These Aren’t My Pants, Officer.

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One of the things I like to do each week is catch up on my homies at Live PD on the A&E network. Each week, 32 different camera teams in 8 different departments ride along with officers on patrol. The departments are as varied as Warwick, RI, Salinas, CA, and the Oklahoma State Police. With a wide variety of departments (which change every few weeks/months) you get exposed to a lot of different law enforcement agencies, a variety of outrageously stupid criminals, and enough misery to break the heart of Jesus for three hours every Friday and Saturday night.

I’ve written about the show previously on the blog (okay, I’m a fanboy) and if you want to get the full joy of this posting today, you need to watch an episode, or twenty, to have the same level of appreciation that regular watchers have over the items below.

Some things are a constant. It doesn’t matter if the doofus in question is black, white, brown, red, or some combination of the above, and covered in mud to boot, you will hear the following things said, and the following situations occur on a weekly basis. I feel cheated if I don’t hear at least three of these items each week during my “watch party.”

“These aren’t my pants.” In the vernacular of the mopes that appear on the show, this phrase is usually uttered when the officer who’s stopped them finds dope/a sex toy/or a weapon in their pocket. It happens regularly. The embellishments can continue for twenty minutes if you were to stick with the scene, and include “My roommate must have taken my pants and left these. I don’t do dope,” and the ever popular “That *@($ I live with must have put that in my pocket. I ain’t never seen that gun before.”

Close behind the above, is the equally stupid phrase: “These aren’t my socks.” How a 1/2 pound of methamphetamine worked it’s way into their sock is evidently a mystery, but I suspect it may be explained away in the same manner as the mystery pantaloons noted above.

When the individuals aren’t being exposed as being body dysphoric with unusual clothing items they hadn’t noticed, they frequently explain their bad driving with the words, “I only had a shot/two beers.” In my time as a cop, that usually translated to: 1/2 bottle of bourbon, or a 12-pack of cheap beer. It is always amusing to watch them struggle to pass the field-sobriety test that inevitably follows the lie regarding consumption.

A related phrase has become popular in the recent past, “I smoked it/shot it/ate it a long time ago.” Evidently the relative time frame that attaches to narcotics use is akin to the amount of time Microsoft says remains on your update. You know, the one that goes from 92 minutes to 7 minutes and back to 45 minutes in the span of mere seconds. Almost always, upon closer examination, the individuals admit that they were actually smoking the joint as the red lights appeared in their rear-view mirror.

Many of these same non-linear Time Lords have a similar understanding of what the words “Is there anything else in the car that’s illegal?” mean. This phrase is always uttered by the officer who has already discovered an open bottle of liquor, a bag of crystal meth, or a loaded handgun wedged into the seat. Only rarely will anyone say that they have additional bad things in the vehicle. I enjoy the look of horror when the K-9 officer arrives a few moments later to search the vehicle. In 9 out of 10 cases (at least) the car contains something else. In this list of “I ain’t got ’nuffin” I have seen 20 pounds of marijuana, an AK-47, a sawed-off shotgun, and a host of smaller items like machetes/daggers/and sex toys beyond counting. (Not that they’re illegal, but do you really want to find one stuck in the seat cushion while searching the car?)

Almost last, but certainly not least, when the officers ask for a name, or identification, it’s mind-bending how many members of the public travel about with nothing on them. No credit cards, no identity card, not even a discount card at the local weed dispensary for being a great customer. Often, after the name and birth date they give proves to be false, a mystery identity card is located in their wallet during the custodial search before they go into the patrol car.

Even more surprising, most of them are driving on a suspended/revoked license, and over 1/2 have a warrant of some kind for their arrest.

When this is revealed, the suspect INVARIABLY says that they took care of the warrant that afternoon, and it just isn’t out of the system yet, and/or that they were going to register the vehicle/get insurance for the vehicle/or renew their license on Monday. (The show airs on Friday and Saturday nights.)

Seriously? Do they expect the police just to throw them a bone and let them continue to drive on their 10th suspension of license? Evidently.

I guess that is the short list. If you would like to add your favorites, just put in a comment and I’ll gladly do an update in the near future.

In the meantime: wear your own pants when you leave the house.

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My second novel, Nicholas of Haiti, is now available. Go fetch your credit card for the Kindle, print, and audio book versions. This is not a sequel to Assault on Saint Agnes, but a unique book in the speculative Christian fiction world.

Audio book cover on the left, Kindle cover on the right.

Please follow me on Twitter, and “Like” the Facebook author page.

Don’t forget to subscribe (the box is on the right side of the page) to be eligible for free e-books and other benefits! Oh yeah – grab a copy of Assault on Saint Agnes if you’re of a mind.

The Watering Hole.

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The new one tried to look around the shabby American Legion post, squinting tightly after coming in from the brightness outside. Once his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he was able to spot a few souls scattered at tables around the room.

Puzzling over the old-school uniforms at a couple of the tables, he finally recognized a unit patch he’d seen in Afghanistan. He walked to the table, pulled out a chair, and turned it around. Planting himself in the chair, he introduced himself to the other two. Returning the courtesy, there fell a silence on the table.

Around the room others were sitting silently at the tables as well, pitchers of beer glistening in the center of each. Realizing that there was to be no service for them, he flipped over one of the old-fashioned beer glasses and poured himself a cool one.
Draining the glass, he picked up the pitcher, marveled that it was full to the brim again, and poured himself another glass.

After the fourth one had settled in his stomach, he relaxed a bit and realized that the other two at the table had done the same.

“You guys just get here?”

“Here at the Legion, or here in the afterlife.”

Jeremy had to wrap his head around that for a moment before he could answer.
“Say, is that what happened? Last thing I remember I was walking out in the country along a canal of some kind. Next thing I know I’m in the doorway here looking at you guys. We’re all dead?

Frank tilted another sip past his lips and nodded. “I figured it out a bit ago. I saw Brad, he indicated the third man at the table, take a round in the head right before my lights went out. Only logical conclusion. I figure we’re getting ready to go wherever it is we’ll wind up and this is our last chance for a beer.”

Brad shook his head. “You’ve got it wrong. We’re already in Heaven. On Earth this would be almost a year after we got hit. I came to in Heaven and some of the old timers explained it to me. Seems we get kind of a 24 hour pass and can take back our bodies for a beer on that first Memorial Day that you’re dead, but only one. Seems it’s the special compensation you get for dying in combat.”

Jeremy nodded slowly. “That kind of fits. It’s all bits and fragments. I could have sworn I was at my own funeral just a bit ago. I must have been.”

Brad asked, “Many people there?”

Jeremy had to think for a minute. “No, just my family and a couple of guys from high school.”

“Yeah, that’s what everyone is saying lately. The enthusiasm is gone. Our war, our deaths, are forgotten now that major combat is over. Nobody puts any value on our lives.”
A new voice from an adjoining table lifted up over the click of glasses and pitchers, “Same for us. Nobody cared when our guys died. As a matter of fact, most of them resented us and you could feel the scorn from every set of eyes as you got into the world. And there were a lot of caskets for them to hate. They didn’t know us, and never said a nice word about us until the day we died.”

“Us too.” That one came from a table ten feet away. Without a signal of any kind, all of the men stood up and pushed their tables together. Introductions went around the circle.
Assembled in the forgotten Legion post were veterans of two score of conflicts from the Aleutians to Afghanistan. Men who’d served in Korea, the East German border areas, the Korean DMZ, and half-a-dozen different recon aircrews from the Cold War era all chatted and swilled beer.

None of them had gotten a parade upon the end of their war. None had been honored with a plaque on the wall of the local high school. All felt that the world had forgotten them in the past.

The door was slammed back against the wall, and the skirl of bagpipes broke the somber mood. A line of pipers in kilts marched through the door, a drum-major leading them with his baton. Filling the perimeter of the room, they circled the men while playing the various service anthems.

After all the anthems had been played, each group coming to attention as their service was recognized, the band broke into “The Star Spangled Banner.” Every eye gleamed as the words to the song echoed off the walls, and the shabby Legion post seemed transformed, now appearing to be a successful gentleman’s club

Once the last pipe hummed to silence, George Patton strode into the room, followed closely be several other military leaders of great historical import.

“Gentlemen. We are here, as your fellow veterans, to honor you on this day. Memorial day comes but once a year, and all of you have joined us since the last ceremony. You might think your war is forgotten, but a grateful horde of your brothers recognizes your role in preserving democracy. Each nation up here gets a day to do this, and today is our turn. Now, let’s end the pity party and break out the hard stuff. On the tables in front of them there appeared the finest crystal glasses, and a bottle of each man’s favorite beverage. The drinks ranged from Nehi soda to ancient bourbon.

“Now, pour yourself a glass and let’s raise a toast.”

General Patton lifted his glass as the rest filled theirs. “Gentlemen: to the Armed Forces of our beloved nation, and all who have given their lives in service of that ideal.”

Glasses were drained, and set on the tables with a bang.

Patton eyed the crowd and pointed a finger at the veterans of wars who had passed away earlier. Shaking with rage, he said, “I thought I told you guys to knock it off. You missed your parade, but you got a party like this when you arrived. I warned you of the consequences.”

Without a word being spoken, the old-timers moved to the supply closet and broke out buffers, floor wax, swabs, and rags to dust the room.

Patton smiled. “You new guys are on warning as well: don’t crash the party or you’ll be doing field day for a year until the next Memorial Day. Now, sit down, have a drink, and enjoy yourselves. When you’re done, report to Arch Angel Michael for your assignments. And, gentlemen, thank you for your service. You are magnificent.”


Book Review: Psalms of Sherlock By Gail Ann Swales

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Let’s get this out front: I am not a Sherlock nerd. I’ve watched the old movies, I’ve read some of the original books, and I’ve enjoyed the modern BBC series via Netflix.

However, I’d be hard pressed to come up with his address if you asked me after lunch. Mrs. Hudson might just be the woman who runs the hot dog cart in Rice Park, and John Watson is vaguely familiar. 7% solution? Uh, is that for weeds?

I must, however, heartily endorse Psalms of Sherlock by Gail Ann Swales. I was recently given a copy as a gift, and read it over the course of a very busy week. It was an even busier week than I’d planned, because that book kept drawing me back and inviting me to ignore my assigned tasks.

The book pays homage to the original in tone. There is a great fluidity to the dialogue, and the scenes are well set down to the smells and lighting. It fits within the modern canon of Holmes, and does not go far astray from what you would expect if you turned on the television and watched any other Sherlock Holmes work.

I’m just ignorant enough to admit that I’m not sure if all the characters were in the originals, or if some where created just for this work. What I am sure of is that they fit in this universe.

Swales tells a great tale. She focuses on the relationship between Holmes and Watson, and does so in a very charming, engaging manner. I wanted to turn the page and see what they would get up to next as each scene ended.

The work also delves into the spiritual side of the characters. Holmes, in the original works, is a spiritualist with questions. In this work his search for answers is dealt with in a unique manner. I approve of her light hand in the long tale, and only toward the end of the book does it become strong enough to be noticeable: but that is to be expected, as it’s the point of the book!

I had only one major objection to the book: the author spells John Watson’s name differently every time it comes from Sherlock Holmes’ lips. Meant to be a “pet” pronunciation, it is jarring when you first encounter the affectation. If you know it’s coming, I suspect it wouldn’t be “a thing” but I kept wondering how such an otherwise marvelously clean work could contain such an egregious typographical error. The answer is that it’s meant to be that way. Be forewarned.

I would give the book a 4.75 star review just based on that one spelling issue – it bugged me that much. Then I started to think about it, and if you can ignore that one little thing it’s a great read, good plot, and delightful message. Let’s just round it up and call it five stars and be done with it. After all, the game’s afoot!

Old Dogs And Spicy Sandwiches

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This is a rather short post, and a bit of a change from what you usually find here. But I think it’s worth saying, and hopefully it will prompt you to reflect a bit on priorities in your own life.

Thursday I walked to the dentist, and then on to work. I had a pack loaded with 45 pounds of assorted stuff, and it was a beautiful day to stroll 6.5 miles. Along the way I stopped at the Trung Nam Bakery to get some croissants, Palmiers, and a Banh Mi sandwich – or two.

I worked up a great sweat, strained my back and leg muscles by hauling all that weight around town, and got some sunshine on my face. It was the first really long walk of the season carrying a heavy load. (I’m in training for an event this fall where you do a 1/2 marathon carrying a 35 pound pack – yeah, it’s extreme sports at it’s best.)

Once I had showered at the health club downtown, I trod to work, shucked the pack, and devoured the food, saving but one sandwich for lunch.

Hot coffee, spicy sandwiches, and good cookies.

This evening, I got home and sprang Stormy from her confinement in the house. She had returned to her normal self after a week of not eating and being depressed. My wife and I had taken off a few days apart on individual road trips, and she evidently thought she was being abandoned for the third time in her life. It made me feel terrible when I realized what was going on. I was gone for 10 days, and brought her back to happiness with french fries and cheese.

So, tonight, I’m tired – the good kind of tired. My dog is doing great, the lawn is mowed, and I had a great road trip with my mom and a couple of other authors.

Life is pretty darned good when you take time to appreciate the little things that make life good. Like spicy sandwiches and old dogs that love you.

Be blessed.

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My second novel, Nicholas of Haiti, is now available. Go fetch your credit card for the Kindle, print, and audio book versions. This is not a sequel to Assault on Saint Agnes, but a unique book in the speculative Christian fiction world.

Audio book cover on the left, Kindle cover on the right.

Please follow me on Twitter, and “Like” the Facebook author page.

Don’t forget to subscribe (the box is on the right side of the page) to be eligible for free e-books and other benefits! Oh yeah – grab a copy of Assault on Saint Agnes if you’re of a mind.

Things You See On Social Media

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I know I’ve milked this cow before, but the past few days have been rife with moron – er, people not paying attention on several social media platforms I utilize. Given what a clever fellow I tell people I am, I feel obliged to share my insight – since it is deeply regarded by my front porch, where I do most of my heavy thinking. The chairs love my wit.

When someone posts that they’re having a bad day, it isn’t okay to inquire as to how their old dog with cancer is doing. While that may be the source of the bad day, it may just be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

If you ask for a referral for a dentist, it is almost a given that within four posts someone will tell you why only members of the Nazi party vaccinate their children. This seems to be inevitable when medical issues come up for some reason.

If you tweet out your support of anything in the universe, someone will link it to your political viewpoint, and your post that “I sure love cotton candy” with the picture of your treat, quickly devolves into, “I hope you choke on that horrid GMO swill that Trump is forcing down our throats.” God forbid you develop a cavity from the cotton candy and need help in locating a dentist.

Only seriously hot women follow me on Instagram. I’m not making it up. I have more women showing me bikini clad bodies than you can even count. Same on Facebook. I become suspicious when “Candy” from Ohio is linked to an account in Ghana. But that might just be the Puritan in me that hates cotton candy…

If you belong to a closed page that has a “pinned” post saying that anything goes except racism and accusations of bestiality, why do you complain when someone says something off color, or posts a political thought you disagree with in some way? Best of all, when you announce (in your most petulant and whiny voice) that you’re offended and leaving the group, you’d best just go. Why? Because if you stick around hoping someone will beg you to stay, you’ll not only be sadly disappointed, but you’ll be deeply hurt by the mean things they say. I kind of live for those things – I find all sorts of cruel dialogue to use in my writing.

No picture posted is safe from mockery. If you put up a picture of your dog and ask what people think of the new hairdo, and someone compliments you on how beautiful your grandchild is, you asked for it in my opinion. Just post the picture and let it be. Asking for feedback is a bad idea for most.

Learn what a private message is and use it. Posting your phone number and email, and asking for Skippy to call you right away, opens you up to all the weirdos. I have a long list of phone numbers from being observant!

Regarding the one above, I belong to several different groups (audio book, Santa, actors) where they will put up a post and ask for a private message if you’re interested. It doesn’t even take 4 posts for that to go south in a couple of the groups, especially the ones for Santa. Here is the typical post/exchange:

WANTED: Santa for Edina, Minnesota, December 8th at 3 p.m. Must have traditional red suit for photos with a group of professional gandy dancers. Pay is negotiable, but event is only 1 hour long so probably under $250.
Comment 1: “I don’t have a red suit, but I could be there at 7 p.m. if it’s okay.”
Comment 2: “I live in Miami, Florida. Why don’t you ever post jobs in my area?”
Comment 3: “Those people in Edina are all rotten. I won’t work with vermin like that, and you need to remove me from this group for even offering that kind of work.”
Comment 4: The job has been filled. Thank you all.
Comment 5: (six weeks later, the day of the event at about 1 p.m.) “Is that job still open? I live in Iowa but I’ll drive if they’ll pay for my room and gas.”

Bologna cake. I’m not sure where that abomination came from, but people post it regularly and treat it as new. I’m kind of a human garbage disposal, and I wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot-pole. I know it’s not a dessert. I know it’s supposed to be an appetizer. Ain’t never seen it until a few years ago. If you Google the thing, you’ll see it’s the same cake in all but one of the pictures. I’m calling shenanigans.

Satan’s snack

Last, and certainly least, is the posting of clearly fake news. Some things are bordering on the credible, but being in several different groupings of people, I see stuff from all over the spectrum. Most of it just makes me sad that people are that deluded. But the ones that really drop my opinion of a person include “All those (blank) people are commies/nazis/baby-killers” etc. It reveals something sick in the soul. It’s especially surprising when I’m one of the nazi/babykiller/communists that they’re talking about. I guess they forgot I was their friend when they posted it.

Having said that, I have to get back to Facebook. It appears we may be close to solving the issue of transgender illegal aliens this afternoon.

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Please follow me on Twitter, and “Like” the Facebook author page. Don’t forget to subscribe (the box is on the right side of the page) to be eligible for free e-books and other benefits! Oh yeah – grab a copy of Assault on Saint Agnes if you’re of a mind.