Blue Lives, And Your Help, Matter.

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First, don’t get all crazy and nuts because I didn’t say the politically correct thing. I said the right thing. Read the story and you’ll get my point.

I’m writing this in regard to a Facebook post this week. The graphic below was posted on my timeline. One of my friends (who is a brave and capable man) responded that if the assailant has a weapon he’d not jump in: allergic to lead. That brought the story below to mind.

strugglingofficer

My very first day out of the police academy I was assigned to work with Harry as my FTO (Field Training Officer). Harry was a laconic cat from New Jersey who reminded me more of Droopy the dog than Quick Draw McGraw. Harry was a thoughtful, quiet, brilliant man who was the epitome of a harmless looking constable. Yeah. Until…

Day one proceeded in the way most patrol days do, Harry at the wheel, the rookie taking notes (mentally) and watching. Right out of Adam-12, except we didn’t work any snitches, nor did our car have that horsepower: it was a Dodge Aspen, a vehicle hopelessly under powered with an inadequate electrical system for police loads. But, I digress.

We were on the midnight shift, so we’d started at ten that evening. The afternoon shift was already off the street when we came up behind a car with busted out tail lights. No biggie, but a good ticket for a rookie to write and get some experience. Harry radioed in the plate and where we were, pulled them over, and sent me to write the citation. We were on a hillside about 1/3 of a mile from the police station. There was no traffic, and a we had a good position for our car to block anyone from accidentally hitting me while I wrote the ticket.

All those plans went to hell in about thirty seconds. Instead of handing me his license, the driver and his two passengers boiled out of the car and attacked us. (Harry was standing at the corner of the vehicle covering me and observing, not behind the wheel.)

The next six or seven minutes were some of the longest of my life. We were probably stronger than they were on a normal day, but these three had been “dusting” (using PCP) and because of the drug, they felt no pain.

Harry and I rolled around on the ground fighting the three of them, exchanging punches, wrestling moves, and desperately trying to protect our weapons. I don’t know about the dude on Harry, but the one punching me in the groin and face was very much interested in getting my weapon. I knew that if that happened we’d both be dead.

There was no way I was going to pull that gun. The quarters were too tight, too big of a chance that one of those maniacs would snatch it away and use it on one of us. We had to win the battle on a physical level or it was all done.

If you’ve ever really fought someone, not just thought about it, it’s exhausting. Especially when it goes on for more than five minutes. There’s a reason that professional boxers have three-minute rounds. Five minutes is also what we knew as the time limit for radio communications. I never heard the radio – it had come out of it’s holder while we fought, but the dispatcher was checking on us and getting no response. We drifted past the check mark and another minute ticked by.

The call went out “officer needs assistance, check on Unit 107” and our location.

That’s when God stepped in as far as I’m concerned. The evening shift had just finished turning in shotguns and flashlights when the call went out. They all ran out to their cars and were on site with us within 30 seconds. I only vaguely remember a lot of people prying the bad guys off of us and trying to cuff them up – it took ten of them to get it done.

We booked those guys in and assessed damages: broken glasses, torn uniforms, lots of bruises and cuts, but we were alive. Because the cavalry came to save us.

Today, while you drive to the grocery store, you might see a cop getting their butt kicked by an assailant. Your calling it in, and then stepping in to help the officer might save their life. I’m not saying that you should do your best Kung-fu, nor am I advocating that you do anything beyond asking the officer if they need help. They might not. But knowing that backup is there (you) might give them the extra zip to take the win. It also demoralizes the bad guy. You are certainly at risk doing it: no doubt. That’s a moral dilemma for you.

But I was the guy on the ground, about to lose his weapon, and his life, 35 years ago. I would have been thrilled to see you. I sure was thrilled to see my fellow officers.

Now, in conclusion, spare me the hate. If you hate cops, hate the idea of helping, are sure the bad guy has a good reason, know that all cops are secret rapists and racists, you can skip any commenting on the post. They aren’t. They’re just like the rest of us, but they take on the troubles of our world.

Me? I’m getting out of the car to help. Won’t you?

Serious Free Stuff

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Swag time. All this hoopla about the book requires a giveaway. We launch Assault on Saint Agnes in one month and one week, April 18, 2016.

Today, because I’m taking a break from really blogging, I’m going to give away a few books. I have two advanced reader copies of Assault on Saint Agnes. These still contain a few typos, and they lack the final text – about a .05% difference. But it’s really close to the final version.

assaultcover01082016sized

The contest is easy: put your name, mailing, and email address in the comments. I will take the first and fifth entries and send you the book.

Easy, quick, and free stuff.

All I ask in return is that on 18 April you post an honest review of the book on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Goodreads.

You can even say it stinks. But you have to review it on launch day.

The only words the review must contain are: I was furnished with an advanced copy of this book in return for a fair and honest review of the work.

Now, get commenting!

Why The United States Is The Only Place I Want To Live.

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For my overseas readers (which includes Canada, just miles north of here on a snowmobile) I would like you to take a gander at how we do things here on the election front. It’s not all nasty as the media would have you believe.

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Tuesday night I attended my caucus. Caucus is a Latin word for “too many sweaty people crammed into a noisy room after dinner.”

My caucus was held in the same building that the Democratic Farm Labor party held theirs. They were upstairs, we were downstairs. They stole all our signs, we left theirs alone.

Seated next to me at the Republican caucus was a college student. On the other side, an older woman. One white, one black. Around the table we had an assortment of groundskeepers, technicians, teachers, small business owners, union members, and one attorney. He was to be forgiven based on the fact that he’s an immigrant from Australia. That buys you a lot of rope when you’re a young person who clearly worked your butt off to get where you are in this world – no special treats for him except hard work.

Nobody pounded on the table. Nobody was rude to another. Everyone was quite civil. We had about 20 people in my ward/precinct. We elected officers and delegates to the next level. We handed out ballots. We voted. We tallied ballots. We left.

The next day I stopped at the Mojo Monkey Donuts near my house. I got a box of donuts. I included one for a coworker who went to the other caucus, will vote for the other candidate, and who will still be my friend when this whole thing is over in November. He got a donut with red frosting because that’s what he wanted last week. No significance to the color. Just the odds are good that it would be tasty. It was – I got one for myself.

Tomorrow we will all endorse/root for/hope for/pray for candidates different than others. I plan on remaining civil. I also plan on responding with full fury if someone impinges upon my right to vote as I choose, or to display a yard sign. I will not do that to others. It is un-American. In my city, which is heavily Democrat, it happens all the time. Republican and Libertarian signs get trashed all the time. But I won’t retaliate.

In November, we will go to the poles. There will be cheating. There always is. I think that voter identification would stop a lot of it (*I was a poll-watcher a few times and it’s pretty blatant*) and not take away anyone’s rights. But there are other ways to cheat, and the vermin among us will always seek a host for a free ride. It’s sad.

After the election we will all bitch and moan about the results. Some will gloat. Some will mourn. The odds of tanks and troops in the streets on November 9 is infinitesimal. In February of 2017 we will have a new President. Hopefully not a convicted/soon to be convicted/felon.

Life will go on. Better or worse, it will go on.

I can’t say that about any other country. Except Canada. They have Hockey Night. Nobody with Hockey Night could be all bad.

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

Task Appropriate Physical Fitness Tests

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In the past few months, the Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy (MCPON) has generated controversy with his skills/job based physical fitness test proposals. I would like to provide some background and suggested tests that might apply not only to military jobs, but the civilian world as well.

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A little background is in order. While I am currently fatter than two of you put together (*in many cases*) I was once a young man with an abundance of muscle and an enormous neck. I could lift more weight, pass cases of goods from the helicopter, tote heavy seabags long distances, and generally out-goon almost anybody you knew. I was strong.

Alas, I was also very slow. I was a man designed to provide strength, not swiftness. As a result, I failed the annual triple event physical fitness test on a few occasions. The events were run, jump, puke. Not always in that order. Seriously, it was pushups, sit-ups, and a run. I could hammer out the sit-ups and pushups, but the run was a huge challenge. Mental as much as phsyical, I hated running. All of this frivolity was followed by a neck and waist measurement so that skinny little admin weasels could tell me that I was a fat blob. (I may be remembering that from a skewed perspective…)

I hated the PRT (Physical Readiness Test) and all that it meant: my not getting promoted if I kept failing the stupid thing. This lead to some, er, a lot of cheating on my part. I think the statute of limitations on this is now past it’s enforcement date. I hereby admit that I cheated like a drunken card-shark in Vegas on a losing streak. Anything to pass that test. My proudest moment of dishonesty was when the base at Rota, Spain, put in a track. There wasn’t enough room to make it a full 1/4 mile oval. Thankfully some genius decided that a figure 8 shaped track would do just as well. I liked that track. I could easily merge with the herd entering the bottom half and skip the top half if I gave a glance toward the monitors before “blending.” The trick was to only do it once or twice during the test lest I be too fast. I was always close, within 30 seconds to two minutes of making the run in the allotted time. That 1/2 a loop made all the difference.

My favorite excuse was that I was deployed, or just coming back from a deployment, when they had the test. Nobody expected me to get out in the Spanish sun and run after spending the last 30 days cooped up on a submarine. By the time they could reschedule the test, I was back out at sea. That worked for a couple of tests. Kept me out of jail (remedial physical fitness) which was just an excuse for some sadistic clown that was up for Chief lording it over all of the “fat bodies” for 45 minutes twice a week. The good thing was that they were so busy tormenting some soul that they never noticed me slipping out for a smoke after ten minutes and returning just in time for a shower.

I’ll admit I didn’t play by the rules, but I always contended that I didn’t have very far to run on a Los Angeles class submarine. Secondly, when it came to the fun-filled event known as replenishment, I was a superstar. This is an activity that consists of several helicopter crews, and a ship next to you, dropping cargo on your deck at an ever increasing pace. Usually conducted in such a manner as to make the Captain of the ship a raving Ahab because of potential collision with the fueling ship, and the great chance that one of those escaped lunatics piloting the helicopter will catch their pallet and sling on the ship and consequently crash into the poor fools waiting to carry the cargo away like a trail of hungry ants.

I could handle that all day. It was strength work. More than once I worked some other sailor who had a perfect PRT score into a coma by handing them boxes. They had to quit. I stuck it out until we were done. Never failed. Strong like bull.

Finally, before I propose the tests, I could never see the relationship between my very nerdy job (Cryptoligic Linguist) and running. Unless somebody was trying to abduct me, I was going to stand and fight it out. Kidnap teams of my nightmares might provoke a run. But that was about it.

On to the tests:

Cryptologic Technician Interpretive – climb a ship’s ladder while holding 4 cups of hot coffee, spilling none when the ladder is tilted to simulate the submarine changing depth. This is a timed event, because you are actually supposed to be manning your equipment. Add 1 second to the time for each drop of coffee spilled.

Author: this is a combination test. You must carry three reams of paper in one hand while balancing a pastry and a cup of tea on top of the pile. During the 10 meter event, you have to tap the blue-tooth for your phone, step over the dog, and mute the television.

Electronics Technician: while complaining that nobody appreciates you, you have to stick your hand into an energized cabinet and be mildly electrocuted. After the shock wears off, you must spring to your feet and declare, “That’s nothing. One time…” without any evidence of tardive dyskinesia.

Editor: in this test, the individual must curse under their breath for three hours while scrolling through a document on the computer. Every 18 seconds they MUST find an error, or insert a comment bound to make the author cry. During this test, they must pace back and forth, cover a minimum of 1/3 mile during the thirty minute evolution.

Cryptologic Technician Collection: in this event you must sit rigidly in your chair, glare at the computer screen in front of you while listening to static on the headphones you wear at a high level of volume. Every minute, without fail, you must leap to your feet, knocking the chair over and proclaim: “I could have been an “I” brancher but my recruiter was a moron!” Pickup chair, regain your seat, and repeat. Duration of test is 2 hours.

Ship’s Serviceman: This is the most demanding of the tests by far. You must give a shipmate a bad haircut, do his laundry, “lose” 1 expensive watch from the ship’s store, and collect bribes from the rest of the crew for stocking “their” brands of soda pop and snacks in the store. All of these events are combined with running up and down ladders with a clipboard and an urgent sense of purpose and declaring, “Chief, honest: that cash balanced when I left the register.” This is a timed event as well, all events must be completed in 1 hour, including 8 trips from the bowels of the ship to the combat center. It is permissible to fake the ladder event, and instead hide in a fan closet drinking scotch.

I would like to describe some other events, but I’m pretty sure I’ve ticked off most of the Navy by now, so I’ll just call it a day.

We all had jobs to do: but only the SEABEES and the SEALS had to run. The rest of us had our own crosses to bear.

Have a great, Navy day.

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

My Love Letter To Amy Matayo

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That title will probably garner me some dirty looks from a few readers, but worry not: I’m still faithful to my wife. But my wife didn’t write The End of the World. Amy Matayo did. And I’m in love with her for what she’s written.

The End of the World

The End of the World

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!

I’ve discussed my man-card issues here before, and this situation is no different. I keep the man card based on my beard, wicked good skills with weaponry, superior driving ability, lawn-mowing agility, snow-shoveling prowess, and a shaved head that blinds jet pilots at altitude on a sunny day.

That having been said, there are a few women authors of romance novels who probably should get new titles. It’s not a romance novel. It’s a wonderful story of pain, anger, hurt, struggle, victory, and resolution. I wish these damned literary boxes weren’t so confining: they hurt authors.

Amy Matayo has hit an absolute bulls eye with The End of the World. I hate spoilers, so you won’t get them. I will, instead, tell you that only one other author, Rajdeep Paulus, has torn a bit of my heart out in the way that Amy has done with this book. You will experience angst as a given, joy in abundance, sadness in its depths, and hope springs forth in many places.

You will also feel fear. Lots of fear. Fear of what others might do and how you might react to that fear. I am not ashamed to say that from this day forward (when I remember) I am painting a fingernail in solidarity with abused and beaten children. I have always taken my role as a sheepdog seriously, but as of today I’m a polished man. Click the link. Join me.

If you're going to wear nail polish, it should be sparkly and purple.

If you’re going to wear nail polish, it should be sparkly and purple.

If you’re searching for a way to write a novel from two points of view (The Sacred P.O.V. that writing teachers babble about constantly) you need look no further. Amy is teaching the final lesson on the subject. Study with a master. The same goes for setting scenes and dialogue. Not only does she know what bits to use to make you present, she also knows what not to tell you. The dialogue is what you’d expect from real humans. No exposition. No babbling about deep feelings and meaning. Terse. Tightly crafted. Wonderful.

There is an air of suspense throughout the work that is masterful. If there isn’t a film made of this very soon, someone should hang in Hollywood. Yes, it’s that good. I found myself ripping through the book at a near record pace. I lost precious sleep trying to finish it before I had to go to work. It is a fast read as a result.

Amy, thanks for an outstanding book. Shaye and Cameron are beautifully written. The villains? You did an amazing job bringing that evil to light – they are as you’ve depicted them in the real world. It’s always good to glimpse the darkness and know where to thrust that beam of light. Most of all, you remind us that forgiveness is there for the asking. We’re all broken. Thank you for some of the glue that will put your readers back together.

Go buy it now. Don’t dawdle. Best money you’ll spend all day.

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.