Life is crazy.
On the way back from second practice with a band I'm really, really excited about, I pass a walking vigil for Kelly Thomas, the recent victim of a particularly brutal case of police brutality. This all happened minutes from my front door a few months ago, but even though I suddenly realize how near I am the front lines of the war on liberty, the feeling can only be described is a strange numbness. It's a quiet affair, so I don't lay on my horn the way I do when I see them crowding on a street corner. I let off the gas and coast by with my arm out the window flashing the sign for victory -- and peace.
But I'm stoked, I haven't felt so validated in years. The music is flowing like a busted fire hydrant and a year of rust has blown off after few minutes of blistering rock. I'm not going to let the anger get the best of me, I'm going to press on and do something good for the world. Some day, just for grins. I don't owe the world anything, just feel like doing it.
Ne cede malis, sed contra audentior ito.
So on I roll, stopping at Ralphs for a 12-pack of Tecate and a bottle of the finest merlot $4.49 will buy for Mrs. Bittersmore. Then it's around the corner and back home, to my little castle on the hill. Well, it's at the base of a hill, but still kinda on it.
But what's this, around the corner, there in the parking lot of the North Justice Center, Superior Court of California? There among the flashing red and blue lights and herds of clean-shaven sucklings in stiff blue polyester... why it's felony take-down training, and a new class of protectors and servers from the local community college learning to ply their valuable trade on a world in desperate need of more enforcement.
But, stunned as I am, I am a smart-ass to the bone, and can't help but crack wise through the open window of the pick-up, in a voice loud enough to be heard, but just soft enough to not be a red flag for the amped-up gathering of 200 juiced up dicks with ears to come take it to another level (being as so many of them already have their guns drawn and what not). I won't repeat what I said, it was a pretty valueless statement.
But there they are, future "first responders," all posse'd up and close enough for a late-night trip to the shitter to be mistaken as a perp flushing the stash, thus necessitating the obligatory no-knock, no-warrant ass-rape of the Fourth Amendment.
The phrase sticks in my mind:
First responder.
I think back to the time I got cowboyed at the recording studio where I was holding my first decent job (along with a few of my coworkers) by a couple of LBJ's older grand-kids, who showed up for an early session packing heat instead of beats and lyrics, and cleaned out the place before getting off scot-free. The "first responders" showed up a half an hour after we could no longer hear them carting off the mix board, mics (just the good ones, they left the SM57's), and effects. I take that back, the THIRD responders showed up a half and hour after they split. The second responder was a buddy of mine I was meeting for a jam (I wasn't even working that day, god dammit!), who found us on the floor of a sound-proof rehearsal room and cut us free from the duct tape we were bound with. He called the pigs, the third responders, who eventually showed up to act like they were taking notes in their little books before heading to Norms for some pancakes.
And the first responders: that was us, the marks. Our response: just what we'd always been told to respond with -- compliance. Give 'em what they want and they'll leave you alone. But luckily for my macho pride, it turns out that by the time I figured out what was up, I wasn't in much of a position to do anything about it anyway. He was behind a door and came at me from the back, a hand grabbing me just above the left elbow, and the gun hitting my kidney just about the time I turned to half-see him out of the corner of my eye, so I didn't have much of a chance to bust out some bad-ass Krav Maga move and disarm him, if in fact I was inclined to do so, which I wasn't. He got the drop on me, no two ways about it. So I layed on the floor as instructed and waited for whatever was coming. I remember thinking that if there was ever a better place to get capped in the back of the head, it would be in a sound-proof room in an industrial park two rights and a left away from the north-bound 405 on a Saturday morning at 9:30 a.m. Pretty scary.
But here's the scary part. There was no fear, no adrenaline, no hyperventalating, no begging for my life (well, not on my part anyway, one of my unfortunate co-workers was a bit more anxious about getting domed, and did a little last minute wheeling-and-dealing, which turned out to not be necessary, thank the maker). Nothing but a little up-tick in the pulse, and that strange numbness. The scariest was not being scared. I knew exactly what could happen at any second, and for some reason, it didn't bother me much. And this was a decade ago (give or take), before I started paying enough attention to realize what a complete mess modern society really is.
I guess nowadays, what with Mrs. B and Junior Lips waiting at home for me to bring home 52% of the bacon, I might be a little more unnerved. And I guess that's a good thing. Gerald Celente says that "when people lose everything, and they have nothing left to lose, they lose it." I guess I should be thankful that I have so much to lose, and that having so much to lose will be such a strong force to keep me from losing it. Because "it" is looking less and less like something I would want to hold onto anyway.
But since I'm going to hang on to it, I may as well learn how to hang onto it good and hard. After all, we all know who the real "first responder" is.
Anyway, I'm back in the game, and looking forward to doing something good for a change and showing Junior Lips what it means to be alive and free, even if it's behind enemy lines.
I'll sleep well with that in mind, and the Tecates won't hurt either.
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