Evidence 101

EVIDENCE 101...Wherever you go, there you are...

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Audrey Hepburn Was Not My Grandmother

Today we are going to talk about grandmother. Not everyone's grandmother, but one of mine. Why? Because it really hit home to me today when I realized how much we have strayed from the path of good and narrow. What do I mean by that? I am talking about the way it is today.
No, this is not my grandmother.
It is Audrey Hepburn. Close enough. 

My grandma was a hard person to get to know. But, you know me, I could talk to anyone, so I broke those barriers down by the 20 bazillion questions a kid asks. Over time, I think she grew to find me amusing and my curiosity was cooler than a cat's.

All through the years, I could sense a distance from Uncle Paul and dad to their parents. They respected them, but it wasn't the gushing love story of my mother's family. If I didn't hear my dad with my own ears call his parents "mom and dad", I would have guessed he would have addressed them as "mother and father." I didn't really get that until I was older. As a young child, I was taught to respect all elders and automatically accepted another set of grandparents as cool and interesting.

Grandpa was a sports fanatic which went along with his coaching. He also was influential in Native American culture in South Dakota and mentoring them in sports. I think he inherited that from his parents and grandfather.

Grandma dressed to the nines and always wore a wig. She never went out in public looking like a slob and always accessorized. But, the wig thing was a childhood mystery to me. I don't know why she continued with that even after the wig generation was over. I would catch myself staring at it to see if it would move. I studied her head often. I don't think I ever saw a wig hair out of place and that was probably thanks to many cans of Aquanet or wig glue.
Wig glue? Sound right.

Grandma went through the depression and was very, very frugal. In fact, I think my dad and brother felt slighted at holidays because she and grandpa would not part with funds for those train sets. They also felt grandpa gave more attention to the sports teams he coached than his own boys. They were athletic, but really didn't get on the overkill sports wagon. They did not follow in either parent's footsteps. Instead, both of them were military bound, not by choice mostly, and dad went to the Army while Uncle Paul went into the Air Force.

When I was a kid, I read many of the letters dad and Paul had sent to grandma. In fact, letters were a big deal to them. She and grandpa sent me very detailed stories over the years. I wish I still had all of them. Sadly, most were discarded after I read them a couple times.

Grandma shared her son's letters with me and showed me the foreign gifts they had presented to her. Maybe she didn't share her feelings with them, but she was very  proud of her boys and felt they were strong. But what was lacking was affection. It was as if it were a business transaction she was speaking of. It wasn't until years later, this deeply saddened me and was brought to surface when my dad or uncle spoke of their feelings about things as kids. When dad got cancer, grandma was always worried about him and checked with me to make sure he was getting his vegetables and grill me about stuff maybe my parents didn't disclose to her because she was a worry wart.

But anyway, enough of the backstory. So it was around my later teens when grandma started to panic and contact dad by means of odd phone calls. These calls were out of breath and in typical emergent fashion when someone has an adrenaline dump after a big moment.

"Bob, did you hear that Bo Derek has herpes? Who is that anyway, anyone I should know? I think it is deeply concerning that anyone would tell the world about it. You know what else? I really called because you should find another wife, Bob, they say love can prevent heart attacks. You have cancer. You don't need other problems."

Those who don't know my dad, would have missed him covering the phone mic and stretching himself as far as he could go with the cord and whisper to me, "You're grandmother has fucking lost it." The look in his eyes was despair because we had to do something like put her in a home.

We were in Wyoming and she was in South Dakota. That could not happen over night.

So, dad got off the phone and called Uncle Paul letting him know his mother had lost it and he was going to try to secretly contact his dad and talk to him. It did not work according to plan.

"Son, your mother has been reading some newspaper and coming to me with all these stories. I got quite bored with it and told her to call her children." Grandpa went on to talking about the latest game on the television and threw some more in there about his coaching days.

My dad was very frustrated. He eventually learned my grandmother was reading The National Enquirer like it was the gospel and Jesus Christ had sent it himself. He couldn't believe it. No matter how many times grandma was told it was a tabloid and yellow journalism, she did not listen and believed all of it was real.

Why? Because she grew up in a time when people were not allowed to lie to the public through journalism. They had responsible reporting and rules. Now things had changed and she didn't understand that, so she continued about her way in her isolated bubble. She absorbed all those quick blurbs in the grocery aisle until she subscribed to the magazine. My dad was so mad. I think he was mostly embarrassed and didn't want to be bothered by Bo Derek's herpes outbreak.

And now we have "fake news" as our president calls it. But what has happened, really? Simple answer:  Our political systems have taken over and control journalism. Responsible reporting is hard to pinpoint. And oh, so many leaks. I mean seriously, the White House is no longer a fortress of secret information, but a water bottle blasted by a shotgun in preparation for Zombie training.

I chuckled yesterday when I read that the president had told several confidants about his wavering of the Paris agreement and climate change. Ok. Those confidants are shit, Mr. President. They told everyone. Or did he orchestrate that?

I don't get too stirred up anymore because time and time again the mainstream media is proven a fool or putting the camera up granny's skirt only to expose they have perverted the truth. I don't even know what that means. Anyway, it sounded like a good analogy at the time. I'm going to leave it there and think about it. Well, maybe not. Granny's skirt, cameras, and perversion is not a good combo.

There are still a small few out there trying to do justice to their story and I hope it is those honest journalists who catch a big story and launch their careers. As for the others, may they vanish from the kingdom and be heard of no more. I know. You are thinking it sure would be quiet on the boob tube.

But you get it, right?

I think it's sad. Here we are spoon fed a bunch of garbage and no matter how much we deflect and try to mitigate it to find the truth, we all still absorb some of that garbage. Are we believing the right piece?

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Light Bulb Lessons, A Gun Review, and Nomenclature Rules

This is an unsolicited review of the Smith & Wesson  M & P Shield 9mm. It's brutal. I'm blunt in response to everything and everyone. My first duty weapon was a S &W 3953. Nice, nice. I miss that gun. I want it back and might offer the dude some day. However, upon departure with it, I have grown to really love Glocks which I know is passe and so ordinary.

It's cute, right? This is not the gun I fired, btw. Photo credit: GunsAmerica
Many light bulb lessons occurred during a recent trip to an indoor gun range. Yes, it was in one of those armored pods. Very cool. Except the AC didn't work fast enough. But I'm not here reviewing the pod.

Rule of thumb for range day. You need ammo. Don't forget to bring it. Some people might call these "bullets." In case you are wondering, if you forget your ammo you got at a good price, gun shops will sell you some but they jack it up when they realize you forgot it because they know you are desperate. It's called supply and demand emergency. Not really. That was an attempt at economics humor. 

This isn't just any ordinary review. This is a review based upon my preferences and likes and dislikes. I will explain in detail, but you might disagree with me. You might hate on this, but that's OK.

I think for the first time in my life, I looked at reviewing firearms in a totally different light. That is not what I mean by light bulb lessons. Watch. And. See.

As a side conversation, I don't know why gun manufacturers put paperwork and manuals in there for us to read. I like videos. Reading makes me fall asleep. I know. It's about liability and some brain surgeons would rather read a manual. I get that. I will use mine for taking up closet space.

First of all, I'm going to get past semantics. I am over the nomenclature rules. Fuck that shit. Use your own words. I don't care. Now to be clear,  many people ban or frown upon using the words "handgun"or "gun". Military gurus think different devices running through their heads like lollipops when you use the word "gun". It probably means a lot of different things to each person. That's not the point. The word firearm probably does the same thing. Or maybe the word "gun" is too lazy for you and only applies to those who don't know how to use them. Perhaps you prefer the word "sidearm" for pistol. So anyway. Fuck the gun guru rules. We're here to talk about bang bang devices. All of them. All the words. Who gives a shit about the nomenclature. That was a statement, not a question.

So what do you like about firearms? You might like different things than me, so don't take this as the gospel. It's all preference.  I do what I like. If you don't like, don't like. It's a free country.

The ammunition of choice on this day of ammo blasting was Speer Lawman 124 grain. Yes, it was an expensive day. Ammo gone. Like a lot of it. Similar to a fart in the wind. Only gunpowder smells a lot better.
This is the type of ammo, but not exact boxes.
Why? Because we used it all up,  duh!

Anyrambling, back to the S & W Shield. Just to preface this post, I have zero pics of my day with Smith and Wesson. I went with the boss. He bought it with me at the gun shop about a month prior and didn't want to shoot it until I helped him understand safety and stuff. It was time to break wind...I mean blast.

It looks cool, it's light, it's small for carrying purposes. It's easy to conceal. I really like that part.

So first order of business is handling and familiarizing yourself with your weapon. Do it. Got it? Good. This of course is without ammo. EMPTY. Figure it out. And if you can't figure it out, Google or YouTube it.

I've had to do that a few times when shit goes wrong or when I am stuck in processes.

The day started off with the gun shop dude eyeballing my Glock 19c. Get yer mitts off my goods, sir.

"What kind of magazines are those? I've never really seen ones like that."

I looked at him like he was an alien: the green type.

"Uh. Regular kind. They go in there and it goes pew pew just like any other Glock."

"No, I mean they are 13."

"No, they are 15."

"Oh. How did you get those?"

"What do you mean, how did I get those? At a gun shop."

"You can't get those."

By now I'm thinking he is going to call the cops and report me. I'm really leary of strange new persons.

"I used to be a cop."

"Oh. That explains it."

Weird. At that point, I was about to hide my weaponry, but they insisted on inspecting it before firing. Next time, I will bring a throw down Hi-Point so they don't judge me or try to take my magazines away. I could hide my Glock in my bag. They don't stick around to watch you shoot. They just inspect and leave.

Once he left, we started to die of heat sweats because the AC was slow to cool the metal box. But we didn't care because there were red lights and shit and it was cool in there.

Now I've read a lot about the Shield and have had questions answered by a few friends. Everyone seems to rave about it. So, naturally, this made me excited about it. It is not ambidextrous. Just saying. Right handed only.

So the Shield is full of surprises for me. Mostly, how do I operate this fucking thing? I mean to tell you, there are too many safety precautions and widgets on this thing that by the time I figured it out I would already be dead. Looking down from heaven, I would watch the cops fidget with the firearm and then an aha moment would occur. Yes, I was really frustrated at first. I had to YouTube that shit.

The first 20 minutes were very embarrassing moments for me because that normally doesn't happen when I get a new gun in front of me. I looked pretty stupid when I wanted to use the damn thing and it was only as good as a club.

Dropping the magazine is easy. Ok? Anyone can do that.

It's a small gun, so it's nice for small hands. Guys, I don't want to know. Just don't talk about the size of your hands. Ladies, you can feel free to discuss that because it doesn't apply to us.

Pulling and releasing the slide is a little tricky dicky and this one was stiff like a dead man. Poppin' it like a top isn't always going to happen. The slide locked and got stuck and the releasy thingy didn't work as planned. There is a little trick and some finesse.

And of course Smith and Wesson are kinder to you when you are empty rather than full of magic bullets.

This video is showing you the insertion problem I had. I'm used to giving that magazine a good shove and maybe an extra. Tactical training, you know.

Let me just say, don't forget a new firearm is stiff as hell and needs some attention before you use it, like fucking oil. The Shield magazines can be over inserted. Oopsie daisie. Fuck yourself in the ass. Don't do that.

Another issue I found was that it has too many safety precautions and widgets on it for me. Fuck you, you gun control freaks! The Shield answered the liberal cries for help. I hope you don't die because you are too slow and you have to switch all the safety doohickies before your fire. I don't like the safety. It's too hard for me to use in speedy time. I would leave it off. *gasp* I know, right? No safety. Well, the Glocks don't have one either, scaredy cats.

Here's a viewpoint from an OK hick.

Speed reloading that thing in a hurry would be a bitch if the slide didn't drop and just stayed stuck there. Just saying. That happened a lot. Why? Because this was the first time the boss handled a weapon and it was eye opening to watch someone who had no knowledge struggle with things we gun gurus take for granted as a muscle memory. And when I tried it? I was worried about over inserting it again and wussy loaded it.

So yeah. Be familiar with your weapon. We created stovepipes and bad jams and scenarios just to practice with it. We both became familiar with the weapon and once we did that, it was a nice firearm. In the beginning, I hated the bastard. So did the boss.

After we were all done, I gave my Glock to the boss and told him to handle it and shoot it. He said, "Wow, that was a lot easier and nicer."

Ok. It's really not fair to compare a new stiff gun to a nicely worn and loved one.

The boss is an excellent shot. He's a very left leftist and I was really proud of his willingness to learn and practice. He said he was going to properly store it and practice many times. We have future range times. I gave him some tips to go home and take the gun apart several times and dry fire a lot.

So am I sold on this? Yeah. I would recommend it as a good carry option. It's a great priced device and a really nice firearm. It's made very well. It's easy to conceal. I can push the safety off if I don't want it on. Will I be purchasing my own? Not sure yet.

I'm a little partial to Glocks and really would rather have a 42 or a 43 as a backup.

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Wake Up, Fools!

Here is a list of some pet peeves. Why? Because. I felt like sharing. You're welcome!

1. I really hate the fact that Soros is funding all these DA positions all over the United States in a way for him to "reshape the justice system" according to his liking. I mean, not only do I hate it, but it scares me to death. That man is really, really dangerous. People don't think so, but money can really buy you things. Some things are dangerous. What does that mean? Something nefarious, no doubt.  Cops will fry. I'm sure it includes burning all officers at the stake. You should pay attention to this. Wake up, fools! Not you. The other guys. You should sleep with one eye open. Why? Watch his reformative justice take over sentencing parameters and people will nary go to jail. Why? Because if we hold their hands, they won't be so bad. Now, I think restorative justice is necessary, but you need to do it wisely and those who do really bad should do their just time and not be slapped on the wrist.

2. I can't stand the liberal agenda on wolves. They spread lies. And many of them are in nice articles of peace in the high country and pat ourselves on the back type of shit. People believe them because they don't know what is really going on there, so they are spoon fed propaganda which they absorb as the truth. It's bullshit. Happy park. Happy animals. My ass. If you really want to know what is going on in the west, you should live there or shut thy mouth. The wolves are out of control. Herds of wild life and livestock are devastated every year. Wake up, fools! Yeah. I said it. I am mean like that. Not you. The other people.

3. Assholes. I know too many. I wish there was a shampoo to wash them away like flea and tick stuff. Or something.

4. The news. It sucks. Everywhere.

5. The perma frown on my forehead. It's making perma wrinkles. Gah.

6. I don't like being forced to live where I don't really want to live. I want to retreat to a high mountain area where I can shoot wolves and make a coat. Not really. That was just funny as hell, though.

7. I hate one of my classes right now. I am getting bad grades and I think my professor hates me too. It's sad really. I am a very nice and good student. Sigh.

8. I can't stand mouthy kids or disrespectful kids. I don't know how to change it. The parents are way messed up these days. That includes me. Our generation failed America. True story. We did it. Now we are griping about it. Ironic much?

That's enough today. Oh, yes. There is more. Most times I am pretty laid back but today I am pissy like a cat.

I know. I'm whining.


I will go now.

Friday, May 19, 2017

And the Ghetto cried...Hey Cop!

As the snow flies
On a cold and gray Chicago mornin'
A poor little baby child is born
In the ghetto (in the ghetto)
And his mama cries

We went predator hunting one day. Sex Offender Registry. Address Checks. Banjos Playing.

We checked 43 of them. Beat me. No wait, not in those words, they just sound naughty.

Anypervert, we checked about 20 when we ran into two very well built strapping handsome 30 year olds in the middle of a rundown part of town who stopped us at our patrol car.

JIM GYM: Officers, could you help us with this Nebraska citation I got for no proof of insurance?

PUNKY BREWSTER: Nope. We don't mess with out of state things.

ME: [whack to Punky's left arm] What can we help you with, sir?

JIM GYM: I'm afraid I'm late on this fix it ticket.

ME: We better run you for warrants, then.

JIM GYM: [hesitant] Well...

ME: You aren't going to run, are ya? Cuz, you looked like you were going to run.


EXERCISE EDDY: Oh, he  thought about it.

ME: I'll give ya a 7 foot head start.

EXERCISE EDDY: Taser. [laughing]

JIM GYM: Oh hell no.

ME: Come on. We need the training.
I miss my Punky Brewster. 

So...we listened to their horror popo story of getting pulled over in Nebraska, then ran both of them because they wanted to make sure Nebraska didn't have any warrants for them. They were college grads working on their master's degrees. Seems the oil company they interned with had provided them housing and they monitored gas drilling every day for their studies. They were clean cut, went to the gym as much as they could, and appeared to be very nice, seemingly normal men.

ME: So...what are you two doing living in the hood? Seems like you don't belong here. It's like Sesame Street puzzles...one thing doesn't look like the other.

EXERCISE EDDY: Yeah. We got the shaft from our company. Put us up in the ghetto. We shut ourselves inside and lock everything up every day.

ME: Nice. Well, have a nice day. OH. I almost forgot. The Boogie Man lives next door to you, so be careful.

EXERCISE EDDY: [points to a neighbor house] Harrold?

ME: If that is what he calls himself these days. [It was a random popo scare tactic, I just made it up. I don't even know if Harrold or any of their other neighbors were the Boogie Man] Have a great day.

JIM GYM: Thanks.[weak smile]

Punky and I got into the car and I looked over the list of sex offenders.

PUNKY BREWSTER: Now there were two nice looking ones for you to date.

ME: Moving on with the perverts. [looking at my list]

PUNKY BREWSTER: [sigh] I can't wait to tell the boss I found two nice good looking men for you and you looked down at the sex offender list and said, "moving on with the perverts "

ME: Yep.

PUNKY BREWSTER: Have you noticed today all the sex offenders answer the door without shirts on.

ME: Yep. It's disgusting. Lots of moobs out today.

We made a citizen contact on the street. Punky and I thought the contact was very disturbing and it made us contemplate things later in life...like how your tattoos look when you are old. I told her I wouldn't care about my tats at that age. However, plastic surgery was another thing. The citizen contact really made me do a double take on any aspirations of plastic surgery I might have had.

PUNKY: That freaked me out.

ME: Me, too. They were like all up in my face, pointing at me.

PUNKY: Ew. What am I going to do?

ME: Well, I can tell you one thing, I am not going to be your friend when you are 70. I don't need anything all up in my face when I try to wipe the drool off your chin.

PUNKY:  That was disturbing.

ME: Yes. I might have nightmares.

So...we met a 70 year old woman who didn't wear a bra. She didn't have to. She was perky. A size double D and perky at 70. Fake boobs. It was scary. I wish I had pics to share of this old woman with perky boobs, but it was too traumatizing. Just picture it. Or don't. Oy.

It was dark with no street lights. We were later assigned to foot patrol in the trailerhood. All of a sudden, a dark Suburban with limo tinted windows jumped the curb and stopped at my feet...and my gun... drawn ready to shoot the drunk idiot that tried to run me over. As we aimed for the window that was rolling down, we  were greeted with a site.

It was someone from Montana we did not know who apparently liked to get right up in the popo's face to ask a question. Or perhaps the person had a death wish. I don't know. He might have peed himself at the sight of our Glocks. Our show of force was quickly deflated as we were just looking at an idiot that had no regard for personal space or officer safety. If he had been anywhere else, he would have been toast.

Anyfreakshow, the driver wanted to ask about the safety of our ghetto as several officers had been noticed in the area. The driver's bling was bedazzling us along with the long black shiny hair, bright red lipstick, and long fingernails....and very large bosoms. We weren't looking there, they just appeared in our faces. I then was asked a barrage of questions regarding my hair and makeup choices and asked some tips. The driver departed after blowing us kisses and thanking us for our time.

PUNKY BREWSTER: Was that a drag queen?

ME: Yep. Never seen him around here, must be a new one.

PUNKY BREWSTER: Huh. He's something else. Crazy.

ME: It's the ghetto. Isn't it great? We didn't even have to shoot anyone, just exchanged makeup tips.

PUNKY BREWSTER: Yeah. That's what scares me. We almost got killed  over makeup tips.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Down At The Porn Shop

Check out the local news for the latest on the CPD shakeup. It's getting quite dramatic over there. 

Another night assigned to the ghetto. I think LIFE is just bliss. The encounters were "gihugenormous" fun as THE ROOK would say.

No sooner had we turned the corner of the PORN SHOP when we were flagged down. It just so happened to be to the parking lot of the PORN SHOP. There stood a man who resembled Carrot Top only without the fro. He was holding a hanger.

As I exited the patrol car, I tried to wipe off the smirk on my face with no avail. I think it is just natural to smirk when you arrive at a porn shop. The calls are always interesting and we proceed with caution. First rule of thumb-DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING. My rookie mostly remained silent. I could sense he was not too keen on being there or maybe he wasn't too keen on what we were going to have to do there.  Maybe it was just the idea of him being at the porn shop. It was dirty. Shame. Embarrassment. Some people frown upon those establishments. To me, it was pure entertainment. It was a time for him to observe his FTO.

ME: What can we help you with?

RED RIDER: Could you unlock my car?

ME: We aren't allowed to do that anymore. I'm sorry. Can I call a locksmith for you?


By now, he was shuffling his feet and a little embarrassed. We called for a locksmith real loud on the radio and made sure we announced the PORN SHOP on the radio rather than the street address for the troops to giggle about and get a little free entertainment.

ME: You aren't from around here?

RED RIDER: No. Live about 160 miles east.

ME: Heavens to Mergatroid! You drove 160 miles to go to the PORN SHOP?
RED RIDER: No. I came here for counseling.

ME: Most people just say it like it is. Down here in the hood, no one cares you go to the PORN SHOP. You sure don't have to refer to it as "counseling."

RED RIDER: No. I mean real counseling.

ME: Yeah. What I'm sayin'.

PUNKY BREWSTER: [whacks me] He means psychologist counseling.

ME: Oh. Really? You came all that way for a mental health appointment?

RED RIDER: Yep. We don't have much at home. Two of them.

ME: I suppose you are related to them.


ME: Well, you are close to Nebraska. Small town.

PUNKY BREWSTER: [whacks me on the arm] Locksmith is here.

ME: Hi. Thanks for getting here so quickly.

LOCKSMITH LARRY: What happened here? Got a little quick to get out and lock your keys in?


LOCKSMITH LARRY: Get a little excited, did ya?

RED RIDER: *blink*blink*

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Visualize the Meaning of Dickhead

Intermission time. That bad leadership stuff gave me a headache. Time to move on to some real cop stuff. Here's a flashback from the days of The ROOK...

As I get older, I find my patience wears thinner. Is that good English?  Sounded a little redneck. Anycrazy, people have started to grate on my nerves. Perhaps it's because I have only dealt with stupid. At least...lately. However, when people drive you insane to the point you pipe up and words slip out accidentally on purpose...pick your prey. Wisely. I usually pick the big hairy ones who could use me to mop up the floor.

Saturday night and early this morning was filled with drunks. Not only was every deputy on a DUI, but we, the city cops, were loaded with our plethora of drunks.

Most of the night, THE ROOK and I were on special operations trying to find a state prison escapee and tracking a gang involved in stolen guns and dope. THE ROOK got his fair share of "undercover" operations. We were successful in conducting a felony stop with the ring leader with the stolen gun case. The prison escapee...not so much.

Late into the night or early in the morning...it all blends...we had a call for assistance from Officer Old timer who ran into some belligerent drunks outside our favorite biker bar. THE ROOK and I assisted. Reaching our destination, I jumped out while THE ROOK was driving to intercept the large biker who was meandering toward a Jeep in the alley behind the bar. Surely he was going to drive away and be a lethal weapon on the roadway, I made contact.

He was none too happy to see the PoPo...even my shining little face.

ME: Evening. You weren't planning on driving tonight, were you?

BIG RAY: Nope.

ME: Where are you headed?

BIG RAY: Up the road.

ME: So..what happened inside the bar? The ruckus?

BIG RAY: I don't give a shit. Their problem.

ME: Seems it involves you.

BIG RAY: Not talkin'.

ME: How much have you had to drink tonight?

BIG RAY: Enough.

ME: You got a ride home?

BIG RAY: [silence]

ME: You can talk to me or not. Don't really care. You don't have a ride, I'll give  you one...to the big Biker Bed and Breakfast on the hill. Your choice.

BIG RAY: Yeah. You fucking cops. It's never our choice. Fuck you. [He stumbled into the building and tried to walk away.] I have a ride.

THE ROOK: Hey, you can't walk around the city or down the sidewalk drunk. City ordinance. She asked you if you had a ride home.

BIG RAY:[Came back to us and spit near our shoes]Alright. I will wait here.

ME: Quit spitting.

BIG RAY: [smirk] Make me. Fuck that. Stupid cop.

ME: It's against the law, too...and gross. So...got money for a cab? We're trying to work with you, but our patience is running thin.

BIG RAY: Not paying for a cab. I don't have to. Came to the bar to get drunk. Going home. That's the way it is. Cops suck. Why don't you go find some real crime?

ME: We did that already. Now we are bored. That's why you are entertaining us.

BIG RAY: [smirk and spit again near my boot] There's another violation, lady. Maybe I'll hit your boot. What do you think of that? Huh? What do you think?

ME: Actually,  I think you are a fucking dickhead.

THE ROOK: *blink*blink*


So...we ended up taking Big Ray to jail without a struggle. He didn't care. He did, however, try to intimidate me all the way up the hill and inside the detention center. It was packed. Full house in the book-in area.

BIG RAY: Honey. [ blew me kisses] I'm gonna get you. You wait.

ME: Yep. Bring it, sister. Big man threatening a girl. You must be the pussy of the group.

BIG RAY: You'll see.

ME: Ok. I see. I visualize you as the lead pussy of your biker club. Yep. 

THE ROOK: [hits me in the arm]

ME: What?

We met up with Officer Fitness inside the deputies book in office after they put Big Ray in his cell. The cells have one small window for them to look out and us to look in.

I had my back to Big Ray, but I knew what he was doing. He was 6-3, 275, solid muscles, black hair, scruffy face, tats all over. He had black eyes that appeared hollow and evil. We had to use two sets of cuffs which barely went around his wrists. Visualize all that as a pussy. Why? Because he picks on girl cops.
At this moment, I am a girl warrior
 on the planet Zentora.

OFFICER FITNESS: He's creeping me out.

ME: Big Ray?

OFFICER FITNESS: Yes. The way he is staring at you. It's creepy. Like he wants to kill you.

ME: Probably does. Him don't like me much.

OFFICER FITNESS: I'm serious. I don't get creeped out. That is sinister.

THE ROOK: 5-foot nothin'. 100 pounds nothin'. She thinks she is tall and bulletproof. Why did you call him a dickhead?

OFFICER FITNESS: You called him a dickhead?

ME: Yep.

OFFICER FITNESS: Why did you do that?

ME: I cannot tell a lie.

THE ROOK: *blink*blink*

We walked out of the book-in area toward the sally port. As I left, I turned to Big Ray who was still standing at his window, smirking at me:

ME: [blew him kisses] Love you. Miss you.

THE ROOK: You are going to get your ass kicked one day from him. He hates you.

ME: Nah. He won't intimidate me. Dickheads. They are all the same. Wear their penis on their head. 

THE ROOK: * blink*blink*

ME: It's mostly small. Most of them are small. That I have seen. On duty. When they wear them on their head. It's true. 

THE ROOK: *blink*blink*

ME: It makes sense to a girl.

Wednesday, May 3, 2017


I've been busy at school. My advisor convinced me to do summer school. What? You say? Yes. So I have a research project and a class. If I don't get the research project done, I get an incomplete. This is very very bad. My professor warned me that rarely anyone completes the project in summer. This poses bad odds against Fargo. I like to gamble? Right now I have a 4.0 GPA. I cannot get an incomplete. First, I have to pay full price and not discounted if that happens. Second, it brings my GPA down. Bah, humbug.

I'm stressed out and it doesn't even begin until May 15.

Relax, Fargo. You are worried about things which haven't even happened yet. Duh. That's how I roll. I inherited this problem from both grandmothers. Thus, you must have concluded that it is a problem which is genetic and cannot be treated. So, I just deal with it. As a neurotic prisoner of my own mind. The brain does not shut off.

In the meantime, some good news. Another article on a national front: Pursuit Magazine. I am excited. This one is a little different. You might be intrigued. Please read and comment. Share it, pass it around. Click on it 2000 times. Get some traffic going. It helps.

Tuesday, May 2, 2017


I bet you all have thought, "What would Fargo have been like a man?" 

Fargo really is a man.

I came to grips with it. 

Well, someone decided to make me just that and put me in his book as a man character. I argued about this discrepancy and in real NFO language, he told me, "You are a man. Deal with it." I didn't even get a kiss with that statement. Then not only did I get told to be a man and like it without a kiss, I was asked to read about it. 

So by now you can understand if I am totally confused with my sexuality.

But Rimworld is not about that at all. It's sci-fi at its finest. It is so detailed with character building and descriptions to spark your wildest imagination that I can't really explain it. You just need to read it. Quickly you are there in that other world. It's like no other.

Yes, there are mechanical things in there above my head, but the story line is so fascinating. There is galactic chaos and universal politics. Plus a lot of combat. I like that, you know. 

I couldn't put it down. Not only did it take me to another world, but it was full of adventure and things I never could even dream about, let alone think someone could make them up. 

Or are they made up? I wonder if Curtis had any experience in area 51? It makes you curious. I mean, who can be that good with extraterrestrial details and planetary information if they weren't part of the X-files? In the military sense of it anyway. Maybe in his Navy days he was flying those things back and forth to Roswell and had conversations. 

It's just a question.

And by the time I was finished, I was a man named Ethan Fargo. And a damn fine one, too. So let me give you an intro from the author himself...

"After a chance encounter with Dragoons and Traders turns a routine planet exploration into a rout that kills his team and his career, Lieutenant Ethan Fargo, medically retired, wants nothing more than to hole up in the backwater Rimworld he’d explored and enjoy a quiet retirement far from people or problems.

Unfortunately, he's about to find out that he's not as retired as he wants to be, and that his new home system comes with dangers, politics, and Dragoon sightings of its own. What promised to be a boring retirement will turn out to be anything but."

Don't be scared. You will find your way through all the danger and journey. And you will be right there, fighting and sweating along with Lt. Fargo. Have your armor ready. Pick up your copy on Amazon. If you fancy, you should buy the first one in the series. It's great too!

And don't forget. I'm still a girl. 

Monday, May 1, 2017

We Are Farm Folks

I have never felt below standard until someone comes over in your construction zone of a house. And I rush around and think...no no no visitors. Wait a few months, K?

I mean it's really bad. I am making excuses for everything. And you can tell by the big eyes that most of these people would never live in such substandard housing. Like cardboard boxes might be one upping me right now.

It doesn't matter if you love your house to them. They see the disaster in front of them, and go, "People live here?"

Yep. With kids. *shudder*

It reminded me of the days of PoPo. I must have thought the same. Wait. I don't have poop buckets sitting around. My plumbing works and so does the house's. I guess I don't have meth issues, although it looks like a disguise. I'm really not a narc right now. I don't beat the kids nor the dogs.

The floors to the Harry Potter Haus are ripped up and down to the original hardwoods, except for the parlor which has the yucky carpet on it. These hardwoods are not refinished, but looking pretty rough. And then people.

People come over and I am embarrassed. It's funny how daily I get used to it and it doesn't bother me at all. The outside of the house is pretty pitiful with peeling paint and broken board siding. My barn roof leaks. It needs paint, too. No one can really see all the work I have done on the inside because it is mostly structural and those kind of fixes. Maybe my patchwork walls are not attractive and I should do something about them. I can't decide on paint colors either. I should just stop being such a wishy washy homeowner and get to crackalackin' before it gets more embarrassing when HGTV comes to give me the winning HGTV dream home.

"You have three dogs in here?"

Yep. Running free.  *shudder*

It's crazy. It's chaos. It's a fucking 19th century farmhouse. Animals are on farms. Like many. We resemble that. We are the farm.
It doesn't look so bad from this angle.

Welcome to the Harry Potter Haus. We are happy.

I am the queen of my double wide trailer early American reno home. It's crazy. It's chaos.

Yes, I am working on it. It gets done according to funds and time. Sometimes I have neither. We will fix it. Please come back.

We're different folks. You think my house is crazy? You should read my blogs.