Everywhere I turned today was the "big story" about Paris Hilton being released from jail in Southern California. I don't get the fascination with her. She's not even the pretty one of the Hilton sisters. She's actually a bit freakish looking.
But I guess people like a freak show.
Now the Superior Court judge who tossed Hilton into jail is making noise about contempt of court for the L.A. County Sheriff for letting her out?
People are bitching (and here and here, etc.) thinking Hilton is getting special treatment because she's a celebrity. Maybe people should take a look at jail and prison crowding conditions around the country, not just in L.A. or California, and find out just how hard it is, not just to get thrown in jail, but to be kept their once you are in there in in places like Denver.
Hilton was on probation for reckless driving then later got stopped for driving under the influence. She was tossed in jail then for violating probation. But if people looked, really looked, at their local justice systems they would find that jails are letting people out all the time because they have so many people sentenced or waiting for trial they have to let some people out just in order to keep the really hard core people accused of murders and rapes and the most violent of crimes locked up. And you'd be shocked to learn some of the crimes people have been accused or convicted of that still get let out.
Hilton isn't getting special attention from anyone but the media and the celebrity obsessed public who have turned pop culture icons famous for merely being famous into American royalty and made the pathetic reality of "reality" TV something to not only waste their time watching, but dreaming of being "reality" stars themselves for who they date or marry or share a house with or compete in games on an island with or each eat bugs with.
Paris Hilton needs a life outside the public eye and house arrest would be a fine place to start. But it's all the other idiots under self-imposed house arrest in front of their TVs and computers who make moron's like her popular. We are the ones who are in the biggest need of finding something much more important to care about. Like, maybe, how ineffective it is for society to say "lock criminals up and throw away the key" then turn a blind eye to what's happening in jails and prisons. That is unless a celebrity gets tossed into one.
I was tempted to say that people should get a life, but it's more than that. People need to get involved with their communities and care about more than just frivolous celebrity crap. Oh, but that might cause someone to think a little too much made some tough decisions about things.
Oops, got to go. Reruns of "Frasier" are about to start.
Showing posts with label crime. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crime. Show all posts
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Going to the police dogs
It looks like every officer on duty with the Salem Police Department is in my apartment complex.
I got rousted from my bed by the sound of a voice over a PA system, telling someone to come out with their hands up. I thought maybe I better get up and see if I was the one supposed to be coming out.
It turns out it was one of the neighbors, who didn't want to come out, for whatever reason. After repeated warnings over the loudspeaker, the cops sent in the police dogs (I counted at least two on scene) and about 8 or 10 officers with guns drawn.
Now the fire department is here, probably to delivery emergency medical care for dog bites.
I've lost track of how many times the cops have been in the complex in the lest than a year I've lived here, in just my little corner of the complex. Who knows how often they get called in on the other side of the complex where I can't see or hear the commotion. There was a fatal shooting here not so long ago.
Have I mentioned how much I love living here?
All the drunks driving home from the bars in town will have a lot fewer cops to dodge this morning, thanks to the commotion here.
Salem, Ore.
I got rousted from my bed by the sound of a voice over a PA system, telling someone to come out with their hands up. I thought maybe I better get up and see if I was the one supposed to be coming out.
It turns out it was one of the neighbors, who didn't want to come out, for whatever reason. After repeated warnings over the loudspeaker, the cops sent in the police dogs (I counted at least two on scene) and about 8 or 10 officers with guns drawn.
Now the fire department is here, probably to delivery emergency medical care for dog bites.
I've lost track of how many times the cops have been in the complex in the lest than a year I've lived here, in just my little corner of the complex. Who knows how often they get called in on the other side of the complex where I can't see or hear the commotion. There was a fatal shooting here not so long ago.
Have I mentioned how much I love living here?
All the drunks driving home from the bars in town will have a lot fewer cops to dodge this morning, thanks to the commotion here.
Update: 2:20 a.m. An ambulance was brought in and young girl was brought out to it on a stretcher. She seemed alert and was sitting up, so hopefully whatever injuries she suffered were not serious.
Things seem to be quiting down now. Some of the police cruisers have left, as has a fire truck and the ambulance. Earlier I saw one person in handcuffs placed in the back of a patrol car, but that was before the police dogs and officers went in to the apartment.
Maybe things are quiting down now. So I shall try to go back to bed. Who says there's no excitement in Salem on a Saturday night?
Technorati tags: CrimeSalem, Ore.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Descending back into a life of crime
Generally speaking, it's not a good idea to break the law right in front of a cop.
Fortunately, I got away with it.
The irony is, just moments before I had been thinking about another criminal incident from my past that I had committed without getting caught.
As I was driving home from work, I spotted an Interstate 5 freeway sign. I probably see those signs every day. I have to cross under I-5 every day en route to and from work. So, why the sign reminded me of a 12-year-old theft on this particular drive, I'm not sure.
But spotting the sign got me to thinking about the interstates I've lived near throughout my life. Interstates 80, 84, I-5 and as they call them in California, the 15 and the 10.
The early years of my life were spent along the 19th Century equivalent of an interstate freeway, the Oregon Trail, in a small town in Nebraska. But this town wasn't near a modern freeway. The closest interstate was Interstate 80.
When I was in grade school I moved to the other end of the Oregon Trail to a small Oregon town that was just off Interstate 80.
In 1980 Interstate 80 became Interstate 84. At the time, I thought that was pretty cool because I was set to graduate from high school in 1984. Got to love that, right? I loved it so much that in 1984, sometime around the time I graduated from high school, I pilfered an I-84 sign off a rural exit out in the middle of nowhere, otherwise known as right near my hometown. That sign became a key decoration in my dorm room, frat house room, college apartments and the first apartment I had after college.
But my first job after college didn't go so well, and I ended up getting fired. Being flat broke and unemployed I did what any prideful, self-respecting 20-something person would do. I moved back in with mommy and daddy. And I hid the evidence of my thievery in my parents' basement and forgot it was there.
Forgot, that it, until my younger brother told me it was found when my parents did some remodeling in their basement. He of course, ratted me out.
All this stuff was rattling around in my brain as I continued my trip home. After making a quick stop for an errand, I approached an intersection a couple of blocks from my apartment and slid over into the turn lane. I thought the traffic signal gods must really love me, because signal for the turn lane went green just as I was getting close to the last car in line in front of me, and there were only three cars in line ahead of me.
SWEET! I'm gonna make the light.
But the light turned yellow as the second car was in the middle of the intersection.
Fuck it. I'm goin' anyway. I can make it before the light turns red.
I didn't make it.
As I approached the crosswalk I actually quit looking at the signal light. I didn't want to see it turn red. But I knew it was read by the time I entered the intersection. I could hear the audible tone for the visually impaired in the crosswalk at the intersection chirping just outside my open car window.
I felt a pang of guilt, but only a small one, for my traffic infraction.
Small, until I looked in my rearview window. There, directly behind me waiting for the light was a city patrol car.
I just knew I was going to see that patrol car on my rear bumper, lights flashing, before I turned into my apartment complex. Or worse yet, the cop would follow me into the complex, so my nosey neighbor could see me getting cited for breaking the law.
But, the cop never turned down my street and I got away, free and clear.
The G-man is just your average, ordinary scofflaw untouched by the hands of justice.
Well, except for that one time.
Crime
Fortunately, I got away with it.
The irony is, just moments before I had been thinking about another criminal incident from my past that I had committed without getting caught.
As I was driving home from work, I spotted an Interstate 5 freeway sign. I probably see those signs every day. I have to cross under I-5 every day en route to and from work. So, why the sign reminded me of a 12-year-old theft on this particular drive, I'm not sure.
But spotting the sign got me to thinking about the interstates I've lived near throughout my life. Interstates 80, 84, I-5 and as they call them in California, the 15 and the 10.
The early years of my life were spent along the 19th Century equivalent of an interstate freeway, the Oregon Trail, in a small town in Nebraska. But this town wasn't near a modern freeway. The closest interstate was Interstate 80.
When I was in grade school I moved to the other end of the Oregon Trail to a small Oregon town that was just off Interstate 80.
In 1980 Interstate 80 became Interstate 84. At the time, I thought that was pretty cool because I was set to graduate from high school in 1984. Got to love that, right? I loved it so much that in 1984, sometime around the time I graduated from high school, I pilfered an I-84 sign off a rural exit out in the middle of nowhere, otherwise known as right near my hometown. That sign became a key decoration in my dorm room, frat house room, college apartments and the first apartment I had after college.
But my first job after college didn't go so well, and I ended up getting fired. Being flat broke and unemployed I did what any prideful, self-respecting 20-something person would do. I moved back in with mommy and daddy. And I hid the evidence of my thievery in my parents' basement and forgot it was there.
Forgot, that it, until my younger brother told me it was found when my parents did some remodeling in their basement. He of course, ratted me out.
All this stuff was rattling around in my brain as I continued my trip home. After making a quick stop for an errand, I approached an intersection a couple of blocks from my apartment and slid over into the turn lane. I thought the traffic signal gods must really love me, because signal for the turn lane went green just as I was getting close to the last car in line in front of me, and there were only three cars in line ahead of me.
SWEET! I'm gonna make the light.
But the light turned yellow as the second car was in the middle of the intersection.
Fuck it. I'm goin' anyway. I can make it before the light turns red.
I didn't make it.
As I approached the crosswalk I actually quit looking at the signal light. I didn't want to see it turn red. But I knew it was read by the time I entered the intersection. I could hear the audible tone for the visually impaired in the crosswalk at the intersection chirping just outside my open car window.
I felt a pang of guilt, but only a small one, for my traffic infraction.
Small, until I looked in my rearview window. There, directly behind me waiting for the light was a city patrol car.
I just knew I was going to see that patrol car on my rear bumper, lights flashing, before I turned into my apartment complex. Or worse yet, the cop would follow me into the complex, so my nosey neighbor could see me getting cited for breaking the law.
But, the cop never turned down my street and I got away, free and clear.
The G-man is just your average, ordinary scofflaw untouched by the hands of justice.
Well, except for that one time.
Crime
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
What's the news?
Why is the murder of attorney Daniel Horowitz's wife in the Bay Area of California getting so much media attention?
Any murder is tragic. I'm not unsympathetic to the victim's friends and family. But why doesn't the media work so hard to get at the story when someone poor or black or Latino is killed?
My theory is the media are following this story on the chance that the high-profile attorney gets arrested on this one.
Are viewers and readers really paying attention to this story? If so, why? Is it more interesting because the attorney has been on TV and obviously is wealthy?
I'm sorry, but I'm more interested in the weather.
News
Crime reporting
Media
Any murder is tragic. I'm not unsympathetic to the victim's friends and family. But why doesn't the media work so hard to get at the story when someone poor or black or Latino is killed?
My theory is the media are following this story on the chance that the high-profile attorney gets arrested on this one.
Are viewers and readers really paying attention to this story? If so, why? Is it more interesting because the attorney has been on TV and obviously is wealthy?
I'm sorry, but I'm more interested in the weather.
News
Crime reporting
Media
Monday, October 03, 2005
Orange and Black and Blue
One of the biggest sports headlines of Sunday was about the Oregon State Beavers football team coming from behind to beat Washington State in Saturday’s game in Corvallis.
The story of today, which will make headlines in tomorrow’s papers, is about two current and one former player facing charges in the death of an 18-year-old’s death over Labor Day in a dorm.
It’s such a proud day to be a Beaver.
Oregon State University
Sports
College football
Crime
The story of today, which will make headlines in tomorrow’s papers, is about two current and one former player facing charges in the death of an 18-year-old’s death over Labor Day in a dorm.
It’s such a proud day to be a Beaver.
Oregon State University
Sports
College football
Crime
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Who's watching?
This whole working days things is really cutting into my blogging time. My best rants and rambles generally come in the middle of the night, or they used to anyway.
If I could just figure out how to write blog posts in my sleep. They probably wouldn't make much sense, but does that even matter?
There are certainly some things I have no interest in doing in the name of blogging or attracting traffic to this site, like getting arrested. But one guy who has been in the news a lot here in the Northwest has been attracting a buttload of traffic and comments to his site, even though he hasn't made a post in over a month.
According to a story on the Wired.com Web site, a blog site that allegedly belongs to a man arrested for kidnapping a girl and who is a suspect in kidnapping the girl's brother and multiple murders has been drawing a lot of attention.
The site allegedly belongs to Joseph Duncan, who was arrested over the weekend when he was stopped at a diner with the girl who had been missing for more than a month. I won't link to the guy's blog here, but you can find the link on the Wired.com story if you want to see his site, and people's reactions, for yourself.
The reactions, presumably from people who know a thing or two about blogs, stuck me as quite interesting. Some people seemed surprised that the government wasn't monitoring this guy's blog and could have possibly prevented the murders and kidnappings.
That strikes me as odd because do we really want the government monitoring everyone's blogs? I know, maybe we should all agree to put up Web cams too, so the government can watch what we do all day in the privacy of our homes and offices. Or are people no longer creeped out by the Orwellian implications of that now that 1984 has come and gone?
There is an odd thing about crime and law enforcement. Police generally can't arrest people for thinking about committing a crime. Most crimes aren't crimes until they are committed. And, yes this guy was a convicted sex offender, and yes many people think sex offenders should be locked up for life. Unfortunately, most of our jail space is used to house drug users and drug dealers, so we would have to change laws and society's priorities to affect that kind of change. Cops can't do that on their own.
I for one, don't want or need the thought police around, thank you very much. You can't have freedom of speech if there is no freedom of thought. The thoughts listed on the blog attributed to Duncan are dark and disturbing. But some of the comments people have been posting since his arrest are equally disturbing.
We do not live in a society without risks. Quite the contrary, a free society can, and should, have lots of risks. Parent want to protect our children, but how many of our and our children's freedoms are we willing to turn over to the state for some sort of false sense of security?
We have been reminded a lot since Sept. 11 that freedom is not free, but that is mostly mentioned in context with our military troops fighting in the "War Against Terror." Well, it is true. Freedom is not free. But we all pay a price for our freedoms. There are risks to living in America and being an American. There are risks to living, period. By living we risk pain. We risk death.
I'm willing to take those risks. I'm willing to let my daughter take those risks, and my family and my friends. I'm willing to do that, because I am not willing to let the government, or my neighbors, make those life decisions for me or my family. I want the freedom to choose. The atrocities committed by leaders in positions of government power are far more heinous than the acts of individuals bent on committing a crime.
Blogging
Freedom
If I could just figure out how to write blog posts in my sleep. They probably wouldn't make much sense, but does that even matter?
There are certainly some things I have no interest in doing in the name of blogging or attracting traffic to this site, like getting arrested. But one guy who has been in the news a lot here in the Northwest has been attracting a buttload of traffic and comments to his site, even though he hasn't made a post in over a month.
According to a story on the Wired.com Web site, a blog site that allegedly belongs to a man arrested for kidnapping a girl and who is a suspect in kidnapping the girl's brother and multiple murders has been drawing a lot of attention.
The site allegedly belongs to Joseph Duncan, who was arrested over the weekend when he was stopped at a diner with the girl who had been missing for more than a month. I won't link to the guy's blog here, but you can find the link on the Wired.com story if you want to see his site, and people's reactions, for yourself.
The reactions, presumably from people who know a thing or two about blogs, stuck me as quite interesting. Some people seemed surprised that the government wasn't monitoring this guy's blog and could have possibly prevented the murders and kidnappings.
That strikes me as odd because do we really want the government monitoring everyone's blogs? I know, maybe we should all agree to put up Web cams too, so the government can watch what we do all day in the privacy of our homes and offices. Or are people no longer creeped out by the Orwellian implications of that now that 1984 has come and gone?
There is an odd thing about crime and law enforcement. Police generally can't arrest people for thinking about committing a crime. Most crimes aren't crimes until they are committed. And, yes this guy was a convicted sex offender, and yes many people think sex offenders should be locked up for life. Unfortunately, most of our jail space is used to house drug users and drug dealers, so we would have to change laws and society's priorities to affect that kind of change. Cops can't do that on their own.
I for one, don't want or need the thought police around, thank you very much. You can't have freedom of speech if there is no freedom of thought. The thoughts listed on the blog attributed to Duncan are dark and disturbing. But some of the comments people have been posting since his arrest are equally disturbing.
We do not live in a society without risks. Quite the contrary, a free society can, and should, have lots of risks. Parent want to protect our children, but how many of our and our children's freedoms are we willing to turn over to the state for some sort of false sense of security?
We have been reminded a lot since Sept. 11 that freedom is not free, but that is mostly mentioned in context with our military troops fighting in the "War Against Terror." Well, it is true. Freedom is not free. But we all pay a price for our freedoms. There are risks to living in America and being an American. There are risks to living, period. By living we risk pain. We risk death.
I'm willing to take those risks. I'm willing to let my daughter take those risks, and my family and my friends. I'm willing to do that, because I am not willing to let the government, or my neighbors, make those life decisions for me or my family. I want the freedom to choose. The atrocities committed by leaders in positions of government power are far more heinous than the acts of individuals bent on committing a crime.
Blogging
Freedom
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Too much information
How long must we pay for old mistakes? Well, apparently 9 years isn't long enough to overcome an arrest for driving under the influence. Hell, even if I got stopped for the same offense now it would be considered a first offense. But, for the purposes of a criminal background check, that curse is still around my neck.
Yesterday I filled out an application for an apartment rental, and one of the questions on there was whether you've ever been arrested on any type of misdemeanors or felony charge. So, being an honest guy, I said yes, because of the DUI arrest detailed in two earlier posts, here and here.
They woman at the apartment complex said I could expect a call yesterday for the final approval. The call didn't come yesterday, but I did get a call this morning. However, the approval is still being held up by the criminal background check. I wonder if they would have been this thorough if I had been less honest.
I also wonder if I even needed to mention the DUI at all. What's the obligation for something like that? Maybe I need to talk to an attorney.
So, instead of picking up keys for a new place today I will be waiting for some indeterminate period of time for the approval. Maybe I should keep looking. It's a decent place, but it's not a perfect place. Or maybe I'll take the rest of the day to hang around Portland and do something not moving related.
Moving
Yesterday I filled out an application for an apartment rental, and one of the questions on there was whether you've ever been arrested on any type of misdemeanors or felony charge. So, being an honest guy, I said yes, because of the DUI arrest detailed in two earlier posts, here and here.
They woman at the apartment complex said I could expect a call yesterday for the final approval. The call didn't come yesterday, but I did get a call this morning. However, the approval is still being held up by the criminal background check. I wonder if they would have been this thorough if I had been less honest.
I also wonder if I even needed to mention the DUI at all. What's the obligation for something like that? Maybe I need to talk to an attorney.
So, instead of picking up keys for a new place today I will be waiting for some indeterminate period of time for the approval. Maybe I should keep looking. It's a decent place, but it's not a perfect place. Or maybe I'll take the rest of the day to hang around Portland and do something not moving related.
Moving
Monday, February 07, 2005
Silver bracelets: Part II
I had been inside jails before, and since. I'd even been inside a prison once, all as part of my job. But it's a very different feeling walking into a jail as a visitor than it is being escorted inside in handcuffs.
The deputy administered a breathalizer test. Once I figured that number on that reading would be forever etched in my memory. But the etching has warn away. I don't remember what number I blew on that confounded machine, but let's just say I was well over the .08, which is the legal limit for intoxication. Which was pretty shocking at the time, because I had just felt like I was starting to catch a good buzz when I left the bar. I was obviously well past buzzed and more in the neighborhood of technically shitfaced.
After the deputy asked me questions and filled out some paperwork I was escorted into a holding cell. It was about a 10-foot, by 15-foot concrete and steel cage, with hard wood benches along two of the walls and a basic metal toilet and wash basin in the back. To use one of those things, your dignity would have to surrender to your bladder or bowels.
On one wall was a pay-type telephone, but there was no coin slot. You either had to have a credit card number memorized or call collect. And would you really want to say your credit card number in a jail cell? I guessed it was for the so-called one phone call. But I had no one to call. I didn't know how long I was going to be there, so I didn't know who to call in the middle of the night to tell them where I was. So I sat on the bench and waited.
After some period of time, and I'd not sure how long -- it seemed like hours -- I hear someone calling my name over a loudspeaker. The cell door opens and I'd directed out into the hallway. I'm directed down to a guard station where a couple of deputies are working in a large glass control-type booth.
At that time I'd directed to empty my pockets. And I had a lot of crap in my pockets. I was wearing a leather coat that had a big inside pocket where I tended to stick things I might need later, like gum, chewing tobacco, lip balm, scraps of paper, etc. The woman in the glass booth was not amused by all the crap in my pockets. I can't tell is she was more pissed at me or the deputy for the stuff still being in there, but I got to pay the price. Normally when you are cited for driving under the influence, in California anyway, it is what police call a cite and release. You get processed, and then sent home. They hold you for maybe a couple of hours. My jail stay was going to end up being more like 8 or 9 hours.
After getting fingerprinted and photographed, I was sent back to the holding cell, this time without my jacket or watch or much else. And over the course of the night a couple of other people joined me in the cell. No one seemed too chatty though, which was a relief. I tried to stay awake, not wanting to sleep in a cell with people who were IN JAIL, but I was exhausted. So, I tried to get some rest on one hard, extremely uncomfortable bench. I dozed off and on, but true sleep was elusive. Jails are not exactly quiet places, even in the middle of the night. Sound echoes through corridors, and there are no draperies or carpeting to absorb any of the sound or make the place warm and welcoming either.
At some point someone came around to deliver breakfast. The meal, if you can call it that, was serve in one of those Swanson's TV dinner-type trays. There was a greasy, nearly inedible sausage, something that resembled scrambled eggs, and disks that looked like hotcakes but tasted like rubber. Nothing to drink. It wasn't IHOP, that's for sure.
Soon thereafter, there was a lot of clamor outside in the hallway. There was the sound of cell doors opening and slamming closed, footfalls on the concrete floor, and a lot of chatter. Something was obviously happening. Soon I would find out what it was. A large mass of guys ended up outside the holding cell door, and the cell door was opening. Then all these people started being herded into the holding cell, The cell, which had seemed roomy, if stark before, was now filled to overflowing with people. Fortunately, I had a spot on the bench already, because in short order, every inch of the benches was filled and guys were picking out spots on the floor. Guys leaned with their backs to the wall, other guys were camping out on the floor, sprawling out wherever they could find room. You could not have walked across the cell without stepping on someone, and these looked like guys you didn't want to step on. They would probably step back. They didn't have that frightened lamb look that I just knew was written all over my face.
These guys had tattoos, less than a full set of teeth and life experiences I hope to never know. And some of these guys were chatty.
Thug1: "Man, I hope they don't send me back to Chino. I hate the fucking place."
Thug2: "Chino's not so bad. It's better than Corcoran."
Yea, well the Victorville city jail is never going to make the Top 10 list of tourist dream destinations either, but I wasn't going to the say that. I wasn't saying anything. No sure. I'm keeping my mouth shut.
Thug1, on the other hand, was quite the talker. He went on to describe how he got arrested this time. Apparently one of the cops was out to get him and just giving him a hard time. He also had some very useful tips on how to hide drugs or a gun in the engine compartment of a car so that drug-sniffing dogs would never know they were there. But, given the fact that he was now in jail, and not for the first time, it was difficult to tell just how reliable the tips were.
In the meantime, I'm getting very claustrophobic. Not that I'd paced the floor before, but I was now extremely aware of the fact that I had no room to move. And I had to pee. And the hangover was kicking in pretty good, so my head was pounding. Toto, we aren't in Kansas anymore, and clicking my heals together three times didn't work for shit.
One of my new cell mates picks up the phone and realizes it has been turned off. But he keeps trying it every few minutes. Finally, one of our veteran cell mates says: "Yea, the turn off the phones before the bus arrives to take us down the hill. I guess they're afraid we might be calling for a jail break or something."
Some of the people laugh. I don't find it funny. Nothing seems very amusing right now, thank you very much.
After what seems like forever, there is some chain rattling in some unseen location outside the cell.
Thug1: "The bus must be here, I hear them getting the waist cuffs ready. They'll be moving us soon."
Not soon enough. It seems like another eternity before the deputies come to escort these characters out. I'm just glad I didn't somehow get mistaken for the bus trip. Welcome to West Valley Detention Center. For those of you joining us for the first time, bend over and kiss your virgin ass goodbye. After the guard get through checking your anal cavity for contraband, your new bunkmates will be using that cavity for their own amusement.
Finally they leave and eventually, I can breath again. But it is still a long while before anyone comes for me. But after another arduous wait, my name is called and I go back to the little cage to sign some forms and pick up my belongings. Then I'm ushered out a back door and out into the retina-searing sunshine. It's now about 10 a.m., the time I usually go to work. Even though the jail is only about a mile from my office, it's obvious I'm going to be late for work.
The question is, how do I get home? My roommate has already left for work. So, I call my boss to tell him I'm going to be late. And I end up confessing my plight as well. At the moment, I didn't really care if I had a job or not, I just wanted to go home and die in peace. Fortunately, my boss was a friend and offered to come pick me up and get me home.
I learned a lot from that experience. Mostly I learned I don't ever want to go through anything like it again. I don't want to know the jail routine from the inside, like Thug1 does.
But I also learned that other people don't learn from our experiences. I shared my jail horror story with close friends, but that didn't stop them from drinking and driving. Hell, covering fatal crashes involving alcohol didn't stop me. I lost count of how many broken bodies I'd seen splattered on asphalt and covered with tarps at crash scenes. And seeing the effects did first hand didn't stop the cop who got popped for DUI and ended up in my court-ordered alcohol awareness class. It is just too ingrained in people's lives in modern culture. Our booze and our cars are part of us. It's the weekend ritual. It's the after work routine. Would you like wine with your dinner? Happy hour anyone? Hell, in Texas they have drive through liquor stores, or they used to anyway.
We hear the don't-drink-and-drive messages, but the way people interpret them is "don't get drunk and drive." But what I now know is that once we start drinking, we no longer have the capacity to judge whether we are "OK to drive" after consuming alcohol. The California Highway Patrol and DMV send out a handy little chart in DMV documents that allows you to calculate how alcohol may affect your blood alcohol content for various body weights. But people just don't use math to calculate their level of intoxication. People don't say things like, "No, I'm not OK to drive, I've had more than 1 drink per hour and thus I am probably impaired."
Some lessons people just seem bound and determined to learn things the hard way,like the fact that handcuffs aren't built for comfort or that jail food is less than appetizing, or that it will cost you thousand of dollars if you are pulled over for driving under the influence, and that's if no one gets hurt or killed in a crash. It's a pretty heavy price to pay for that one last drink for the road. Can I get that in a to-go cup? I'm in a hurry to fuck up my life or someone else's.
But it's OK, because everyone does it. Right?
Yea, let's drink to that. Last one to the pokey is a rotten egg.
Been there, done that. Where's my T-shirt?
Drinking and driving
The deputy administered a breathalizer test. Once I figured that number on that reading would be forever etched in my memory. But the etching has warn away. I don't remember what number I blew on that confounded machine, but let's just say I was well over the .08, which is the legal limit for intoxication. Which was pretty shocking at the time, because I had just felt like I was starting to catch a good buzz when I left the bar. I was obviously well past buzzed and more in the neighborhood of technically shitfaced.
After the deputy asked me questions and filled out some paperwork I was escorted into a holding cell. It was about a 10-foot, by 15-foot concrete and steel cage, with hard wood benches along two of the walls and a basic metal toilet and wash basin in the back. To use one of those things, your dignity would have to surrender to your bladder or bowels.
On one wall was a pay-type telephone, but there was no coin slot. You either had to have a credit card number memorized or call collect. And would you really want to say your credit card number in a jail cell? I guessed it was for the so-called one phone call. But I had no one to call. I didn't know how long I was going to be there, so I didn't know who to call in the middle of the night to tell them where I was. So I sat on the bench and waited.
After some period of time, and I'd not sure how long -- it seemed like hours -- I hear someone calling my name over a loudspeaker. The cell door opens and I'd directed out into the hallway. I'm directed down to a guard station where a couple of deputies are working in a large glass control-type booth.
At that time I'd directed to empty my pockets. And I had a lot of crap in my pockets. I was wearing a leather coat that had a big inside pocket where I tended to stick things I might need later, like gum, chewing tobacco, lip balm, scraps of paper, etc. The woman in the glass booth was not amused by all the crap in my pockets. I can't tell is she was more pissed at me or the deputy for the stuff still being in there, but I got to pay the price. Normally when you are cited for driving under the influence, in California anyway, it is what police call a cite and release. You get processed, and then sent home. They hold you for maybe a couple of hours. My jail stay was going to end up being more like 8 or 9 hours.
After getting fingerprinted and photographed, I was sent back to the holding cell, this time without my jacket or watch or much else. And over the course of the night a couple of other people joined me in the cell. No one seemed too chatty though, which was a relief. I tried to stay awake, not wanting to sleep in a cell with people who were IN JAIL, but I was exhausted. So, I tried to get some rest on one hard, extremely uncomfortable bench. I dozed off and on, but true sleep was elusive. Jails are not exactly quiet places, even in the middle of the night. Sound echoes through corridors, and there are no draperies or carpeting to absorb any of the sound or make the place warm and welcoming either.
At some point someone came around to deliver breakfast. The meal, if you can call it that, was serve in one of those Swanson's TV dinner-type trays. There was a greasy, nearly inedible sausage, something that resembled scrambled eggs, and disks that looked like hotcakes but tasted like rubber. Nothing to drink. It wasn't IHOP, that's for sure.
Soon thereafter, there was a lot of clamor outside in the hallway. There was the sound of cell doors opening and slamming closed, footfalls on the concrete floor, and a lot of chatter. Something was obviously happening. Soon I would find out what it was. A large mass of guys ended up outside the holding cell door, and the cell door was opening. Then all these people started being herded into the holding cell, The cell, which had seemed roomy, if stark before, was now filled to overflowing with people. Fortunately, I had a spot on the bench already, because in short order, every inch of the benches was filled and guys were picking out spots on the floor. Guys leaned with their backs to the wall, other guys were camping out on the floor, sprawling out wherever they could find room. You could not have walked across the cell without stepping on someone, and these looked like guys you didn't want to step on. They would probably step back. They didn't have that frightened lamb look that I just knew was written all over my face.
These guys had tattoos, less than a full set of teeth and life experiences I hope to never know. And some of these guys were chatty.
Thug1: "Man, I hope they don't send me back to Chino. I hate the fucking place."
Thug2: "Chino's not so bad. It's better than Corcoran."
Yea, well the Victorville city jail is never going to make the Top 10 list of tourist dream destinations either, but I wasn't going to the say that. I wasn't saying anything. No sure. I'm keeping my mouth shut.
Thug1, on the other hand, was quite the talker. He went on to describe how he got arrested this time. Apparently one of the cops was out to get him and just giving him a hard time. He also had some very useful tips on how to hide drugs or a gun in the engine compartment of a car so that drug-sniffing dogs would never know they were there. But, given the fact that he was now in jail, and not for the first time, it was difficult to tell just how reliable the tips were.
In the meantime, I'm getting very claustrophobic. Not that I'd paced the floor before, but I was now extremely aware of the fact that I had no room to move. And I had to pee. And the hangover was kicking in pretty good, so my head was pounding. Toto, we aren't in Kansas anymore, and clicking my heals together three times didn't work for shit.
One of my new cell mates picks up the phone and realizes it has been turned off. But he keeps trying it every few minutes. Finally, one of our veteran cell mates says: "Yea, the turn off the phones before the bus arrives to take us down the hill. I guess they're afraid we might be calling for a jail break or something."
Some of the people laugh. I don't find it funny. Nothing seems very amusing right now, thank you very much.
After what seems like forever, there is some chain rattling in some unseen location outside the cell.
Thug1: "The bus must be here, I hear them getting the waist cuffs ready. They'll be moving us soon."
Not soon enough. It seems like another eternity before the deputies come to escort these characters out. I'm just glad I didn't somehow get mistaken for the bus trip. Welcome to West Valley Detention Center. For those of you joining us for the first time, bend over and kiss your virgin ass goodbye. After the guard get through checking your anal cavity for contraband, your new bunkmates will be using that cavity for their own amusement.
Finally they leave and eventually, I can breath again. But it is still a long while before anyone comes for me. But after another arduous wait, my name is called and I go back to the little cage to sign some forms and pick up my belongings. Then I'm ushered out a back door and out into the retina-searing sunshine. It's now about 10 a.m., the time I usually go to work. Even though the jail is only about a mile from my office, it's obvious I'm going to be late for work.
The question is, how do I get home? My roommate has already left for work. So, I call my boss to tell him I'm going to be late. And I end up confessing my plight as well. At the moment, I didn't really care if I had a job or not, I just wanted to go home and die in peace. Fortunately, my boss was a friend and offered to come pick me up and get me home.
I learned a lot from that experience. Mostly I learned I don't ever want to go through anything like it again. I don't want to know the jail routine from the inside, like Thug1 does.
But I also learned that other people don't learn from our experiences. I shared my jail horror story with close friends, but that didn't stop them from drinking and driving. Hell, covering fatal crashes involving alcohol didn't stop me. I lost count of how many broken bodies I'd seen splattered on asphalt and covered with tarps at crash scenes. And seeing the effects did first hand didn't stop the cop who got popped for DUI and ended up in my court-ordered alcohol awareness class. It is just too ingrained in people's lives in modern culture. Our booze and our cars are part of us. It's the weekend ritual. It's the after work routine. Would you like wine with your dinner? Happy hour anyone? Hell, in Texas they have drive through liquor stores, or they used to anyway.
We hear the don't-drink-and-drive messages, but the way people interpret them is "don't get drunk and drive." But what I now know is that once we start drinking, we no longer have the capacity to judge whether we are "OK to drive" after consuming alcohol. The California Highway Patrol and DMV send out a handy little chart in DMV documents that allows you to calculate how alcohol may affect your blood alcohol content for various body weights. But people just don't use math to calculate their level of intoxication. People don't say things like, "No, I'm not OK to drive, I've had more than 1 drink per hour and thus I am probably impaired."
Some lessons people just seem bound and determined to learn things the hard way,like the fact that handcuffs aren't built for comfort or that jail food is less than appetizing, or that it will cost you thousand of dollars if you are pulled over for driving under the influence, and that's if no one gets hurt or killed in a crash. It's a pretty heavy price to pay for that one last drink for the road. Can I get that in a to-go cup? I'm in a hurry to fuck up my life or someone else's.
But it's OK, because everyone does it. Right?
Yea, let's drink to that. Last one to the pokey is a rotten egg.
Been there, done that. Where's my T-shirt?
Drinking and driving
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Some silver bracelets are not a fashion accessory
I mentioned The West Wing in my last post, confessing that it's my favorite TV show. Of course the only way I get to see it is in the Bravo channel reruns of the show, because I work nights and I'm never home to see the first run episodes. Yea, I could set the VCR, which I never do. Or I could get TiVo, which I don't have. TV just isn't that important to me. It's mostly just background noise when I'm home. But I like The West Wing.
The news broke last week about Stockard Channing's arrest on suspicion of driving under the influence. Channing plays the first lady on the show, and, in case you didn't know, has had an impressive acting career. She may also be one of the sexiest 60-year-old women on the planet.
One of the things I love about the show, it that it has a great ensemble cast of fine actors. Of course, the first few seasons also had episodes largely penned by the show's creator, Aaron Sorkin, who has a fine ear for dialogue and pacing. His scripts were smart without being superior. They were clever and worked on many levels. If you ever caught any episodes of his show Sports Night, you would recognize the rapid fire dialogue transformed from a half-hour comedy to an hour-long drama.
But I digress.
Channing's arrest got me to thinking about my own brush with the law several years go. I too was once arrested for driving under the influence. So I empathize with her. Of course, I didn't have her bankroll, and am still dealing with some debts incurred during that period when the court, and a lawyer and a court-ordered alcohol awareness class, wracked up some major bills.
It started out simply enough.
I had a date. And at that time in my life, I hadn't had a date in, well, a while, and a date sounded like just what the doctor ordered. A coworker introduced me to a friend at a bar, and the coworker proceeded to play matchmaker. The coworker's lady friend was also having trouble meeting someone. It seems that a lot of guys our age weren't too interested in getting involved with a woman who had kids. Well, I had a daughter, so the kids issue didn't put me off. And she was cute. And, well, I hadn't had a date in a long time. And the coworker was flittering back and forth between the two of us sharing information and messages, which felt a little like junior high, but I was shy and afraid of rejection, so I went with it. It was a sure thing. A sure date. She wasn't going to say no. I was still nervous as hell when I called, but sure enough, she said yes.
So far so good.
So, we decided to do the "normal" date thing, and go to a movie. I don't remember if we went to dinner or not, but the movie, now that was truly memorable.
Me: "So, what movie do you want to see?"
Her: "I don't know, what movie do you want to see?"
Me: "How about 'Leaving Las Vegas'? I don't know anything about it, but I've heard it's good. And Nicholas Case is in it. He's good. What do you think?
Her: "I don't know what it's about either, but I've heard good things too. Sounds great."
So, we go to the movie, and settle in. So, I'm setting next to this woman I hardly know, and there is Nick Cage on screen playing this character who is doing his damnedest to self destruct. He hooks up with a prostitute (played by the lovely Elizabeth Shue) who fucks his brains out when he is sober enough to get it up, and otherwise keeps him company while he drinks himself to death.
And I'm watching this. With a woman. A young mother. A woman I hardly know and am trying to impress. I wonder how I'm doing so far.
I find myself sinking lower and lower into the theater seat, willing myself to just disappear. Praying for the movie to end. Thinking all the time, that my date must think I took her to this movie with all the sex as a hint or something.
It was the most miserable and awkward couple of hours in my life. Nick, pass me a bottle, man. I'll race ya to hell!
Fortunately, mercifully, the movie ended, but the date was not yet over.
I apologized profusely for the movie choice.
"I didn't know that's what that movie was about," I say.
"Well, it was.... interesting," she says.
Yea, interesting. And then I said what may have been the biggest understatement of my life.
"But it probably wasn't the best choice of movies for a first date."
No shit, Sherlock.
But my stupidity knew no bounds that night. It was like all my social skills and judgment were left hanging in my closet. My next bright idea, after watching a man drink himself to death on screen? Hey, want to go to a bar?
Brilliant!
Why she said yes, I'll never know. We stopped at a bar, and the place was packed. We had a tough time finding a table, and an even tougher time trying to talk over the live band.
We had maybe one drink, danced a couple of songs, but it felt like the earth was crumbling underneath me. I had to end this night before my head imploded.
So, I took my date home. We fumbled through the world's most awkward goodnight kiss and I raced home to hide under my covers.
The next day, a Sunday, I was beating myself up pretty severely over what I was sure qualified as one of the Top 10 worst first dates of all time. I couldn't imagine anything worse, unless someone got maimed or killed.
I needed something to take my mind off the embarrassment I kept re-living. So, what did I come up with? Go back to the crime scene, namely the bar where the dates final death spiral took hold.
I started pounding 7&Sevens and had myself convinced I could actually go to work the next day and face the coworker who had set me up with her friend. I felt the buzz kicking in, when an acquaintance bought me another drink. Now, I couldn't be rude, so I accepted his drink, and sure enough, the buzz was getting a little more pronounced. Now, being the responsible person I (thought I) was, I decided, I better not drink anymore, I've got to drive home. So, I said my goodbyes and headed for the door.
I was approaching my apartment complex, and decided, a little too late, to turn down the side street and go in a side entrance rather than the front entrance. I took the corner a little too fast and squealed around the corner. And, as luck would have it, an occupied police car was sitting right across from the corner. I saw him a little too late too. And moments later I saw his flashing lights.
Busted.
Big time.
Needless to say, I failed the field sobriety test. Apparently failed it pretty badly, because the sheriff's deputy told me:
"At this time I'm going to stop the test because I'm afraid you may hurt yourself if we go any further."
How sweet. He really was looking out for my safety.
And that's when I got to try on his nice silver bracelets. Oh, look how shiny they are. Hey, wait a minute, my arms don't really move in that direction. Ouch! OK, so they aren't comfortable, but do they look good?
Is this really necessary? I wasn't resisting. I wasn't fighting. I was willing to take my punishment. I wasn't going to try to run.
We all know from TV and movies that we have the right to remain silent. What we don't really realize is that once we have a run-in with the police, and end up in police custody, most of the rights we take for granted get left on the curb while we go for a little ride with our hand in an extremely uncomfortable positions behind our backs.
Stockard and me, we know.
(To be continued)
Drinking and driving
Celebrities
The news broke last week about Stockard Channing's arrest on suspicion of driving under the influence. Channing plays the first lady on the show, and, in case you didn't know, has had an impressive acting career. She may also be one of the sexiest 60-year-old women on the planet.
One of the things I love about the show, it that it has a great ensemble cast of fine actors. Of course, the first few seasons also had episodes largely penned by the show's creator, Aaron Sorkin, who has a fine ear for dialogue and pacing. His scripts were smart without being superior. They were clever and worked on many levels. If you ever caught any episodes of his show Sports Night, you would recognize the rapid fire dialogue transformed from a half-hour comedy to an hour-long drama.
But I digress.
Channing's arrest got me to thinking about my own brush with the law several years go. I too was once arrested for driving under the influence. So I empathize with her. Of course, I didn't have her bankroll, and am still dealing with some debts incurred during that period when the court, and a lawyer and a court-ordered alcohol awareness class, wracked up some major bills.
It started out simply enough.
I had a date. And at that time in my life, I hadn't had a date in, well, a while, and a date sounded like just what the doctor ordered. A coworker introduced me to a friend at a bar, and the coworker proceeded to play matchmaker. The coworker's lady friend was also having trouble meeting someone. It seems that a lot of guys our age weren't too interested in getting involved with a woman who had kids. Well, I had a daughter, so the kids issue didn't put me off. And she was cute. And, well, I hadn't had a date in a long time. And the coworker was flittering back and forth between the two of us sharing information and messages, which felt a little like junior high, but I was shy and afraid of rejection, so I went with it. It was a sure thing. A sure date. She wasn't going to say no. I was still nervous as hell when I called, but sure enough, she said yes.
So far so good.
So, we decided to do the "normal" date thing, and go to a movie. I don't remember if we went to dinner or not, but the movie, now that was truly memorable.
Me: "So, what movie do you want to see?"
Her: "I don't know, what movie do you want to see?"
Me: "How about 'Leaving Las Vegas'? I don't know anything about it, but I've heard it's good. And Nicholas Case is in it. He's good. What do you think?
Her: "I don't know what it's about either, but I've heard good things too. Sounds great."
So, we go to the movie, and settle in. So, I'm setting next to this woman I hardly know, and there is Nick Cage on screen playing this character who is doing his damnedest to self destruct. He hooks up with a prostitute (played by the lovely Elizabeth Shue) who fucks his brains out when he is sober enough to get it up, and otherwise keeps him company while he drinks himself to death.
And I'm watching this. With a woman. A young mother. A woman I hardly know and am trying to impress. I wonder how I'm doing so far.
I find myself sinking lower and lower into the theater seat, willing myself to just disappear. Praying for the movie to end. Thinking all the time, that my date must think I took her to this movie with all the sex as a hint or something.
It was the most miserable and awkward couple of hours in my life. Nick, pass me a bottle, man. I'll race ya to hell!
Fortunately, mercifully, the movie ended, but the date was not yet over.
I apologized profusely for the movie choice.
"I didn't know that's what that movie was about," I say.
"Well, it was.... interesting," she says.
Yea, interesting. And then I said what may have been the biggest understatement of my life.
"But it probably wasn't the best choice of movies for a first date."
No shit, Sherlock.
But my stupidity knew no bounds that night. It was like all my social skills and judgment were left hanging in my closet. My next bright idea, after watching a man drink himself to death on screen? Hey, want to go to a bar?
Brilliant!
Why she said yes, I'll never know. We stopped at a bar, and the place was packed. We had a tough time finding a table, and an even tougher time trying to talk over the live band.
We had maybe one drink, danced a couple of songs, but it felt like the earth was crumbling underneath me. I had to end this night before my head imploded.
So, I took my date home. We fumbled through the world's most awkward goodnight kiss and I raced home to hide under my covers.
The next day, a Sunday, I was beating myself up pretty severely over what I was sure qualified as one of the Top 10 worst first dates of all time. I couldn't imagine anything worse, unless someone got maimed or killed.
I needed something to take my mind off the embarrassment I kept re-living. So, what did I come up with? Go back to the crime scene, namely the bar where the dates final death spiral took hold.
I started pounding 7&Sevens and had myself convinced I could actually go to work the next day and face the coworker who had set me up with her friend. I felt the buzz kicking in, when an acquaintance bought me another drink. Now, I couldn't be rude, so I accepted his drink, and sure enough, the buzz was getting a little more pronounced. Now, being the responsible person I (thought I) was, I decided, I better not drink anymore, I've got to drive home. So, I said my goodbyes and headed for the door.
I was approaching my apartment complex, and decided, a little too late, to turn down the side street and go in a side entrance rather than the front entrance. I took the corner a little too fast and squealed around the corner. And, as luck would have it, an occupied police car was sitting right across from the corner. I saw him a little too late too. And moments later I saw his flashing lights.
Busted.
Big time.
Needless to say, I failed the field sobriety test. Apparently failed it pretty badly, because the sheriff's deputy told me:
"At this time I'm going to stop the test because I'm afraid you may hurt yourself if we go any further."
How sweet. He really was looking out for my safety.
And that's when I got to try on his nice silver bracelets. Oh, look how shiny they are. Hey, wait a minute, my arms don't really move in that direction. Ouch! OK, so they aren't comfortable, but do they look good?
Is this really necessary? I wasn't resisting. I wasn't fighting. I was willing to take my punishment. I wasn't going to try to run.
We all know from TV and movies that we have the right to remain silent. What we don't really realize is that once we have a run-in with the police, and end up in police custody, most of the rights we take for granted get left on the curb while we go for a little ride with our hand in an extremely uncomfortable positions behind our backs.
Stockard and me, we know.
(To be continued)
Drinking and driving
Celebrities
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)