Sunday, October 21, 2018
Down At O'Rourke's
"Life is all memory, except for the one present moment that goes by you so quickly you hardly catch it going." Tennessee Williams.
I had a few moments on hand the other day and surfed the net for the latest news. Among the big headlines was a story about a race for a senate seat in Texas, how money is pouring in from everywhere, like Walmart shoppers on Black Friday. The incumbent is a faithful party member, the upstart challenger - O'Rourke - has something of an acceptably checkered past and a curious nickname.
It was a place from many years ago, accessible only in my mind's eye. Even the omniscient Internet cannot recall O'Rourke's Mexican Cantina, in the Denver suburb Glendale. That makes me wonder if I recall it correctly.
I don't remember how I discovered it, or who discovered it for me. It was a modest joint, dining room of ten or fifteen tables and booths on one side and a bar on the other.
Growing up in Western New York, good Mexican food... I pause here to give notice to those grammar Nazis who have read this far. It seems awkward, almost an ism of some kind, to refer to cuisine by a one word label. In my arcane literary world one does not go out for "Chinese" or "Tibetan." One orders Chinese food - usually an Americanized version of it, anyway. There was this editor with whom I worked who insisted, and because he had my publisher's ear I relented. But, when I called up my buddy Harvey I said "Let's go to O'Rourke's for Mexican food" and he was never confused. I digress.
The food was excellent, the margaritas flowed freely. Having a Western NY palate for Mexican food, that is having eaten a time or two at Taco Bell, the vivid spices and searing sauces took some getting used to.
One of my fondest memories of the place was when friend Howie and my brother Dave ventured out to my apartment for a ski trip. They had, as only those two larger-than-life personalities could, gotten upgraded to first class on the flight out to Denver. They emerged from the jetway in high humor, mildly soused, which was a mere preview of things to come. Among other events, my brother somehow hit a trash can on the slopes at Winter Park. All of that is for another day.
We went to O'Rourke's for Mexican food. Dave devoured his smothered burrito, all the while sweating profusely from his own "Back East" reaction to the hot, peppery sauces. He drank his water in one gulp. His margarita in the next. Then my water, my marg...
Harvey and I stopped in one night, only to have our dinner interrupted by a strolling brass quartet playing something very loudly. "Finnegan's Wake," it was explained over the raucous celebration - patrons singing and clapping to the music. There was even a casket containing a mannequin dressed for the occasion.
That's how I remember it all, anyway. For all I know it was actually called O"Flynn's, or Saint Patty's. It closed only a few years after I used to haunt the place. A shame.
The memories are still alive, though they - like me - have faded.
I had a few moments on hand the other day and surfed the net for the latest news. Among the big headlines was a story about a race for a senate seat in Texas, how money is pouring in from everywhere, like Walmart shoppers on Black Friday. The incumbent is a faithful party member, the upstart challenger - O'Rourke - has something of an acceptably checkered past and a curious nickname.It was a place from many years ago, accessible only in my mind's eye. Even the omniscient Internet cannot recall O'Rourke's Mexican Cantina, in the Denver suburb Glendale. That makes me wonder if I recall it correctly.
I don't remember how I discovered it, or who discovered it for me. It was a modest joint, dining room of ten or fifteen tables and booths on one side and a bar on the other.
Growing up in Western New York, good Mexican food... I pause here to give notice to those grammar Nazis who have read this far. It seems awkward, almost an ism of some kind, to refer to cuisine by a one word label. In my arcane literary world one does not go out for "Chinese" or "Tibetan." One orders Chinese food - usually an Americanized version of it, anyway. There was this editor with whom I worked who insisted, and because he had my publisher's ear I relented. But, when I called up my buddy Harvey I said "Let's go to O'Rourke's for Mexican food" and he was never confused. I digress.
The food was excellent, the margaritas flowed freely. Having a Western NY palate for Mexican food, that is having eaten a time or two at Taco Bell, the vivid spices and searing sauces took some getting used to.
One of my fondest memories of the place was when friend Howie and my brother Dave ventured out to my apartment for a ski trip. They had, as only those two larger-than-life personalities could, gotten upgraded to first class on the flight out to Denver. They emerged from the jetway in high humor, mildly soused, which was a mere preview of things to come. Among other events, my brother somehow hit a trash can on the slopes at Winter Park. All of that is for another day.
We went to O'Rourke's for Mexican food. Dave devoured his smothered burrito, all the while sweating profusely from his own "Back East" reaction to the hot, peppery sauces. He drank his water in one gulp. His margarita in the next. Then my water, my marg...
Harvey and I stopped in one night, only to have our dinner interrupted by a strolling brass quartet playing something very loudly. "Finnegan's Wake," it was explained over the raucous celebration - patrons singing and clapping to the music. There was even a casket containing a mannequin dressed for the occasion.
That's how I remember it all, anyway. For all I know it was actually called O"Flynn's, or Saint Patty's. It closed only a few years after I used to haunt the place. A shame.
The memories are still alive, though they - like me - have faded.
Monday, October 15, 2018
Back In The Day
"I had twenty years in this outfit, when your idea of a good time was sittin' in front of the TV tube, watchin' Bugs Bunny and gnawing on your fudgsicle." LAPD Capt. Jack Braddock (Warren Oates), Blue Thunder (1983).
It was one of those articles. They appear routinely in professional journals and periodicals, often authored by a "lieutenant or above." Generally, the point of the essay is to announce a heretofore undiscovered wisdom, one that will turn law enforcement on its proverbial ear. The pearl is usually lukewarm, meant either to add a line...or two...to one's resume. Or, to confer bragging rights at the latest command staff meeting. "Hey, did you read my article in True Blue magazine?"
Today's missive involved the evolution of law officers (especially involving their training) from mere warriors to men and women adept at interacting with their community. Officers must now be both, the author opined, or they weren't much good to his organization. "This isn't the 80s," he offered.
Well, pardon me all to hell.
Generally speaking, this is where the blog usually devolves into...to put it blandly...a profane rant. But, I'm a mature adult now.
"What the F-word. F-word in gerund form. F-word, again, is wrong with you?' Tim Grimes (Nick Mohammed), The Martian (2015).
Eighties cops were what, Sparky?
We did the job just like it's done now. The best we could, served the community with pride and buried our brothers and sisters in frightening numbers. Only, at that time America was still reeling from 60s civil rights protests, riots, anti-war marches and scandals in many of the big cities. More than a few of our citizens didn't really know what to make of us, didn't know how far they could trust us. We tried hard - incredibly hard - to build bridges, mend fences and deserve the respect we tried to mirror to the people with whom we interacted. We demanded a lot of our profession, and each other. It worked.
Law enforcement in 2018 is the most professional it has ever been. In many ways it has the 1980s to thank for that. So, have a little respect for your elders, sonny.
We got you here.
It was one of those articles. They appear routinely in professional journals and periodicals, often authored by a "lieutenant or above." Generally, the point of the essay is to announce a heretofore undiscovered wisdom, one that will turn law enforcement on its proverbial ear. The pearl is usually lukewarm, meant either to add a line...or two...to one's resume. Or, to confer bragging rights at the latest command staff meeting. "Hey, did you read my article in True Blue magazine?"Today's missive involved the evolution of law officers (especially involving their training) from mere warriors to men and women adept at interacting with their community. Officers must now be both, the author opined, or they weren't much good to his organization. "This isn't the 80s," he offered.
Well, pardon me all to hell.
Generally speaking, this is where the blog usually devolves into...to put it blandly...a profane rant. But, I'm a mature adult now.
"What the F-word. F-word in gerund form. F-word, again, is wrong with you?' Tim Grimes (Nick Mohammed), The Martian (2015).
Eighties cops were what, Sparky?
We did the job just like it's done now. The best we could, served the community with pride and buried our brothers and sisters in frightening numbers. Only, at that time America was still reeling from 60s civil rights protests, riots, anti-war marches and scandals in many of the big cities. More than a few of our citizens didn't really know what to make of us, didn't know how far they could trust us. We tried hard - incredibly hard - to build bridges, mend fences and deserve the respect we tried to mirror to the people with whom we interacted. We demanded a lot of our profession, and each other. It worked.
Law enforcement in 2018 is the most professional it has ever been. In many ways it has the 1980s to thank for that. So, have a little respect for your elders, sonny.
We got you here.
Friday, October 12, 2018
Prescribing Extroversion
"I have never liked working. To me a job is an invasion of privacy."
Danny McGoorty
Choosing the opening quotation - sometimes funny, sometimes serious - is often fairly easy. A pithy quote (or great movie line) is what has started many a post. This time it is the idea of turning in my badge... But, not my guns. Let's not get too crazy.
We are two-thirds of the way through our first retirement planning class at the University of Denver. The assigned reading and exercises are designed for people who are "Third Age." That's us - Fiftyish to Seventy-ish. We are right in the middle. Ish.
Me, I'm in the final stages of my police career. By final stages I mean after thirty-nine years (minus five years off for bad behavior...law school and a law practice) of police service the end is in sight. A clean break presents itself next year, one I willingly accept.
A floodgate of clichés presents. I will not accept the invitation.
So, I've embarked on a learning journey. I'm a scholar. I have a doctoral degree. I've been a college professor. It's in the brochure somewhere that I'm supposed to look into shit. So, there.
The aforementioned class is one part of my "journey." Other formal classes may follow. But, I began with a visit to a shrink. Before anyone takes offense, she self-describes as one. "I'm a shrink," with which she often prefaces an illuminating and amusing observation. Her husband is a retired cop. I thought it would be a useful place to start.
One of the-- Hang on a sec. Okay, here's where my lawyer side comes out. Telling the following story in no way waives any HIPPA provision. There. I said it.
Among the discussions we had was how to keep from becoming socially isolated. She said that cops generally use work as their social arena. We've spent the better part of our lives relying on the people around us and we just gravitate to them at work. Etc. So, maintain your circle of friends.
Me - I'm an introvert. I only have about five friends.
Her - Well, make it a point to call them once in a while, meet for some activity.
Me - Like, call them out of the blue?
Her - Sure.
Me - That's a...thing?! I mean... People do that?
Apparently. So, this is fair warning.
If I call you without apparent provocation, don't be startled. I haven't really become an extrovert. I'm just doing what the doctor ordered.
Choosing the opening quotation - sometimes funny, sometimes serious - is often fairly easy. A pithy quote (or great movie line) is what has started many a post. This time it is the idea of turning in my badge... But, not my guns. Let's not get too crazy.We are two-thirds of the way through our first retirement planning class at the University of Denver. The assigned reading and exercises are designed for people who are "Third Age." That's us - Fiftyish to Seventy-ish. We are right in the middle. Ish.
Me, I'm in the final stages of my police career. By final stages I mean after thirty-nine years (minus five years off for bad behavior...law school and a law practice) of police service the end is in sight. A clean break presents itself next year, one I willingly accept.
A floodgate of clichés presents. I will not accept the invitation.
So, I've embarked on a learning journey. I'm a scholar. I have a doctoral degree. I've been a college professor. It's in the brochure somewhere that I'm supposed to look into shit. So, there.
The aforementioned class is one part of my "journey." Other formal classes may follow. But, I began with a visit to a shrink. Before anyone takes offense, she self-describes as one. "I'm a shrink," with which she often prefaces an illuminating and amusing observation. Her husband is a retired cop. I thought it would be a useful place to start.
One of the-- Hang on a sec. Okay, here's where my lawyer side comes out. Telling the following story in no way waives any HIPPA provision. There. I said it.
Among the discussions we had was how to keep from becoming socially isolated. She said that cops generally use work as their social arena. We've spent the better part of our lives relying on the people around us and we just gravitate to them at work. Etc. So, maintain your circle of friends.
Me - I'm an introvert. I only have about five friends.
Her - Well, make it a point to call them once in a while, meet for some activity.
Me - Like, call them out of the blue?
Her - Sure.
Me - That's a...thing?! I mean... People do that?
Apparently. So, this is fair warning.
If I call you without apparent provocation, don't be startled. I haven't really become an extrovert. I'm just doing what the doctor ordered.
Friday, October 5, 2018
Not My Call
Ken Mattingly (Gary Sinise): Let me go talk to Deke. I'm sure we can work something out.
Jim Lovell (Tom Hanks): This was my call.
Mattingly: (after a long pause) Must have been a tough one.
Apollo 13 (1995)
I don't remember having a harder time writing.
I intended this post to be about the search for neutral principles in the law. Stilted prose has led me to delete hundreds of words that were as painful to read as they were to type.
What is happening in Washington is disgusting. It doesn't matter what side one is on.
Set aside, for this blog anyway, the inherent frailties of our system. "Go for a business any idiot can run," investment guru Peter Lynch said. "Eventually, an idiot will be running it." Our government was created and administered by human beings, with all of their flaws. Nothing is perfect.
I've spent the better part of my life - certainly almost all of my adult life - in the business of judging the answers to "What happened?" I've been trained in the art of benign skepticism - listen respectfully, question automatically. Thousands of people have told me their stories. Here's what I've learned:
I don't know someone is credible just by looking at them as they talk. Some of the most incredible lies I've heard were told by an entirely straight face. Whatever other people think they see - it's a mystery to me.
Movie lines are the closest thing to wisdom in our modern age. Try this one out - "Archeology is the search for fact, not truth." Dr. Henry Jones, Jr. (Harrison Ford). In any investigation, the truth is elusive when the facts are contradictory, or scarce.
Reaching a conclusion and then searching for evidence in support is a very human thing to do and is almost always disastrous. The late, great Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia called it "Looking over the heads of the crowd in search of a friend." It is no better than a guess.
The Rockies are in the post-season, so I'll root for them. Once they are eliminated (odds are sooner rather than later) I'll pick someone else. Just 'cause. Having an emotional stake in an outcome makes the game richer. I recently pulled for the Trinbago (Trinidad and Tobago) Knight Riders in the Caribbean Premier League T20 cricket championship because... I don't remember. But, I was delighted when they won by eight wickets, whatever that means.
I don't decide things I don't have to decide. The Constitution gives the President the power of appointment, with the advice and consent of the Senate. It doesn't say anything about also getting the approval of a sixty-something police sergeant sipping a margarita on his back porch.
I checked.
So, I can say - I've happily arrested perpetrators of sexual violence. I've taken, initially anyway, every allegation of sexual violence at face value. I've treated every person making the claim with respect. When it came time to decide on a course of action, I did so in good faith.
When it wasn't my call... I didn't make one.
Jim Lovell (Tom Hanks): This was my call.
Mattingly: (after a long pause) Must have been a tough one.
Apollo 13 (1995)
I don't remember having a harder time writing.
I intended this post to be about the search for neutral principles in the law. Stilted prose has led me to delete hundreds of words that were as painful to read as they were to type.
What is happening in Washington is disgusting. It doesn't matter what side one is on.
Set aside, for this blog anyway, the inherent frailties of our system. "Go for a business any idiot can run," investment guru Peter Lynch said. "Eventually, an idiot will be running it." Our government was created and administered by human beings, with all of their flaws. Nothing is perfect.
I've spent the better part of my life - certainly almost all of my adult life - in the business of judging the answers to "What happened?" I've been trained in the art of benign skepticism - listen respectfully, question automatically. Thousands of people have told me their stories. Here's what I've learned:
I don't know someone is credible just by looking at them as they talk. Some of the most incredible lies I've heard were told by an entirely straight face. Whatever other people think they see - it's a mystery to me.
Movie lines are the closest thing to wisdom in our modern age. Try this one out - "Archeology is the search for fact, not truth." Dr. Henry Jones, Jr. (Harrison Ford). In any investigation, the truth is elusive when the facts are contradictory, or scarce.
Reaching a conclusion and then searching for evidence in support is a very human thing to do and is almost always disastrous. The late, great Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia called it "Looking over the heads of the crowd in search of a friend." It is no better than a guess.
The Rockies are in the post-season, so I'll root for them. Once they are eliminated (odds are sooner rather than later) I'll pick someone else. Just 'cause. Having an emotional stake in an outcome makes the game richer. I recently pulled for the Trinbago (Trinidad and Tobago) Knight Riders in the Caribbean Premier League T20 cricket championship because... I don't remember. But, I was delighted when they won by eight wickets, whatever that means.
I don't know who is telling the truth - Dr. Ford or Judge Kavanaugh. It isn't up to me to decide. Both are impressive, accomplished adults worthy of respect. Any combination of true/false/mistaken is plausible when one is discussing recollections drawn from teenage years, even traumatic ones. The experiences of other individuals is not instructive, let alone dispositive.
I checked.
So, I can say - I've happily arrested perpetrators of sexual violence. I've taken, initially anyway, every allegation of sexual violence at face value. I've treated every person making the claim with respect. When it came time to decide on a course of action, I did so in good faith.
When it wasn't my call... I didn't make one.
Sunday, September 23, 2018
The Right Hands on the Controls
I've tried A, I've tried B. Tell me what else I can try! The Right Stuff, Tom Wolfe (1979)
Trigger warning - if you are a white knuckle flier, this blog is not for you.
Not everyone has the temperament or training to respond correctly in an emergency situation. Certainly history books are full of hair-raising moments that ended with "Well, shit" followed by a very loud noise.
Two situations I learned of this week described the better of outcomes, the steely-eyed pilot seizing victory from the jaws of bent aluminum. The captains of the respective planes could not have been more different, or more alike.
Seventeen year-old Maggie Taraska departed the Beverly Regional Airport on a training flight. She was alone in the airplane, a student pilot. The airplane took off normally... Okay, it took off but left the right main landing gear behind. At the airport. On the runway. One can hear in her voice (video attached) that she is initially rattled. Well, who wouldn't be?
Aviate, navigate, communicate. Pilots are trained to fly the airplane, come what may. Sounds simple, until... Well, the landing gear falls off and you are alone at the controls of a sick plane. With a little help from her friends she gets the plane down, walks away and says later "You've got to have confidence in yourself to be a pilot."
On the other side of the world, in 2008, a Qantas A-330 airliner with 315 people aboard experiences an "uncommanded maneuver." In non-pilot English (being a non-pilot myself I usually need translation software) that means the airplane did something the pilots did not ask it to do. A nearly negative one G dive ensued, injuring 119 people, eleven of them seriously. The pilots regained control, only to have the airplane repeat the maneuver.
The captain later reported "There wasn't anything in our flight manuals that told us what to do." So, he and his crew improvised solutions, ignored the bleating and screaming of their fault detection software and flew the airplane. Unsure if the bizarre behavior of their aircraft would repeat itself too close to the ground to recover, the captain ordered an unusual maneuver he'd learned as a fighter pilot.
"Well," the Captain observed dryly to his cockpit crew mates as they wrestled with the beast. "I picked a bad day to stop sniffing glue."
Google the line if you don't recognize it.
Two cool customers. Two safe landings.
Trigger warning - if you are a white knuckle flier, this blog is not for you.
Not everyone has the temperament or training to respond correctly in an emergency situation. Certainly history books are full of hair-raising moments that ended with "Well, shit" followed by a very loud noise.
Two situations I learned of this week described the better of outcomes, the steely-eyed pilot seizing victory from the jaws of bent aluminum. The captains of the respective planes could not have been more different, or more alike.
Seventeen year-old Maggie Taraska departed the Beverly Regional Airport on a training flight. She was alone in the airplane, a student pilot. The airplane took off normally... Okay, it took off but left the right main landing gear behind. At the airport. On the runway. One can hear in her voice (video attached) that she is initially rattled. Well, who wouldn't be?
Aviate, navigate, communicate. Pilots are trained to fly the airplane, come what may. Sounds simple, until... Well, the landing gear falls off and you are alone at the controls of a sick plane. With a little help from her friends she gets the plane down, walks away and says later "You've got to have confidence in yourself to be a pilot."
On the other side of the world, in 2008, a Qantas A-330 airliner with 315 people aboard experiences an "uncommanded maneuver." In non-pilot English (being a non-pilot myself I usually need translation software) that means the airplane did something the pilots did not ask it to do. A nearly negative one G dive ensued, injuring 119 people, eleven of them seriously. The pilots regained control, only to have the airplane repeat the maneuver.
The captain later reported "There wasn't anything in our flight manuals that told us what to do." So, he and his crew improvised solutions, ignored the bleating and screaming of their fault detection software and flew the airplane. Unsure if the bizarre behavior of their aircraft would repeat itself too close to the ground to recover, the captain ordered an unusual maneuver he'd learned as a fighter pilot.
"Well," the Captain observed dryly to his cockpit crew mates as they wrestled with the beast. "I picked a bad day to stop sniffing glue."
Google the line if you don't recognize it.
Two cool customers. Two safe landings.
Long, Painful Years Ago
Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word.
George R.R. Martin
Sitting at my desk in the early 2010s - unusual enough, I should have been out on the bike - the police officer assigned to our reception area called. He had a question.
"A woman just walked in to make a report of a sexual assault. It happened some time in the 1980s. What do you want me to do?"
It happens. Not often, and for a variety of reasons. At the point someone comes to the station to report that they have been the victim of a crime, our role is an easy one.
We take the report. We accept, in good faith, that the reporting person is giving us their truth. We take it down just the way he or she tells it. Judging their motives, their credibility - not our job...yet. They have a story to tell. We listen.
But, someone is saying as they read this, there is no chance this case will be prosecuted successfully. The statute of limitations. The... Everything!
We train our officers (who we call "agents") to be empathetic, but we are human beings. The reputation of law enforcement, that the first question we will ask is "What were you wearing," is not without some merit. But, that's not how our people are supposed to act.
At some point, though, there will be the gentle, almost apologetic discussion of reality with the person who has shown the bravery required to tell a stranger in uniform about the worst day in their lives. The case will be assigned to a detective. If the person he/she named as their assailant can be reached we will consider sitting down with them. If that person refuses to meet with us, or denies it happened...
Experts on human recollection, especially of traumatic events, teach that this is a tricky business. We are taught the limitations of perception and memory in the police academy. Experience also tells us that truth is elusive where facts are hard to come by.
At the end of the day the criminal justice system does not have many answers for someone who reports a crime thirty years after it happened. There are services we can provide - counseling, for example, from people trained in the trauma field. Sometimes, the mere fact of the report is enough for the victim.
Not all of these reports are genuine, or truthful. My first encounter with the arrest of an alleged sexual assault suspect turned out to be a "contract dispute." Some lonely businessman from Kansas (I think - this was 1980) encountered a young lady at a bar. They agreed on a price for her serves and repaired to his hotel room. At some point, there was a difference of recollection and he paid her what had been originally agreed to. She left, returning with a "friend" who also happened to be a cop.
But, at the beginning of the investigation, we began with the premise that she was telling us the truth. It's what everyone deserves.
The determination of credibility, of veracity, is left for later. Other facts are collected, other viewpoints considered. Sometimes, the truth is regrettably elusive to the unbiased mind. In the end, the best we can sometimes do is take their report, treat them with respect and wish them well.
Because they are human beings.
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My beloved 2000 4RUNNER joined a new family on Thursday. Suffice to say, the 20-yr-old buyer is a wonderful young man who considered himself blessed to have found my pal. When he realized it's a standard, he was ecstatic. That made it easier - not easy - to bid my truck adieu.
Later that day I needed to drive my wife's 2014 car on an errand. Apparently there's a rule somewhere that techy keys need to get bigger every year. My 2000 key was simple, black, flat; never needed a battery replaced; never needed to be replaced by a $500 duplicate.
So whenever I drove my wife's big-key car, I would pull out my keychain that would make a custodian envious, find my familiar 4RUNNER key, and then my fingers would just automatically find the *other* key, by default.
That afternoon, I stood in the garage for around 10 seconds fumbling with my keychain, trying to find my wife's key. It was right there, in plain view all the time, but my mind's eye didn't see it, because my fingers were still trying to find the 4RUNNER key that had departed with the its new owner.
I chuckled to myself when I realized what I was doing, it being the first time I realized that that's always been how I would find the *other* key on my keychain. And my heart ached a little bit with that realization, that my 4RUNNER had become, a long time ago and in no small way, a part of me.
My kids were 11 and 9 when I got it. They're 29 and 27 now. It was a part of me, it was a part of them. It was a part of us. Hockey, soccer, baseball, basketball, skiing, skating, camping, and more...perhaps most importantly, driving them to school every morning until they could drive themselves. She served us well. Here's hoping she continues her good work.