The war, via the Huntington Beach California Police Blotter

Waverider Circle, non-emergency. A man reported that he “doesn’t have an emergency, however he may have one soon.” The caller was a soldier who said he had just returned from Iraq to find that his wife was at another man’s residence. A dispatcher advised the man “to stop if he felt he was going to commit a crime.” The man said he would drive somewhere and “cool off,” 2:16 p.m.

Neely Circle, 4800 block, burglary in progress. A woman reported someone was trying to break into her apartment. While several police units prepared to respond, including the department’s helicopter, the woman said the man could be her husband. The woman turned out to be the wife of the soldier from the earlier call. The soldier had followed his wife to her new boyfriend’s apartment after he learned she didn’t want to be married to him anymore. The soldier had “scaled the balcony railing to see what his estranged wife was doing” and “was shaking the sliding door violently,” 2:57 p.m.

Westwood Memory (I may have posted this before)

Some time in the late 1980s I was in Westwood Village, which is the part of L.A. just south of UCLA. It had been a big entertainment district, the place to be on Friday and Saturday Night, but was in a steep decline. Most of the fancy stores and restaurants had gone, things were dirty, and most of the pedestrians were lost souls. I was among them, since I was taking the bus from my unsuccessful psychotherapist back to my grimy Hollywood apartment.

It was maybe 9 pm, cold and blustery, and the first drops of rain were moistening the blowing trash so it stuck to people and objects unpleasantly. Coming up towards the bus stop, I came upon this scene:

In the doorway to an office building, one of the local homeless poor had set up camp. He was about 35, dressed in what had once been a decent suit which was torn and stained and shedding buttons. He himself had a mop of blonde hair and a dirty face wreathed in a joyous smile. He had a boom box going full blast and was singing along lustily, with a cap on the ground in hopes that someone would reward this piece of impromptu street karaoke.

The song he was performing? Barry Manilow’s 1976 hit “Looks Like We Made It“.

I still wonder about that guy. He certainly wasn’t seeing the dingy, damp, urban failure in front of him, or the RTD bus or the other bums or me in my jeans & jacket & backpack looking at him in horror. He was in heaven, maybe onstage in Vegas. Maybe he even was Barry. Looks like we maaaaaaaade it! I wonder what happened to him?

Patio Nights: Bad boys, bad boys

Some of you might remember the strange doings in the insurance office upstairs from the patio. The youngish woman who’s apparently the daughter of the insurance agent using the office at night, lots of comings and goings of obviously freaked out addicts, bad scenes with people waving knives and yelling and kicking things. We were on the verge of calling the cops, mostly because she had her young son around for all this fun and because there are a lot of children on the patio who really shouldn’t have to deal with tweakers flailing about waving sharpened screwdrivers.

And then it all stopped. She still showed up but seemed to be doing legit daytime business stuff, and had a guy with her who looked like he had a job and was nice to the kid, and I thought “well good, she stopped dealing”.

Last night she was there with That Guy Who Gets Arrested On Cops, and they were playing yell at each other and slam the door for an hour or so. It wasn’t clear what was going on, but we started to wonder if she was trying to leave and he kept slamming the door on her. Or whether the quiet bits meant that she was being strangled. Or whether the kid was there. Around the time we were thinking seriously we should call the cops, the door opened and Loser Boy appeared. His first act was to dump a cup of ice from the second floor balcony on to bruisedhips which was a mistake, because that’s when the cops got called.

They showed up in about 30 seconds and were oddly casual. While both of them were talking to her inside, Arrest-Me-Now popped off his keychain, slipped down the stairs, and disappeared. Sierra pointed out that he probably lost the keychain so he could hop the fence in back more easily, because Sierra is O.G. from H.B. and thinks that way. Obviously Bluto didn’t want to talk to any cops at length last night.

No idea what happened to her. Part of me sympathizes with her obviously wretched life and wants Things To Get Better, but considering what she’s putting her kid through it might be better if she spent some time in the snicker while Grampa raised Junior. Whatever’s going on, it’s not the six-year-old’s fault.

I’m mostly a small-L libertarian about “drugs”, but speed is such a terrible, terrible thing.

Door to Door (slight return)

Another college guy showed up at the door with the exact same spiel.

ME: You guys already hit me up.

HIM: It’s not what you think, we’re not selling magazines.

ME: Right, you’re selling books!

HIM: …yes. Did he have something like… ::shows brochure::

ME: Right, exactly. Books for kids, in the hospital.

HIM: Well, crap. I’m just around the corner on Francisco. No one around here is in my class! What the heck?

There’s a pause and the poor guy looks genuinely lost.

ME: I’m not sure he was at UCLA like you. Maybe he is at a different school that’s doing the fundraiser.

HIM: Oh man, yeah. Crap. Yeah.

ME: So, anyway, this area has had the pitch already. Sorry.

HIM: Thanks, man. ::wanders off sadly::