Friday, May 28, 2010

DELIVERANCE FOLK

The Hillbillies in our East Tennessee town of Bashful Beaver lived exclusively in a section we called Deliverance--after the Burt Reynolds movie. Cops seldom received a call from Deliverance since Hillbillies didn’t recognize the law. Or law enforcement officers. You could talk to one and they’d look right through you.
We did, however, receive many calls about Deliverance. Hillbillies take care of their own problems so we’d get calls from mail carriers, delivery folks, and such, that there was a body lying beside the road or shots had been fired. One sad afternoon I was assigned such a call.
“Some woman’s screamin’ like she’s being slaughtered”, the UPS driver said. By the time I got to the reported address, all that could be heard was a loud TV.
The “residence” was really just a shack, no bigger than a two-car garage, hammered out of rough-cut lumber. The front door was standing open. Inside were three rooms: One bedroom, a kitchen and the living room. The floors were linoleum rolled over packed-down dirt. Out back was an outhouse and a well nearby that.
There were ten people sitting on the floor—no furniture. No one acknowledged my presence, all transfixed on the TV. At the time, large screen TV’s had just come out. They were a contraption where the front folded out and projected an image on a background. And they were very expensive. This is what the Hillbillies were watching, the latest technology resting incongruously on the linoleum and dirt floor. God only knows where they stole it.
The critters themselves were typical Deliverance folks. There’s something about inbreeding that causes genetic horrors, head shapes that are “lumpy”, distorted. The heads look like they were fashioned in clay, then smashed until the skull is no longer symmetrical and one squinty eye’s an inch higher than the other. The kid playing the banjo in the  Deliverance film is typical of this unmistakable Hillbilly marker.
I said, “Howdy.” No one answered, nor would they ever. So I looked around.
On the rear step, outside the kitchen, I found where the screams had emanated from. Blood was everywhere. It indeed appeared that someone or something had been slaughtered. I called for an Investigator and watched Gomer Pyle reruns on the monster TV until he arrived.
The Investigator, Burly Hardcase, arrived shortly, appraised the scene and said, “Lets look around the house, curtiledge for the body-- which we ain’t gonna find. Been here before, fights between one of them lumpheads and his sister/wife. Knew it’d come to this eventually.”
“What then?” I asked.
“Nuthin’,” Burly said. Didn’t see him or her in there by the TV. I’m sure he’s out in the boondocks burying her right now. Forget about asking them,” he nodded toward the TV crowd. “No one in there’d piss on ya if your skivvies were on fire. So, if we don’t find anything, we move on, write it off.”
I couldn’t believe it. “Move on?. . .”
“Yep,” nuthin’ else to do. Besides it has a good side. That’s one less sow to be squirtin’ out these lopheaded defects. And that ain’t a bad thing.”
I’ve thought about his pragmatic solution many times. In retrospect, Burly may’ve been right.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

MORE'N ONE WAY TO SQUASH A ROACH

     Years ago, when I worked a short time for the Sheriff in Bashful Beaver, where we now vacation in Tennessee, I had to learn some unique concepts. These extra-legal tactics did make the job easier but I kept thinking of the day when I’d no longer be a cop and at the mercy of systems like this.
  One of the things overlooked, I found out, was extradition. The Sheriff called me into his office one day and said he was sending me out of state to pickup some prisoners.
  “Three of ‘em, take lottsa chain. And a cattle prod.” he said.
  “What’d they do?”
  “Just got outta Brushy Mount, so naturally they got plastered, stole a car, and wrecked it.” 
  “Whereabouts?”
  “Down there in Georgia,” he said, “little town ‘bout fifteen miles south of the Tennessee line. Chatsworth.” 
  I knew the place. “Who has the extradition papers? They already down there.”
  “Extradition papers? “ the Sheriff laughed. “Hell you don’t need no extradition papers. It’s just in Georgia.”
  “But. . .”
  “We have an understanding,” he said. “No problem.”
  Dubious, but having seen several other expediencies that were “no problem”, I gassed up my cruiser and headed south. In less than an hour I was parked in front of Chatsworth’s small but beautiful stone courthouse. Inside, I told the friendly receptionist my business, she made a call, and soon I was met by a Chatsworth PD officer. We’ll call him Marty Multitasker.
  “These aholes have about as much brains as a dingleberry,” he laughed. “Driver passed out and forgot to take his foot offa the accelerator.  Scruffed ‘em up pretty good. They ain’t gonna be not problem.”
  “I might have one,” I said. “Don’t have any extradition papers.”
  “No problem,” he said. “Besides who they gonna complain to. Guess they could call the Mayor. But that’s me. Or the Municipal Judge. But that’s me, too.
  And he was! Corporal on the PD, Mayor, and Municipal Judge.
  Now you see why we say The South’s gonna rise again. Don’t take near as many folks to run the government. And there’s not all that worry over laws and stuff, either.

Monday, May 24, 2010

HAPPY HOMEMAKER'S HINT

An article in a recent law enforcement journal extols the virtues of using wasp and  hornet spray to ward off human pests.  It claimed that hornet spray, which will shoot a stream over 20’, is much better than pepper-based sprays that require you to be up close and vulnerable. And the effect is just as, if not more, devastating—probably requiring emergency room attention. And a hornet spray can is innocuous, requires no permits, and is safe—on the user’s end. Readers were encouraged to put one in their glove compartment, beside their bed.
  The article caused me to wonder just how effective hornet spray would be. Sounded reasonable.  Being at our summer place in the Great State of Tennessee afforded the ideal proving ground. Cops in the county where we vacation are not bashful about experimenting with new procedures and devices that inflict pain and misery. In fairness, they have to, to deal with the sub-human hillbillies in the community who are, on the evolutionary scale, two generations below a horney toad.
  I consulted with some members of the local constabulary who I knew. The reaction was unanimous. Hornet spray! Why didn’t I think of that? They agreed to test the proposition in the field and report the results. By the very next morning, I was listening to a report by an enthusiastic experimenter.
  “Shoulda seen ‘im,” the Bubba Cop said. “Know how when you  spray one of them hornets they fall right to the ground, and starts kickin’ and floppin’ around?”
  “Yep,” I said.
  “Well,” he said, “a hillbilly does the same damn thing ‘cept better.”
  “How’s that?”
  “A hornet can’t scream. Hell, I’ve turned in my Capstun and bought me a case of Black Flag.”
  I offer this report for your perusal and edification. Hopefully, It’ll assist you in product selection. Me, I’m cuttin’ this short so I can get down to the bug section of the hardware store.
   

Saturday, May 22, 2010

ON THE LOOSE

  The Boss and I are in the Great State of Tennessee. Our vacation nest is not in computer friendly country. Sunday down there doesn't come until Tuesday up here. To publish a report I have to go to the library where they have WiFi. Kinda. We'll keep the blog up as best as possible but it's gonna be slow until we get back to civilization. Going to try to have a new one Monday afternoon.
 Thanks. Don't overdo.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

JAYMAR'S STIMULUS PACKAGE

   J. Marshall Humpyall--"just call me JayMar"--was gonna have a real busy Thursday. And Friday. There was the house to buy. The new car. And, of course, the Chris-Craft yacht. He began the day early at Ambiance Realty, Palaces for the Obscenely Rich. He met with Mr Ambience himself, Oilkan Slipp.
 Oilkan looked across his desk at the middle-aged man in gaudy gold attire and tasseled-loafers. A clone of all his customers requiring comfortable lodgings in Naples.
 After three hours in Port Royal, JayMar had selected a waterfront beauty and given Oilkan some earnest money with instructions to proceed. By the end of the day he'd acquired a Cadillac convertible and a boat big enough to boogie down to Bogota on.
 Friday, just before noon, he was in the old Bank of Naples, on 5th and 8th South, seated with the New Accounts VP. The VP's presence was warranted by the size of the check JayMar had presented to open the account: a cashiers check for about 200k, drawn on a bank in the Bahama's. This was big money in the late 60's.
 "I'm going to need a little walkin' around money," JayMar said.
 "No problem," Mr VP said, "how much?"
 "Oh, I'm going to need some furniture, some new clothes. . .twenty-thousand should do it."
 Taken aback, Mr VP said, "Of course, but with a new account, that size withdrawal, and the check being from out of the country, we're going to have to verify it. Policy, all that."
 "No problem," JayMar said. "Mind if I smoke a cigar while I wait?" Not waiting, producing a big bucks Montecristo Cuban cigar.
 Soon a clerk came to the VP's desk and relayed hushed info to the boss. When she left, the VP said. "We can't verify the check until Monday, the banks in the Bahamas close at noon on Friday.
"Oh, goodness," JayMar said, "what am I to do? I've just relocated here, and the house I bought today won't be ready for at least two weeks, so I'll need lodging . . . and money."
 Mr VP's ears perked up. "You bought a house?"
"Yes," JayMar said, "a place in Port Royal."
"How nice."
"And a new car. And a yacht. I'm not some fly-by-nighter. You're welcome to call and verify the purchases if you'd like."
 And so the VP, greedy for the account called. The realtor. Yes, he bought a fine home on Galleon Drive. Lots of ambience. The car dealer. Baby blue convert, just like Elvis drives. The yacht dealer. Yes indeed, a nice 4o footer.
"I believe that should be satisfactory," Mr VP said. "We'll make that advance."
 JayMar smiled, and took a big drag of his fake Montecristo.

  When Monday came and the bank in the Bahama's said the check was bogus, JayMar was long gone, waiting for Thursday, so he could work his magic elsewhere.
 You see he hadn't really bought or taken delivery of anything. He'd made down payments on the house, car, and boat--with bum checks on the same bank in the Bahamas. That couldn't be cashed--or verified--until Monday.
  It was a bitter pill for the hometown bank, but the taste had already left their mouth a year later when they fell for the same scam  perpetrated by a "dentist" retiring to Naples from the islands.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

GOT YOUR NUMBER

 Thirty-some years ago someone came up with a good idea. It was called Operation Identification. If that sounds familiar it's because it's still in use today. A national program, all law enforcement agencies were urged to join and promote it locally. 
  The idea was you engraved a number on valuables that would be likely targets for thieves. The number would be registered with the local police. Then, when the thief tried to pawn the item, or sell it on the street, the prospective buyer, seeing that it was identifiable, would be reluctant to purchase same. And if the thief got caught with the item, there'd be some heavy-duty splainin' to do.
 Folks who wanted to participate were loaned an electric engraver, shown how to use it, and instructed to scratch the number on the property to be protected. Today, the number is usually a two-letter designator for the state, then their driver's license number. When their property has been marked and the their personal number registered with the police, they are given stickers to put on their home to warn thieves they should look elsewhere.
 The program was very successful. In little 'ol Naples hundreds of citizens participated in the program and branded their goods. Trouble was, the number we prompted them to use back then is the number they are warned to never give public exposure today. That's right, their Social Security number.
  Back then, it was a logical number to use. Highly individual,  no two the same. Best of all, the scams that are dominate today had yet to be developed. Fortunately, most of the gear marked with the SS number is no longer in use.
  Just a reflection on how times change. And not always in the right direction.

Monday, May 17, 2010

JUDGE, GET OUTTA MY CAR

  Once a Detective in Ft Myers, who thought he had a "slam dunk" case against an auto thief, was stunned when the judge dumped the charges and set the maggot free. The judge, who we'll call Stinkweed, told the Detective, who'll be Wiley, that the thief had a title to the "alleged" stolen vehicle. And it was true.
 "But, your honor," Wiley said, "it's a bogus title, obtained by fraudulent means. And we intend to prove it."
 "No need," Stinkweed said, "a title is a title as far as I'm concerned. Too complicated to sort out. Case dismissed."
  Wiley was distraught, but not destroyed. He decided it was time to educate the Honorable Stinkweed, who had about as much business on the bench as Homer Simpson. Immediately before being appointed a judge, he'd served a period of disbarment for stealing his client's money.
  About a month later, Wiley, entered Stinkweed's chambers and said, "That blue Caddy Coupe de Ville you've been driving. . ."
  "Yes," Stinkweed said, "what about it?"
  "It's my car," Wiley said, "and I want it back."
  "What the hell are you talking about?" Stinkweed thundered.
  Wiley handed his honor a piece of paper. "Here's the title, with my name on it and the VIN number matches that Caddy."
  "It can't," Stinkweed said, befuddled.
 "But it does. You see I called up a motor vehicles department in some backwoods county in Alabama. Gave them them the VIN number off your car, gave them my name, and a bogus address in Alabama, and told them I wanted to title a car I'd put together out of junk parts. Had them forward the title to me down here. Had it in about a week. Took that to a Florida DMV office, and converted it to a Florida title. Just like the thieving sonuvabitch did that you released.
  "So," Wiley continued, I'd like my Caddy cause as you said 'a title is a title'."
  Wiley, of course, didn't take the car, but his point was well taken. At the time anyone could get any type of title in Alabama, few questions asked. It was nearly as popular a shady enterprise as our camera-generated right on red traffic citations. 

Friday, May 14, 2010

MORE WIND




Mike Grimm sent this email:
  Just read the Wind Across The Everglades piece. About a year before the film crew moved into Everglades to start that film, WNOG started the talk show, Pub Time. It was broadcast from the Pub Room of Yeaman's Old Cove restaurant. Pappy Grimm was the original host of the show. (Pappy Grimm was Mike's father)

 Gypsy Rose Lee agreed to be a guest on the show but Pappy had to go down there and tape it. No problem, until he got there. It seems that someone else was always demanding her time and he couldn't get a word in edgewise. 
  Finally she took pity on him, loaded him up in the back of that Rolls and had the driver go for a spin while they did the interview.
 He was very impressed and became one of her best fans.  Talked about it for years.
*  *  *

  I was reminded that several scenes from Wind Across the Everglades were filmed at Smallwood's General Store. Now a National Historic Site. Mrs Smallwood had a bit part in the film.
*  *  *
Editor's note: Pub Time was a mainstay on Naples radio for years. It later moved to the Piccadilly Pub and was hosted by Bill Ryan, who became one of the owners of Palmer Broadcasting, that became the present Comcast.
  And, when the above picture of Gypsy was taken, she was considered to be the epitome of feminine pulchritude. No starvation diet there.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

HANG 'EM HIGH

In 1972, when the Supreme Court took all the fun out of the death penalty by declaring it "cruel and unusual punishment" a couple of local hanging judges took exception.
Judge Lamar Rose, by throwing a rope with a noose at one end over the limb of an oak at the Lee County Courthouse, aptly declared what he thought of the ruling. (That historic oak is the one they're going to cut down)
At home here in Collier, Judge Richard "Retched" Stanley had shown and said what he thought of the death penalty beforehand. According to news reports, during the Porter murder trial, Stanley brought out the brass knuckles and pistol he carried and displayed them prominently before him on the bench.
At the time of the trial, when asked if he could personally execute anyone he said, "Well, I'll go along with that as long as they allow me, right after I pronounce the sentence, to reach down by my left leg and come up with my pistol, and shoot 'em right between the eyes."
The Porter jury didn't agree with the Judge and voted, unanimously, for a life sentence. Stanley ignored them and imposed the death penalty.
Later, the Judge's court clerk testified that even before the trial Stanley had told him that he was going to send the S.O.B. to the electric chair.
I knew Judge Stanley professionally and personally, having been with him at many social gatherings. And for his honor to leave the slightest bit of doubt where he stood, would have been way out of character.
And, he was usually right!

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

BYRON THOMLINSON

  Behind the old NPD, at 8th and 8th South, was the City Building and water tower. To the right of that, an alley. Beside the alley was a small cottage where Byron Thomlinson and his family lived. We knew Byron well from the time he was just a youngster. A mischievous youngster. We used to joke that we hired Byron as a Dispatcher so we could keep a closer eye on him. 
 Gail Addison, who graduated with Byron, reminded me that he was the first Eagle mascot at Naples High School. Yep, that was him inside the Evil Eye Fleegle costume. He was also the vendor of portable Screwdrivers, oranges that he injected with vodka and sold to the other students. And he liked to put bumper stickers on my detective's car that read, "This is an unmarked Batmobile." Once he even got the locked car open and put a Batman sticker on my steering wheel.
  But, the fact was he was hired because someone saw in him a trait that can't be taught. He had that "right place at the right time" gene that would put him, magically, in the center of the action. Or the chase, or whatever was going on.
  Chester Keene sent me a news clipping relating how Byron had caught two different groups of auto burglars on his first two days at work as a cop.
  Byron was the first I remember to be allowed to become a cop under the age of 21. The age was lowered to 18. Trouble was we had to buy his bullets. You still couldn't buy them until you were 21.
  Byron moved on to the CCSO where he was a Road Deputy, Investigator, and Lt in charge of the Marco Island Sub-station for years. Then, he started feeling bad.
  Local doctors couldn't determine what he had and mis-diagnosed him a dozen times. Finally, a doctor/relative urged him to go to Shands find out what was pulling him down.
  I remember standing out in front of the SO, smoking a cigarette, when Byron came walking up, just back from his Shands visit. 
  "What'd they find out I?" I asked.
 "Said I had a disease called amy-something and I had 6-months to live."
  I was floored. I knew he wasn't up to par but he was still young and looked strong and healthy. I thought he was putting me on. 
  "Don't worry," I said, "only the good die young."
  He was dead in three months.
 The disease was Acute Amyloidosis. Doctors don't know what causes it. As I understand it, your internal organs just start growing, then fail. At the same time, the Governor of Pennsylvania had the same thing and had transplants of his lungs and liver. But, it was only a temporary remedy.
 Byron left another Byron he'd be proud of. He works for the CCSO and looks and sounds like Dad.
  Wish Byron was still around to see it.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

WIND ACROSS THE EVERGLADES

  In the late 1950's Everglades City was host to Hollywood. A major film, Wind Across The Everglades, was in production. Stars included Burl Ives, Gypsy Rose Lee, Peter Falk, and Christopher Plummer. Other's with small roles were clown Emmett Kelly and heavyweight boxer Tony Galento. And, there were  bit parts for local's Chief Cory Osceola and Constable Joe Hunter. 

 Mike Gideon, retired CCSO Deputy, lived there then and said the filming and Hollywood crowd were a unique and fascinating divergence for the fishing village folks.
 He remembers that Burl Ives, a man of generous proportions, wore long-handle underwear as part of his costume. Mike and the other youngins loved wash day when the huge long Johns were displayed on the clothes line. Mike said they were as big as the sail on the Santa Maria.
  And that Peter Falk slept quite often on his screened-in porch. He said Falk, later TV's Columbo, was painfully shy. He did like to play chess with Mike and showed young Mr Gideon several moves.
  But Mike said everyone's favorite was Gypsy Rose Lee. Gypsy had arrived in Everglades in a maroon and black Rolls with 28 cats. She took two rooms at the Rod and Gun Club. One for her and one for her cats. Or so it is said in news reports. Mike said he remembers her having two Afghan hounds, but no cats.
 Mike lived upstairs over the Youth Center. The inside had been converted to Wardrobe and the porches Make-up. He said you could tell when Gypsy arrived each morning as her loud and friendly voice soon had everyone laughing at her jokes.
 Burl had one other small problem. His character "Cottonmouth" carried one of the critters around in his pocket. Trouble was Burl was terrified of snakes. Even movie snakes that just looked like cottonmouths. Those were always interesting scenes to film.

Monday, May 10, 2010

THE JOB


  My old friend and associate Dave Johnson sent me this e-mail:
  Thirty-six years ago today, I joined Collier SO.  In those days, you almost couldn't give the jobs away.  Poor pay and mediocre benefits.  I was an 18 year old wet-nose, still 3 weeks from graduating High School and they hired me anyway! My nickname was "Pampers", which were a novelty then.  I remember my dad almost kicking my ass for taking a job as a Deputy.  He knew what real life had in store for me. 
 How funny it is today that jobs with CCSO are all but unobtainable--much coveted for the decent salary and outstanding benefits--but no damn money to hire anyone with! Hundreds of applicants in stand-by mode.  Government jobs are now the cream of the crop--a complete turn from the early 70's when you were one grade below washroom attendant.
 His missive caused me to ponder. When I joined the NPD it cost me $100 a week in salary. I was working in the missile industry on Project Mercury. But I hated the work, wanted to be a cop. 
  Of course, money went a lot further back then. We bought one of the model homes in the new Brookside Village. It was $9,995. But, we couldn't scrape up the $300 down payment and had to take a second mortgage. Yep, the money went further, but not nearly far enough.
  Chester Keene sent me his first pay stub from the NPD. He started on June 4, 1965 and was paid, for two six-day weeks, $166.62. That's gross, net was about $150. See why there weren't many takers?
  Now, as Dave mentioned, Gale Addison, who is Personnel Director for the CCSO, says the lines are long and the competition fierce for the jobs. Incidentally, Gale is really the Human Resources Director but I can't say that name without thinking of the movie Soylent Green wherein people were turned into food. Or, human resources.
 And I bet you thought this was gonna be a serious piece.

Friday, May 7, 2010

DARK BLUE CHEVY II

  When I made Detective--about the time Sherlock Holmes did--at the NPD you wore a certain "uniform."  Business attire, it was called. A suit, or sport coat with white shirt and tie.  And you drove a stripped down Chevy, or Dodge, or Plymouth. Fords, back then, never seemed to win the car bid. It had blackwall tires and, with its yellow City tag, looked just like the low-bid unmarked police car it was.
  Used to make me wonder why I just didn't wear a uniform and drive a marked car. Everyone knew who you were anyway. So I lobbied to make some changes. Finally, Chief Sam Bass gave in and allowed me to put out bids on something a little different. 
  Something different, turned out to be a dark blue Chevy II with white wall tires and a healthy 327 engine. Fitted with an out-of-state tag no one suspected who we were.  (The other part of "we" was Mike Grimm)
  Getting the car ordered required a little extra work. Casey Ingram, the local Chevrolet dealer, didn't want to order it. Said he didn't think it would be safe. Casey was like that. If some young person, with a lotta money, walked in and ordered a souped up Corvette, Casey would run them off if he thought they were irresponsible and might get killed in the car. We finally got Casey to give in by ordering the heavy duty suspension, available for police cars, that he insisted on. 
  Getting the uniform part relaxed took a while longer but I finally got that changed too so that we could wear sport shirts, untucked, to cover the gun and badge.
  The little Chevy with the big motor would put about 7 G's on you when you accelerated. It was the fastest cop car in the county, except for maybe cars built by CCSO Deputy Charlie Sanders. Charlie was an ex-NASCAR driver and built police car engines, usually 427 Chevy's. And they would clock!
  Howsumever, the NPD had a practice that the "Hoot Owl" shift, who crept around most of the night at low speed, would "blow out" their cars each morning before turning them over to the Day shift. That meant give it a healthy run to blow out the carbon buildup. This was done on the road that later became part of the Golden Gate Parkway, between Goodlette and Airport Road. You had to be careful doing the blow out because the last quarter of the road was gravel, and made stopping an exciting proposition.
  Many mornings we had unsanctioned drag races on this road, pitting one police car against another. Needless to say, the little Chevy II would blow the doors off any regular Impala and Plymouth Fury police car. 
  We kept the little car beyond normal trade in time, but eventually had to give it up. 
  I still miss it.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

RUBBA, DUB, DUB

  Some days you wonder why you got out of bed. Newly, a CCSO Deputy, could tell you all about it.
  The day started with great prospects. He'd just completed six-weeks of training with a Field Training Officer (FTO) after graduating from a lenghy Police Academy. Today was to be his first day on the job, on his own.
  After completing the required paperwork, Newly was issued a patrol car; his very own. His first chore was to give it a through cleaning so he proceeded to a drive-thru automatic car wash to get the job done. He signed off on the CCSO account, and proceeded to the wash entrance. There were several signs posted along the way warning customers to roll up their windows and remove any magnetic signs, antennas, and the like. For some reason he didn't think the warnings applied to him.
  Newly placed the car over the pull-thru track and soon a gentle tug told him he was underway. He watched contentedly as the water, then soap, then monster roller-brush crept up the front of the patrol car. Then over the windshield. Then--Great Blubberin' Glenn Beck, what was that?--a jerking stop and start and a banging on the roof like a cat-o-nine-tails was at work. But that wasn't the worst.
  Next, the rear window exploded inward, the car was filled with water, liquid wax, and soap suds and Newly was floating in a upholstered bath tub.
  When he was rescued, the problem was evident. The roller brush had made it over the light bar but caught on the heavy base-loaded antenna. This was ripped from the roof, whipped around the roller--causing the beating sound on the roof--then slapped through the rear window, knocking it out and letting the liquid mess in.
  Poor Newly survived the incident and the day but had some heavy 'splainin' to do why he didn't read those signs.
Thanks to Chester Keene for his excellent memory and for jogging mine.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

THE FRUSTRATION STATION

  The garage-looking building, south of the old Airport entrance on Radio Road that housed the Civil Air Patrol, was once  the last place in Naples you wanted to visit. That was when it was the Vehicle Inspection Station.
 This was where you went to get the required windshield sticker showing your vehicle was safe to be on the road. It was also where you dealt with unbelievable bureaucracy and incompetence.
  Like what? Suppose you had a small car. You knew that even if it was straight from the factory it would fail the brake test. Always. The test required you to roll over a steel pressure sensitive plate and slam on your brakes. Invariably, the machine'd report your brakes were worn out and you'd fail the test. So, to get around it, you loaded the back seat with three of your friends and returned to the station. The extra weight would change the reading, endorsing your wonderful brakes.
  Then, you had to unload your passengers before you took the headlight test. The extra weight in the back seat would cause your headlights to aim too high and you'd fail the test.
  Folks dreaded the annual debacle. Some more than others. Our Lt JD Spohn was one of those who'd rather kiss Whoopi Goldberg than  get inspected. Every year when he took his well-maintained Caddy for the check-up it failed. Then one day he had enough.
 Having returned to the station after two trips to his mechanic for headlight adjustments--that the mechanic said it didn't need--and other bogus deficiencies, JD was livid when he finally finished the test. When the inspector started to reach into the car to scrape off his old sticker and install the new, JD said, "Nope, don't you stick your head inside my car."
 "But how am I gonna see to put on the sticker?" the inspector whined.
 "You figure it out. Just don't put your head inside my car."
 "This is ridiculous," the inspector said, poking his head inside JD's car. 
 Bad mistake! JD rolled the electric window up on his neck. And wouldn't roll it down. And started to drive away.
 After a frantic call to the PD, we arrived and were able to calm JD down. And the strangle-ee, who was "gonna press charges."
 "Go ahead," we told him. "JD will ask for a jury trial and no juror in Collier County, who owns a car, will convict him." The point was well taken and JD walked.
 Shortly thereafter, with a frog strangler of complaints raining down on the state legislature, the stations were all inspected. It was found in ours that the machine that read headlight focus had never been calibrated  since it'd  been installed. Never. And the brake machine was about as accurate as the clowns who calculated Obama's budget.
 It wasn't long before the stations were closed and the program sent to Bad Idea Hell where it belonged. 
  The program was based on BS to begin with. The idea came from accident reports wherein drivers claimed, when they didn't stop, that their brakes were defective. Of course they were lying but that's where the program emanated. Some bean-counter reading the data concluded that most of the cars in accidents in Florida had bad brakes.
  Now you know how laws get made. Scary, isn't it?

Monday, May 3, 2010

MORE LIDS THAN THE MAD HATTER

  Over the years, the NPD has worn more lids than the Mad Hatter. It started with the traditional cop's 8-point,  military style hat. Pretty standard for "city" cops. Later, we lost our way.
 Someone decided that the hat style Deputies wore was the way to go. You know, the one Jackie Gleason's Sheriff Buford wore. The kind a drunk Texan wears, on Saturday night, to a whorehouse. They looked ridiculous! They were hot and itchy in the sun. To ward off rain, a plastic cover was necessary or they got soaked and drooped down like wilted lettuce on a day-old Whopper. Nobody wore the damn things--although you were supposed to. But that was just the beginning.
  When the country started having race riots, the NPD fielded a Riot Squad. Not a bad idea to be prepared. At the same time cops switched from using the short "billie" club to the longer riot stick. That was because newsies loved to film the cops, with the billie in the air, getting ready to crack some deserving maggot's skull. It was easy to spot the billies  raised above the crowd, a beacon for photographers. 
  The riot baton, however, was used in a thrust and parry fashion, poking ribs, cracking jaws, but not raised overhead affording Kodak moments.
  All this made perfect sense. Then came the problem. Cops also wore a riot helmet. Again, some genius decided that the helmets should be worn all the time on duty. Now, we're talking about something like a motorcycle helmet. Hot, heavy, and blocking your normal hearing, they were also too tall for lengthy cops to wear when seated in a car. Damn things hit the roof, making you tilt your head forward. But a good cop can always figure out how to thwart absurd bureaucracy.
  Soon you'd see cops riding or walking along with their heads appearing to bobble like one of those little dolls. The reason why was they'd stripped all gut's out and it was now just a thin plastic shell, balanced on the top of their head. Weightless and useless.
  Finally, even the most dense administrator saw the stupidity and futility of the helmet rule. Especially since, in the Elephant's Graveyard, there was only one riot--ever--and that was   in Immokalee.
  Later, Riot Squads lost out to SWAT teams.  SWAT dudes, in their black Ninja uniforms and masks and enough weapons to give a redneck wet dreams, were much more intimidating. And that was the bottom line to begin with wasn't it? 

Sunday, May 2, 2010

THINGS THAT GO BUMP ON THE BEACH

  Chester Keene reminds us of this one. Just like today, in the 60's, when you worked as a cop, there was never enough money to make ends meet. And every time you got close, some SOB moved the ends. So most of us took extra jobs, many in security, guarding construction sites on the North side of Doctor's Pass. This was due to trouble they were having, at the time, with unions trying to cause work stoppages. Then there were the material thefts always attendant on construction sites.
 There was also a problem with turtle poachers on the beach. These a-holes would cruise the Gulf at night, close to the shoreline, using a spot light to identify turtle drag trails from the water to the weeds. Knowing the turtle would eventually return to the water after laying and burying her eggs, the scumbags would lay in wait, butchering the tired and near-helpless female at water's edge, leaving no evidence.
 The Marine Patrol took countermeasures. They modified a patrol car, with a monster Ford Interceptor engine, by enlarging the wheel wells. Then they installed high-flotation airplane tires so they could navigate the soft sugar sand without getting sucked in. With this vehicle they could patrol the beach and outrun any puke they encountered in a jeep or 4-wheel drive.
  One night, when Chester was finished with his extra security job, one of the Marine Officers named Blanco asked him if he'd like to take a ride in the souped-up beach buggy up to Clam Pass and back. Chester said he would and they took off through the sugar sand, the wide, half-inflated tires doing a perfect job.
  About a quarter-mile north of the Seagate Beach Club, they came upon what looked like the remains of a sand castle someone had built. Blanco said, "look at this," and ran right over it. They were shocked when a loud scream resonated from the sand pile. 
  Chester and Blanco, quickly stopped and exited the vehicle where they found a young man crawling out of the pile. Amazingly, the man--obviously a Hippie--wasn't hurt. In fact, he said he barely felt it, but the surprise and engine noise "scared the hell" outta him.    When asked what he was doing there he said his companions were camped over in the mangrove area that is now Pelican Bay. He'd gotten tired, but the crowd was so noisy he went to the beach to get some sleep. There, he  covered himself with beach sand to keep the no-see-ums off him. 
  Insuring the Hippie was unhurt, Blanco told him to get on the front fender and he'd return him to his camp. There, the Hippies were so disappointed at seeing the police, the party  ended, they struck their tents, and headed for always sleeze-bag friendly Ft. Myers Beach.
  No poachers were caught that night but the Pelican Bay area was cleansed of the dreaded Hippies so that, cherished amenities intact, it would be fit for the future exclusive use of the rich and shameless.