
11 February 2013
Take A Deep Breath
Christopher Dorner. Let's just call him That Asshole shall we? I have a few words to say on the subject though I am going to leave the politics alone. Language warning.
First, he's a scumbag murderer. I really don't give a crap what his complaints and allegations are. Once you go down the path of killing innocents every other single thing you say or whine about is irrelevant. As a veteran and retired cop I utterly reject Dorner and all he is and has ever done. That said.
Yes, I read his screed. In fact, I'm still having trouble trying to scrape his particular brand of narcissistic criminal insanity out of my brain. It's a testament to a disturbed mind. I saw racism, paranoia, a persecution complex and delusions. It in no way explains nor excuses what he's done. It does give some insight into his mental processes though. His complaints go back to grade school for crying out loud. No reasonable person holds a grudge for petty stuff from fifth grade (or whatever it was) unless you're an obsessive/compulsive. No one uses a long list of perceived slights, interpersonal failures and job issues as an excuse to mass murder unless you're a sociopath with homicidal tendencies. This is a guy who is never wrong, never fails and when things don't go exactly as he believes they should and he is/does gets angry and casts blame on whoever he perceives as being responsible for his troubles. He has no ability to self examine and no desire to ever do so. The problem is the world not him. Look at what he says about himself. Rambo was a sissy next to this guy. He's loving the attention and feeding his ego with the idea that he's a hero. Sadly, that's being reinforced by those so deluded by hate that they are cheering on someone who is a cold blooded murderer. Are we really that far gone?
Let me address the LAPD. I have known and worked beside more than a few LAPD officers. I've said this many times before. Yes, the LAPD is responsible for more negative court rulings and case law relating to infringements on citizen rights and outright lawlessness than any other agency in the United States. It has more than it's fair share of Hysterical Incompetents and bad actors. It has a culture unlike any other in the country's history, much of it frankly bad. But consider. LA proper has about 4 million people being policed by a force of about 10,000 officers. Contrast that with New York which has roughly double the population and about 35,000 officers. They do things differently in LA. Some of the time that is a bad thing but a lot of the time it's good. Officers in LA are taught to be aggressive, but they are often too aggressive. See my previous post on Hysterical Incompetence and compare and contrast with the spate of negligent (and criminal) shootings in the wake of this fiasco. They see a lot and it tends to create a Them vs Us mentality. That's not just with citizens either but extends to anyone who isn't LAPD. I've had many negative official interactions with off duty LAPD officers. But I've also had some great contacts and opportunities to train with some of the best cops I've ever had the honor of associating with. The good officers are as unbelievably good as the bad ones are incredibly bad. No agency is perfect and the LAPD is certainly no exception but that doesn't excuse a thing Dorner has done. Has the LAPD done this guy wrong? I don't know but I kinda doubt it. Go and read Aaron Worthing's fisking of the Dorner manifesto here. Then ask yourself who That Asshole really is and why some are supporting him. I'm not excusing anything LAPD has done but let's keep a little perspective here. They do a lot of stuff to hammer them for but this ain't one of them.
I've worked with guys like him before. So have you probably, or at least you know some. That Guy. The one you just know is either going to spectacularly step on his dick or flame out in an orgy of furious bridge burning. The difference is none of them decided that mass murder was the solution to their problems. Dorner did. That's what makes him not That Guy but That Murderous Asshole.
Now. To my law enforcement brothers and sisters.
Take a deep breath and fucking relax!
Dorner is a punk, pure and simple. He is not death incarnate nor an unstoppable killing machine from the depths of hell wrapped in power armor and carrying The Emperor's missing Lightsaber. He's a former Navy officer (who most emphatically was not a SEAL) and a failed police officer. Let's compare and contrast with a certain blog owner shall we? I spent 9 years in the Army or Army National Guard. Four years of that was with an Infantry Division. Two years of that was with a Light Infantry Division. I promise you I have run more, rucked more and shot more than That Asshole could dream about. Then I spent 24 years as a cop (Not four, 24). I attended all manner of shooting schools including FBI SWAT school. Yeah, kinda high speed/low drag if not exactly BUDS or SF. I promise you I have fired many, many thousands of rounds in practice and training. More than That Asshole could possibly imagine if he were twice as delusional as he is. I went to basic and advanced police sniper school. Not wanna be sniper school but one taught by John Plaster. I've been the top shooter at virtually every school and academy I've ever attended, pistol, rifle, carbine and shotgun. Compared to That Asshole I am The Master Chief and yet I'm not a pimple on the ass of any good combat soldier much less the elite, both military and civilian. He's a wanna be. Remember that. He is not better than you except in his own delusional mind. He's a fat asshole who desperately wants to be seen as an unstoppable avenging angel so he can gain notoriety and scare and intimidate you. Do Not Let Him. He's just another pathetic loser and when he finally either gets his ass handed to him by someone who is not afraid or offs himself like the coward he really is he'll bleed red just like any other murderous bastard. Stop overreacting and shooting people who are innocents. If you do this you are also an asshole and need to be shown the door along with a criminal subpoena. He doesn't have MANPADS, he isn't omniscient and he possesses not a whit of combat magic. He's just another fucking asshole guys. Treat him as such. Use what you've been taught, watch your ass and take him down when you get the chance but pleasepleaseplease stop shooting people who are not The Asshole. Yes, you are risking your lives but that's right there in the job description. If you can't handle it then turn in your badge and fucking go away. I am getting awful tired of being smeared alongside you hysterics and so are many of the guys and gals you work with.
For the rest of us all we can do is be watchful and careful. Take this as a good reminder to train and carry. If you haven't yet buy a gun and then train train train and carry carry carry. Society is slowly burning down around us (though that conflagration seems to be picking up intensity at an alarming rate) and in the end each of us is responsible for our safety and that of our loved ones.
And for anyone out there looking for a hero let me assure you it ain't That Asshole. It's this guy and all the men and women out there just like him.
That is Staff Sergeant Clinton Romesha. Medal Of Honor. That is what honor, bravery and fidelity looks like. He is what we as warriors aspire to. He is who we desire to emulate and follow. SSG Romesha and the eight men who lost their lives at COP Keating. May God bless them all and may we all prove to be as worthy when our own time to face the elephant comes.
Six
First, he's a scumbag murderer. I really don't give a crap what his complaints and allegations are. Once you go down the path of killing innocents every other single thing you say or whine about is irrelevant. As a veteran and retired cop I utterly reject Dorner and all he is and has ever done. That said.
Yes, I read his screed. In fact, I'm still having trouble trying to scrape his particular brand of narcissistic criminal insanity out of my brain. It's a testament to a disturbed mind. I saw racism, paranoia, a persecution complex and delusions. It in no way explains nor excuses what he's done. It does give some insight into his mental processes though. His complaints go back to grade school for crying out loud. No reasonable person holds a grudge for petty stuff from fifth grade (or whatever it was) unless you're an obsessive/compulsive. No one uses a long list of perceived slights, interpersonal failures and job issues as an excuse to mass murder unless you're a sociopath with homicidal tendencies. This is a guy who is never wrong, never fails and when things don't go exactly as he believes they should and he is/does gets angry and casts blame on whoever he perceives as being responsible for his troubles. He has no ability to self examine and no desire to ever do so. The problem is the world not him. Look at what he says about himself. Rambo was a sissy next to this guy. He's loving the attention and feeding his ego with the idea that he's a hero. Sadly, that's being reinforced by those so deluded by hate that they are cheering on someone who is a cold blooded murderer. Are we really that far gone?
Let me address the LAPD. I have known and worked beside more than a few LAPD officers. I've said this many times before. Yes, the LAPD is responsible for more negative court rulings and case law relating to infringements on citizen rights and outright lawlessness than any other agency in the United States. It has more than it's fair share of Hysterical Incompetents and bad actors. It has a culture unlike any other in the country's history, much of it frankly bad. But consider. LA proper has about 4 million people being policed by a force of about 10,000 officers. Contrast that with New York which has roughly double the population and about 35,000 officers. They do things differently in LA. Some of the time that is a bad thing but a lot of the time it's good. Officers in LA are taught to be aggressive, but they are often too aggressive. See my previous post on Hysterical Incompetence and compare and contrast with the spate of negligent (and criminal) shootings in the wake of this fiasco. They see a lot and it tends to create a Them vs Us mentality. That's not just with citizens either but extends to anyone who isn't LAPD. I've had many negative official interactions with off duty LAPD officers. But I've also had some great contacts and opportunities to train with some of the best cops I've ever had the honor of associating with. The good officers are as unbelievably good as the bad ones are incredibly bad. No agency is perfect and the LAPD is certainly no exception but that doesn't excuse a thing Dorner has done. Has the LAPD done this guy wrong? I don't know but I kinda doubt it. Go and read Aaron Worthing's fisking of the Dorner manifesto here. Then ask yourself who That Asshole really is and why some are supporting him. I'm not excusing anything LAPD has done but let's keep a little perspective here. They do a lot of stuff to hammer them for but this ain't one of them.
I've worked with guys like him before. So have you probably, or at least you know some. That Guy. The one you just know is either going to spectacularly step on his dick or flame out in an orgy of furious bridge burning. The difference is none of them decided that mass murder was the solution to their problems. Dorner did. That's what makes him not That Guy but That Murderous Asshole.
Now. To my law enforcement brothers and sisters.
Take a deep breath and fucking relax!
Dorner is a punk, pure and simple. He is not death incarnate nor an unstoppable killing machine from the depths of hell wrapped in power armor and carrying The Emperor's missing Lightsaber. He's a former Navy officer (who most emphatically was not a SEAL) and a failed police officer. Let's compare and contrast with a certain blog owner shall we? I spent 9 years in the Army or Army National Guard. Four years of that was with an Infantry Division. Two years of that was with a Light Infantry Division. I promise you I have run more, rucked more and shot more than That Asshole could dream about. Then I spent 24 years as a cop (Not four, 24). I attended all manner of shooting schools including FBI SWAT school. Yeah, kinda high speed/low drag if not exactly BUDS or SF. I promise you I have fired many, many thousands of rounds in practice and training. More than That Asshole could possibly imagine if he were twice as delusional as he is. I went to basic and advanced police sniper school. Not wanna be sniper school but one taught by John Plaster. I've been the top shooter at virtually every school and academy I've ever attended, pistol, rifle, carbine and shotgun. Compared to That Asshole I am The Master Chief and yet I'm not a pimple on the ass of any good combat soldier much less the elite, both military and civilian. He's a wanna be. Remember that. He is not better than you except in his own delusional mind. He's a fat asshole who desperately wants to be seen as an unstoppable avenging angel so he can gain notoriety and scare and intimidate you. Do Not Let Him. He's just another pathetic loser and when he finally either gets his ass handed to him by someone who is not afraid or offs himself like the coward he really is he'll bleed red just like any other murderous bastard. Stop overreacting and shooting people who are innocents. If you do this you are also an asshole and need to be shown the door along with a criminal subpoena. He doesn't have MANPADS, he isn't omniscient and he possesses not a whit of combat magic. He's just another fucking asshole guys. Treat him as such. Use what you've been taught, watch your ass and take him down when you get the chance but pleasepleaseplease stop shooting people who are not The Asshole. Yes, you are risking your lives but that's right there in the job description. If you can't handle it then turn in your badge and fucking go away. I am getting awful tired of being smeared alongside you hysterics and so are many of the guys and gals you work with.
For the rest of us all we can do is be watchful and careful. Take this as a good reminder to train and carry. If you haven't yet buy a gun and then train train train and carry carry carry. Society is slowly burning down around us (though that conflagration seems to be picking up intensity at an alarming rate) and in the end each of us is responsible for our safety and that of our loved ones.
And for anyone out there looking for a hero let me assure you it ain't That Asshole. It's this guy and all the men and women out there just like him.
That is Staff Sergeant Clinton Romesha. Medal Of Honor. That is what honor, bravery and fidelity looks like. He is what we as warriors aspire to. He is who we desire to emulate and follow. SSG Romesha and the eight men who lost their lives at COP Keating. May God bless them all and may we all prove to be as worthy when our own time to face the elephant comes.
Six
30 November 2012
Cop Tales. Naked Dude
In comments on my "What I really did" post I have been reminded of this story and decided it needed telling.
It's about 1988 or so. I am a green as grass rookie with just a few years in uniform. Working the midnight shift because hey, that's where the rookies go.
Now Monterey is an old city. Among other things it was California's first capitol from 1777 to 1846 and was then conquered by Commodore Sloat and claimed as part of the United States. Lots of old buildings and streets first laid out by the Mexican and Spanish governments a long time ago. One of those streets is Lighthouse Avenue. If you look just below that red line along the coast (where it says Fisherman's Wharf #1) you can see Lighthouse Avenue.
So. One dark and cold morning, about 3 AM, I was doing routine patrolling in my old and rattle trap of a cop car Dodge Diplomat (remember those?). When I turned from Pacific Avenue onto Lighthouse I espied a person jogging down the sidewalk next to the street. He was far enough away and the street lights were spaced far enough apart that I couldn't see much of him except that he seemed to be dressed kinda sparsely. As I got closer it became apparent that he was very sparsely dressed. Like naked to be exact.
Now I was no jaded and experienced veteran officer but even I was pretty sure that there was something peculiar about the situation. It's no more than 40 degrees out, it's 3 in the morning, it's a very public street and he ain't wearing a stitch. Hmm. Might be I should talk to this guy. I flip a U-Turn and approach. It's my first "naked guy in public" call. It will not be my last.
Aside here. Like all contacts I called this one in to dispatch but I made a rookie mistake. I mentioned a nude man. Usually on all calls and contacts at that time of day another car will roll automatically as backup unless called off which I most emphatically did not do. Except when it's a naked dude. Then you couldn't find another police car in the city available for follow up no matter how hard you tried. Naked chicks are another matter altogether. Then you'll get responses from 5 cities away. Cops.
The Naked Dude (Let's just refer to him as ND for brevity's sake shall we?) sees me approaching, lights rotating on my roof, but he's not making eye contact. He just keeps his head down and continues jogging down the road. Perhaps desperately hoping I'll chalk it up to the full moon and leave him alone. But, alas for him, my curiosity has been piqued and you know, naked guy on public streets and all that. Finally he gives up and stops. He stands there in the harsh glare of a thousand watt street light and surrenders to his fate.
Now anyone who has ever met me knows that I am what is colloquially known as a Smart Ass. But on that morning I was at a temporary loss for words. Here was a man totally starkers casually jogging down a main boulevard. Whatever could be the reason?
"Hi. How you doing tonight? Out for a jog I guess?" Hardly words that will go down in the annals of snarkish history but hey, I was a bit put off at the time. I took immediate pity on the man, not to mention any motorists passing by at 3 in the morning, and grabbed my emergency blanket from the trunk and threw it around his shoulders. As I did so I noticed a fine oily sheen on his skin. All his skin if you catch my drift. Everywhere is the idea I'm trying to get across here. He was grateful for the wrap and covered himself as best he could.
"Anything you want to tell me? Like what you're doing, where you're going and why you're doing any of that sans suitable body covering materials?"
He indicated his home was nearby and that he was just trying to get there. I offered him a ride as it was apparent by that time that he was neither under the influence of dangerous and intoxicating substances at that moment nor absent his saner wits. During the ride he volunteered the story of how he came to be running down the streets of my fair city is a state is disrobedness. This was a story I was dying to hear.
Seems our intrepid ND was hitchhiking south down Highway 1 toward the Big Sur area,. Why was unclear but as he was being forthcoming I declined to interrupt to the extent I could stand the suspense. Along the way he was picked up by two men....in a van. At this point my every cop sense was tingling and I was starting to get the idea that this story was going to go downhill in a hurry. I was correct.
They spent some time together, the three of them imbibing intoxicating beverages of the Hops and Malt variety. At some point in the (allegedly moderate) party in the van he lost consciousness. Nd claimed that the next thing he knew he was waking up behind a bush in a park in downtown Carmel (for reference about 4 or 5 miles from where I picked him up). He was also quite naked and covered with the aforementioned oily substance. ND decided his best bet was just to try and get home as best he could.
Now I want you to envision yourself in my place. Rookie police officer confronted with an oil covered man with that story. The questions boggle the mind. Who? Why? What? What kind. How much? How many times? Etc.etc. etc.
"You jogged from Carmel to here!? Naked!?"
But I knew my duty and asked him two things. First, Do you want to go to the hospital because I'm pretty sure stuff may have been done to you and perhaps a medical checkup is in order? ND quickly and flatly declined stating he was fine and just wanted to go home. Second, is there anything you'd like to report because see question the First? Again ND stated he was certain nothing untoward had happened to him, oily skin and state of nakedness notwithstanding. Ok then.
We reached his home and I let him out. He politely offered the emergency blanket back to me but I took another look at that oil on his skin and hastily declined. " No, no, That's Ok. You keep that." I gave him my card and asked again if there was anything I could do for him but he refused.
In those days and in that small town we had a lot more discretion than is the norm now. It wasn't unusual for any officer to decide that an arrest in a situation like that was probably not the best solution. SoI tipped my cap to ND, wished him a good evening and left.
In looking back on that contact both in the short term and again years later, I am absolutely positive ND was lying or at least not telling all he knew or remembered. My attitude toward weird police contacts like this has always been to appraise the situation and if it's not clear police action is warranted leave it with "Do you need help? You Ok? Need to report something, a crime maybe? No? Well, call if you do and have a nice day." Clearly something untoward happened that resulted in the state I found him in but I'm pretty sure he was more of a willing participant that he wanted me to guess. Perhaps not to the extent it ended up but if you're gonna play those kind of games the night may end with a naked moonlit stroll down a city street. Intoxicants stronger than beer were unquestionably involved but again, I got the clear impression of chagrin as opposed to horror so I was pretty sure the imbibing was consensual even if the end result was somewhat unexpected. All in all it seemed to be a case of "Oh shit, he passed out. Now what?" as opposed to something felonious.
So. Word to the wise there kids, drugs/alcohol, sex games and strangers in vans are a bad mix. Don't be Naked Dude.
Six
It's about 1988 or so. I am a green as grass rookie with just a few years in uniform. Working the midnight shift because hey, that's where the rookies go.
Now Monterey is an old city. Among other things it was California's first capitol from 1777 to 1846 and was then conquered by Commodore Sloat and claimed as part of the United States. Lots of old buildings and streets first laid out by the Mexican and Spanish governments a long time ago. One of those streets is Lighthouse Avenue. If you look just below that red line along the coast (where it says Fisherman's Wharf #1) you can see Lighthouse Avenue.
So. One dark and cold morning, about 3 AM, I was doing routine patrolling in my old and rattle trap of a cop car Dodge Diplomat (remember those?). When I turned from Pacific Avenue onto Lighthouse I espied a person jogging down the sidewalk next to the street. He was far enough away and the street lights were spaced far enough apart that I couldn't see much of him except that he seemed to be dressed kinda sparsely. As I got closer it became apparent that he was very sparsely dressed. Like naked to be exact.
Now I was no jaded and experienced veteran officer but even I was pretty sure that there was something peculiar about the situation. It's no more than 40 degrees out, it's 3 in the morning, it's a very public street and he ain't wearing a stitch. Hmm. Might be I should talk to this guy. I flip a U-Turn and approach. It's my first "naked guy in public" call. It will not be my last.
Aside here. Like all contacts I called this one in to dispatch but I made a rookie mistake. I mentioned a nude man. Usually on all calls and contacts at that time of day another car will roll automatically as backup unless called off which I most emphatically did not do. Except when it's a naked dude. Then you couldn't find another police car in the city available for follow up no matter how hard you tried. Naked chicks are another matter altogether. Then you'll get responses from 5 cities away. Cops.
The Naked Dude (Let's just refer to him as ND for brevity's sake shall we?) sees me approaching, lights rotating on my roof, but he's not making eye contact. He just keeps his head down and continues jogging down the road. Perhaps desperately hoping I'll chalk it up to the full moon and leave him alone. But, alas for him, my curiosity has been piqued and you know, naked guy on public streets and all that. Finally he gives up and stops. He stands there in the harsh glare of a thousand watt street light and surrenders to his fate.
Now anyone who has ever met me knows that I am what is colloquially known as a Smart Ass. But on that morning I was at a temporary loss for words. Here was a man totally starkers casually jogging down a main boulevard. Whatever could be the reason?
"Hi. How you doing tonight? Out for a jog I guess?" Hardly words that will go down in the annals of snarkish history but hey, I was a bit put off at the time. I took immediate pity on the man, not to mention any motorists passing by at 3 in the morning, and grabbed my emergency blanket from the trunk and threw it around his shoulders. As I did so I noticed a fine oily sheen on his skin. All his skin if you catch my drift. Everywhere is the idea I'm trying to get across here. He was grateful for the wrap and covered himself as best he could.
"Anything you want to tell me? Like what you're doing, where you're going and why you're doing any of that sans suitable body covering materials?"
He indicated his home was nearby and that he was just trying to get there. I offered him a ride as it was apparent by that time that he was neither under the influence of dangerous and intoxicating substances at that moment nor absent his saner wits. During the ride he volunteered the story of how he came to be running down the streets of my fair city is a state is disrobedness. This was a story I was dying to hear.
Seems our intrepid ND was hitchhiking south down Highway 1 toward the Big Sur area,. Why was unclear but as he was being forthcoming I declined to interrupt to the extent I could stand the suspense. Along the way he was picked up by two men....in a van. At this point my every cop sense was tingling and I was starting to get the idea that this story was going to go downhill in a hurry. I was correct.
They spent some time together, the three of them imbibing intoxicating beverages of the Hops and Malt variety. At some point in the (allegedly moderate) party in the van he lost consciousness. Nd claimed that the next thing he knew he was waking up behind a bush in a park in downtown Carmel (for reference about 4 or 5 miles from where I picked him up). He was also quite naked and covered with the aforementioned oily substance. ND decided his best bet was just to try and get home as best he could.
Now I want you to envision yourself in my place. Rookie police officer confronted with an oil covered man with that story. The questions boggle the mind. Who? Why? What? What kind. How much? How many times? Etc.etc. etc.
"You jogged from Carmel to here!? Naked!?"
But I knew my duty and asked him two things. First, Do you want to go to the hospital because I'm pretty sure stuff may have been done to you and perhaps a medical checkup is in order? ND quickly and flatly declined stating he was fine and just wanted to go home. Second, is there anything you'd like to report because see question the First? Again ND stated he was certain nothing untoward had happened to him, oily skin and state of nakedness notwithstanding. Ok then.
We reached his home and I let him out. He politely offered the emergency blanket back to me but I took another look at that oil on his skin and hastily declined. " No, no, That's Ok. You keep that." I gave him my card and asked again if there was anything I could do for him but he refused.
In those days and in that small town we had a lot more discretion than is the norm now. It wasn't unusual for any officer to decide that an arrest in a situation like that was probably not the best solution. SoI tipped my cap to ND, wished him a good evening and left.
In looking back on that contact both in the short term and again years later, I am absolutely positive ND was lying or at least not telling all he knew or remembered. My attitude toward weird police contacts like this has always been to appraise the situation and if it's not clear police action is warranted leave it with "Do you need help? You Ok? Need to report something, a crime maybe? No? Well, call if you do and have a nice day." Clearly something untoward happened that resulted in the state I found him in but I'm pretty sure he was more of a willing participant that he wanted me to guess. Perhaps not to the extent it ended up but if you're gonna play those kind of games the night may end with a naked moonlit stroll down a city street. Intoxicants stronger than beer were unquestionably involved but again, I got the clear impression of chagrin as opposed to horror so I was pretty sure the imbibing was consensual even if the end result was somewhat unexpected. All in all it seemed to be a case of "Oh shit, he passed out. Now what?" as opposed to something felonious.
So. Word to the wise there kids, drugs/alcohol, sex games and strangers in vans are a bad mix. Don't be Naked Dude.
Six
27 November 2012
What I Really Did
Offered for my old comrades and everyone who has worn the suit.
If I had a nickel for every naked dude call I ever responded to.....
Six
If I had a nickel for every naked dude call I ever responded to.....
Six
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