Leading By Example

This just in:

RIVERSIDE, Calif. — A former police chief in California has been charged with drunken driving after leaving a club and crashing his city-owned car.

The Riverside County district attorney's office charged Russell Leach on Monday with misdemeanor driving under the influence of drugs and alcohol. He could face up to six months in jail in convicted.

The 62-year-old Leach, former police chief in the city of Riverside, crashed a Chrysler into a fire hydrant on Feb. 8. Two tires were missing when police stopped him three miles from the collision site.

Leach previously said he was disoriented from taking pain medication. He resigned last month for medical reasons.

Prosecutors say California Highway Patrol investigators determined Leach had taken prescription drugs and had at least 11 drinks before the crash.

Leach couldn't immediately be reached Monday for further comment.

(courtesy Huffington Post)

Mainly so I know which spots to avoid in the future, I want to know what kind of club has 62-year-old men hanging around.

Was it, perhaps, a strip club? I mean, something tells me he wasn't shaking his diaper to techno music...

_

Fateful Urination

I think there are more pictures of cats on the internet than naked women.
Anybody want to count for me?

Once upon a time, back when I was living with my friend Pierre, I was chasing a girl named Cat.

Pierre and I were supposed to meet up with Cat and her friend Robin (yes, they are a superhero team) at a Sigur Ros show at the Riviera Theater in Chicago, not long after I met Cat while working on a McDonald's Diner commercial shoot in the southern tip of Indiana (aka Fattown, where all the fast-food companies test-market new products).

I got back from work later than expected that evening, Pierre and I pounded some drinks, and we took off for the show. We were running late, had trouble finding parking, quickly took some puffs from Pierre's trusty inhaler, and speed-walked toward the theater.

After only a few blocks, Pierre and I both had to piss so badly that we didn't feel we could make it the remaining two blocks, much less wait in any line that might have formed at the theater. We noticed a dark alleyway nearby and did our business.


Well, it wasn't exactly an alley, more like a dead-end sort-of alley in between a couple buildings that formed a U-shape. That's an important detail because, as soon as I zipped up, a car came barreling into this 'alley' and trapped us, temporarily blinding us with its headlights.

It was the cops.

'Shit,' I thought. 'Am I gonna get a ticket for public urination? Nah...they don't really do that...'

The two cops leaped out of the car as I, for some reason, tried to casually squeeze past the passenger door as it opened, as if they were there for somebody else.

"Where do you think you're going?"
"We're late for a show..."
"Not so fast. What are you guys doing back here?"
"Pissing."
"You know I could give you a ticket for that."

I just looked at him, as if to say, 'I bet you won't.' His partner spoke up.

"Alright, hands on the hood."

Pierre and I put our hands on the hood of the idling cruiser and I got really freaked out because Pierre had a bag of weed and a one-hitter on him.


The driver shined a flashlight on us as his partner frisked me and found nothing. He searched Pierre and found...nothing.

Huh?

As if reading my mind, the cops shared a confused look.

"Alright, stay right there. I'm gonna run your IDs."

He ran them and nothing came up. Layers of confusion.

"You know this alley is the number one spot in the city for dealing heroin."
"No, I didn't..."
"Well, now you do."
"You're free to go, but use a toilet next time or we'll write you up."
"Okay."

The disappointed cops climbed back inside their car and peeled away. Our hearts dropped back into place and we hauled-ass around the corner and down the street.

"Shit, that was scary."
"Yeah."
"I thought you had the weed on you that whole time. Where'd you put it?"
"In your glovebox."
"Damn, man--thank God. I was freakin' out."
"I don't think I'm high anymore."
"I sure am. I can't believe I tried to walk away from them..."

We laughed and headed into the theater, where the show had not only started, but Sigur Ros were already onstage.

The crowd was exactly what you would imagine--indie hipsters in their 20s and 30s--but instead of milling about and chugging beers, they were staring unblinkingly into the void, hands at their sides, entranced by the lead singer's lyrical made-up language, Hopelandic.


As we made our way through the sardine-packed, standing-room-only crowd and I searched the dark room for Cat--a girl I had only seen in person a few times before--I felt like an intruder at a funeral for the King of Sweden or something.

The annoyed glares from audience members may have been withering, and the search may have taken way longer than it should have, but at least we had a killer story to help break the ice with a coupla foxes when we finally found them.

The night certainly could have turned out far worse...

_

"Hello, Police?"

"Yes, it's an emergency. I was online tonight and somebody mentioned that Chad Michael Murray is a douche. I had no idea who he was, so I looked him up and this is what I found:"

[Reads this link in its entirety]

"Yeah, I know, this girl--nay, 25 year-old woman--has got a Chad Michael Murray fetish that I fear just won't quit until she literally owns his bloody, douchey heart and secrets it away in her hope chest. I think he's in grave danger."

[listens]

"Yeah, I'll hold."

_

White Hen Pantry

It was the year 2000. Cars were flying across the sky, then folded into briefcases and carried into work. Robots were sassy, and not yet empowered.

It was a heady time to be in college.



One night in the fall--Homecoming Weekend, whenever that was--I was drunk at a house party and decided I needed a Hostess Cupcake. I shared my craving with everyone in earshot and a couple friends joined me for the expedition to the White Hen Pantry around the corner.

Not three minutes later, I bit into the first of the two cupcakes in the package, standing a few steps back from the register, waiting for my friends to select something before we headed back.

Two young black men entered the store--we'll call them Shorty and Tallboy--and were immediately under constant surveillance by the Cashier behind the counter. I watched as Shorty and Tallboy headed down the next aisle and started stuffing items into their jackets. Tallboy stared down the Cashier and held up a fist.

It looked something like this, but not quite as erect:

The Cashier--also black--stared daggers at them and shook his head as if to say, "Not on my watch you don't." He picked up a cordless phone and dialed 911.

Tallboy did not like this reaction. He held his stare and then made a sudden move, as if to lash out at the Cashier, who flinched. Tallboy laughed.

"Ha! Look at the little bitch!"

Shorty began slowly dragging Tallboy toward the exit, pulling him by his jacket.

"Come on--let's go. Let's get out of here. Come on."

A box of Ding Dongs fell out of Tallboy's coat and everybody stared at it. Tallboy made another sudden move toward the Cashier, who again flinched.

"Awww---the little bitch is scared. Poor little bitch..."

Shorty tugged on Tallboy's jacket again, knocking a few smaller items out of it. He scooped them up and put them inside his own coat, then resumed pulling Tallboy along.

At this point, the two thieves were standing right in front of me. I'm not sure, in retrospect, why I never moved from my post. It was as if I were a scientist studying the mating rituals of animals inside a thick glass cage.

As Tallboy continued his one-note taunting/staring contest with the Cashier, Shorty gave one last tug on Tallboy's jacket and pulled him out the door with him. Problem was, this last effort actually removed Tallboy's jacket from his body and it fell on the floor of the store.

The Cashier raced around the counter and snatched the jacket off the ground.

"Ha! Got your coat!"

He immediately retreated behind the counter and continued waiting on hold for 911.

Tallboy returned and went straight behind the counter. As soon as he got a hand on his jacket, the dispatcher must have picked up and the Cashier shouted into the phone.

"White Hen! White Hen! Man behind counter!"

About five seconds later, as the two men struggled for possession of the jacket, a 120 pound black Evanston police officer rushed through the door, reached over the counter, grabbed Tallboy by the collar, somehow yanked him up over the counter with one hand, threw him on the ground, and stuck a gun in his face.

I swallowed my last bite of cupcake and stared, aghast, from a few feet away, as the Officer struggled to handcuff Tallboy with his only free hand, in disbelief that he had his gun drawn for no reason.

Unsurprisingly under the circumstances, Tallboy was able to struggle free and bolt out the door. The Officer immediately pursued and, a few seconds later, I heard what sounded like a little firecracker, followed by low grunt/exhalation.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..."

I walked outside and found Tallboy slumped against the wall of the White Hen, a bloody hole in his shoulder, a smear of blood indicating the path of his slide down the wall. He couldn't move. Or wouldn't. He just sat there, staring into space, saying "Ohhhhhhh..." every time he could muster the energy.

I went back inside to see what was up with my friends. More police officers arrived on the scene and came in for free coffee.


I found my two friends face down in the frozen foods section. They stood up and dusted off their hands.

"Did you see that?"
"Nope."
"No? What do you mean? You didn't see that?"
"As soon as we saw those guys come in, we hit the deck."
"What?!"

A police officer walked over.

"You guys want some coffee?"
"No, thanks--I don't drink coffee."

Another one walked over.

"You want some coffee? It's free."
"No. Can I have something else instead?"

He walked away without answering me. I followed him and overheard the following gem as he talked with a fellow officer:

"Man, he just got off suspension, too."
"For what?"
"Shooting himself in the foot."
"Haha..."

'Fucking trigger-happy motherfucker,' I thought to myself. I mean, Tallboy was a prick, no doubt--and a not-so-successful shoplifter--but he was unarmed and if the Officer hadn't been so keen on sticking his gun in the guy's face, maybe he could've actually cuffed him and nobody would have gotten shot.

"You want some coffee?"
"No!"
"Okay. So, you guys are going to have to come down to the station, answer some questions."
"When?"
"Now. They're sending a car over."

Long story long, they took us to the police station and left us all in some weird conference room for a couple hours. The three of us were all in an Action Movies class together, so the topic of that day's lecture was fresh in our minds--Is Rambo Gay?


The other two argued back and forth about it, rehashing the evidence presented in class, the tenets of the action genre, etc. I simply stared at my remaining cupcake, until the following slipped out:

"I ate one cupcake and a man got shot. What happens if I eat the other one?"
"Just eat it."
"No. I can't. Something bad might happen."
"I'll eat it."
"No!"

Some police officer eventually came and took us to wait in three separate rooms--"so you can't get your stories straight."

What the fuck? Not only were we clearly not part of some conspiracy, but you already left us in the same room FOR TWO HOURS!


The next two hours were even more mind-numbingly torturous. Every ten or fifteen minutes, somebody would come by and offer me coffee. The rest of the time I just stared at the wall, slowly becoming hungover.

Somebody finally came in and asked for my version of the events. I told him. He didn't believe me.

An hour later, his superior came in and asked for my story. I told him. He didn't believe me.

An hour later, HIS superior came in and asked for my story...you can see where this is going.

Finally, around 8am, the Assistant District Attorney came in, freshly showered and ready to go. I told him my story--the same one--and he either believed me or didn't give a shit. He said I could leave.

As I rode home in the back of a squad car, at 8:30am on Homecoming Sunday, disapproving old alumni stared at me from the sidewalks on their way to breakfast, clucking their tongues, wondering what sort of endearingly-youthful trouble I had gotten up to last night. I wanted to punch them.


Mostly, however, I was super pissed-off that, instead of being able to sleep after this whole ordeal, I had to immediately walk two miles back to campus and sit in an editing room for the next twelve hours or I would have to take an incomplete in one of my classes.

Over the course of the next TWO YEARS, I would occasionally get a phone call from a lawyer, asking me again for my story, then telling me I would have to come to the trial. They even said they would fly me back from Boston, which I found surprising.

It never happened. Tallboy pled guilty; to what, I'm not sure--being shot? Attempted shoplifting? Being an asshole? Excessive use of the word 'bitch?'

Needless to say, every time I see a Hostess Cupcake or enter a White Hen Pantry, certain strange memories creep into the ole noggin.

And I never ate the other cupcake, by the way, which is probably why you haven't been shot yet.

_

The Most Fascinating Time I've Ever Been Pulled Over

I was eighteen years old. I had just dropped off my older brother at a revolutionary war reenactment at Cantigny, and had to speed the thirty miles back to Skokie for a friend's birthday party.


I was driving a black 1992 Mercury Tracer LTS about 120 miles per hour, weaving between cars on the tollway like a downhill skier slaloms flags, blasting Simon & Garfunkel's collected works, singing at the top of my lungs, with all the windows down.

I was having a great time.

I'm not sure how long he was following me, but it was probably for much longer than he would have liked. When I finally saw him in my rearview mirror, I was understandably pissed-off, but not terrified or anything like that--I'd been through this many times before.

I pulled over to the left shoulder and waited.


When I saw a 6' 4" musclebound black state trooper dressed like Smokey the Bear (but with clothes on) heading toward me, my confidence dimmed somewhat--I think it was his unbelievably erect military posture that did the most damage. And the hat. I think that's why they wear them. Most of the rest of my confidence disappeared as soon as he spoke.

"You were drivin' like a ASSHOLE out there!"
"Sorry..."
"Why you drivin' so fast?!"
"Well, I'm late for a friend's birthday party."
"That's a piss-poor excuse for goin' 95 miles an hour."

I smiled to myself--he only got me at 95? Thank god...

"I know, but it is the truth..."
"Step out of the vehicle."

I do. He walks back to his patrol car, gets in, closes the door, rolls down the window, grabs a notepad.

"Who's the owner of the vehicle?"
"What?"
"WHO OWNS THE VEHICLE!"
"My dad, I guess."
"Name."
"John Smith."
"What's his phone number?"
"847.555.5555"

Then he set down the notepad and rolled up the window. Just before it closed, I said something I would never believe I would ever say, if I didn't know that I have already said it:

"Aren't you gonna give me a ticket?"

He rolled the window back down and smirked at me.

"Oh, you won't be drivin'-- your daddy's gonna get a call."

And with those parting words, he blasted off down the highway. I stood on the left shoulder, buffeted by the violent surges of redirected air from the left-lane speeders blowing past me, in sheer disbelief of what just happened, crunching the situation like a Cray supercomputer figuring out pi.

'So...huh? He's going to call my dad? That's his plan? That's his plan!!! WHAT?! He could have revoked my license! He could have given me a huge ticket! Speeding! Reckless driving! He hated me, and he let me get away? It makes no sense!'

I got back in my car and slammed on the gas, merged over into the left lane, and cruised at the speed limit for the rest of the ride to my friend's parent's house. I was late.


I realized my parents would still be on vacation for at least the next week or so and my strategy was therefore a simple one. I never answered the home phone and kept vigilant watch over the ancient answering machine. One day, there was a brief message from the state trooper, asking 'John Smith' to call him back.

I erased it. And I never heard anything about it ever again.

_