In police work they were call “status offenders”. These are juvenile “crimes”, things that would not be a crime for an adult. That didn’t make them any easier to handle.


Status offenses are mostly “persons in need of supervision” or an “incorrigible juvenile”. An incorrigible juvenile is one that can no longer be controlled by the parents or guardians. The juvenile is taken into custody, booked, and taken to the detention facility until the Family Court can hold a hearing and make a determination. Usually the kid is sent to a foster home; sometimes the kid is sent back home, if the parent wants the child back.

So the kid gets the short end of the stick. Most of the time the kid is getting what he deserves, but not always.

I was working with my first FTO (field training officer) when we got the call for an “incorrigible juvenile, a female”. So dispatch sent us as we were the nearest 2 man unit and you always want 2 officers when having anything to do with females.

It wasn’t a high rent area, I’d seen much worse. Mostly studio and 1 bedroom apartments, semi-furnished, no pool, single parking, and you pay the electricity and telephone.

The grounds were the usual collection of weeds, beer cans, and cars that hadn’t been driven in months. But inside the apartment it was a different story. It was as clean and neat as it could be. No dirty dishes, no roaches on the walls, and no dirty laundry everywhere, just clean.

So was the “incorrigible” juvenile. She was 11 and very quiet. Like the apartment, she was clean. Quiet and clean. That was more than you could say for her mother.

It was 4:30 pm and “mom” couldn’t stand without weaving. “Mom” just couldn’t tell us enough about how she couldn’t control the “little bitch” anymore. How she wouldn’t listen or obey anymore.

She went on and on for a good 15 minutes without anyone else saying anything. When she did stop to take a breath, and a drink, my FTO asked what she wanted us to do with the child.

“Take her away. Lock her up in jail. I don’t care. Just get her out of my sight.”

Small tears began to make their way from the corner of the little girl’s eyes down her cheeks. A small whimper escaped, and tore at me.

But in this city, at that time, the adult is always right.

So we listened to “mom” go on and on. We took all the right information and made the right notes while the little “incorrigible” packed a small bag. I remember that bag, it was pink, plastic, and had pictures of “Cinderella” on the sides. As she and I walked out to the car, she hugged it to her chest with both arms. The tears were falling freely now.

As we walked, I felt lousy. I was suddenly the guy in the black hat, the evil prince.

As I opened the car door and the little girl slid in, a neighbor came out. A large woman in a house dress you could use to scare a vacuum cleaner salesman. When she spoke, it was with a heavy German accent.

“You are takin’ the little girl? Goot, is about time. That woman in there is no damn goot. Drunk always and bringing home strange men. The other night she did that and  little girl sat on the porch almost all night.” She paused and took a deep breath. “And the old woman upstairs, you know the crippled one?” I didn’t but she went on anyway. “That little girl always is helping her. Cleaning and going to the store for her”.

She walked to the patrol car window.

“You will be alright sweetheart. These policemen are friends for you”. The little girl gave a weak but brave smile as the woman reached through the open door and gave her a hug.

As I got into the car next to her, I looked out and saw “mom” standing in the doorway, drink in hand. She hadn’t hugged her daughter.

My FTO slid in behind the wheel, started the car and we began to pull away. I glanced at the small figure next to me, huddled against the far door. On the seat between us was the small plastic bag with pictures of Cinderella on the sides. The child looked at me and smiled. It wasn’t forced or brave, it was the smile for someone you hoped will be your friend.

I didn’t feel like the evil prince. With that smile, like the kiss of a princess changes the enchanted toad, she had turned me into Prince Charming.

Headlines, (sort of)

You can’t make this stuff up. From this weeks “Headlines”


Gun trained teacher accidentally discharges weapon in classroom.

Trained by who, Yosemite Sam? And why did he have it out? Teacher, of what?


 Neo-Nazi arrested after trashy affair with father-in-law’s wife.

“Trashy” really should have been capitalized. He was arrested not for the affair, but for “domestic violence” when his wife went after him.


Mom who married son, will go to jail for marrying daughter.

Daughter’s name?  Misty Velvet Dawn. Well, who wouldn’t want to marry her?


FBI Seizes over 3K penis’ during raid of morticians home..

Wow, they picked a pack of pickled peckers. Did he have them sorted according to size? Age?


And that wonderfull entertainer  known as Charo turned 68 this week.

Crap, I’m older than Charo.


Reprobate Friends

It was with sadness I heard of the passing of local entertainers Peter Moon and Donna Butterworth. Of course Peter and the “Sunday Manoa” and “The Peter Moon Band” were mainstays of the Waikiki music scene in the 70’s. Heard them , both bands, on several occasions.

Ms. Butterworth was a child star that held her own against Elvis and even won a Golden Globe. I had the chance to meet her when her family vehicle had problems while at Hanauma Bay. I was patrolling that area and managed to help them get started and home. I remember she was very adult for her young years, but very polite and courteous.

During my years patrolling Waikiki I met many celebrities, but the ones I met off duty were the most memorable.


My friend Bob (USMC RET) and I used to frequent the same bars. During the week we often ended up at a little place on Lewers Street. called Keoni’s.

Great jazz and classic bar music by Jimmy Borges and Betty Loo for a small hole in the wall bar.

We’d walk in and sometimes Jimmy would stop in the middle of a song to greet us, Betty Loo would wave from her piano.

It was a Thursday, close to midnight because I was working the 2:30 pm to 11:00 pm shift (third watch) when we walked into Keoni’s. The crowd was small so we walked toward our usual booth.

Jimmy stopped in mid-song, “Hi Bob…Hi Jim, grab your booth.

Betty waved at us. Betsy the bartender opened 2 beers and the waitress was headed toward the booth before we sat down.

Several of the customers also called greetings out to us as we passed.

After he finished the set, Jimmy came over to say a few words. He then walked away to talk to some of the other regulars and Bob and I fell into a discussion about something or another.

Bob and I sat sipping our drinks when we realized a very large man was leaning over our table. He looked at Bob and I and said; “Who the hell are you guys? I’m a damn movie star and I don’t get the service you guys get. So, who are you?”

I think Bob and I realized who our guest was at about the same moment.

George Kennedy, movie and television star, was mad at us.

He then grinned, stuck out a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt and said “I’m George Kennedy and you guys are?”

We introduced ourselves and Kennedy became very interested when he found I was an off duty police officer.

We began talking about some of his roles when the woman he had been sitting with walked over and said something to the effect of: “George, this is our vacation. You’re always leaving me to sit with your reprobate friends. Now come back and sit with your wife”. And she walked away. Kennedy stood up shook hands again and said, “That’s my wife, God I love her” and walked away.

I took two things away from this meeting.

One, George Kennedy loved his wife.

Two, I was one of George Kennedy’s reprobate friends.

Actually, that was the only time I ever met the man but don’t tell his wife. I kinda like being one of his reprobate friends.

I still have a signed picture of Kennedy as “Bumper Morgan, The Blue Knight”. And a copy of his autobiography. He  was in every sense of the word, a man and a star.



Now I’m as willing an alibi as a brother could ask for, just maybe not the best. I’ve alibied for brothers to wives, bosses, teammates, and such. Yep, you lie and I’ll swear to it. But, you gotta let me know.

I was sitting in ANNA’s, there’s that pattern again, when Groudy and his current girlfriend walked in. Thus the start of my tale.

He was called Groudy due to several personal hygiene traits. Example? Ok, his showers usually occurred when he was caught riding in the rain, his hair was the blackest you could buy at the drug store, and he never met an anti-perspirent, ever.

His choice of girlfriends ran from strippers and hookers all the way to hookers and strippers. The current girlfriend was not an exception in that she worked as an “exotic dancer”. Having been together 3 or 4 months, she was setting a new record for putting up with Groudy.

So there I was, sitting at the bar minding my own cold beer and I hear Groudy’s bike pull in. After you been around bike’s and bikers long enough, you know what each individual’s bike sounds like, it’s a gift.

So I knew who it was, so I was not on guard when they walked in. With Groudy, I should have known better.

My first clue was the sudden sharp pain in the back of my head where someone had slapped me, hard. I turned around in time to see her pulling her hand back for a second shot. She launched the slap and I managed to deflect it with the side of my head.

Now that I was facing her, I realized the background noise was her screaming, at me.

“You no good son of a bitch.”

“How dare you keep my old man out for three fuckin’ days? What the fuck is wrong with you? “

“Mother fucker, I oughta cut your balls off,you no good….” a class act this girl. That’s why she was an exotic dancer and not a stripper.

Like any good man, the moment I realized she was mad at me, I started apologizing immediately. Even if I had no idea why she was mad, at me.

Finally she began running out of steam, and nasty things to call me, so she smacked my shoulder ( I think she was aiming for my head but her arm was tired from all the other slaps), called me a couple of repeat names, and stomped off to a back table followed by Groudy with his head hanging like a man on his way to the gallows.

Groudy had already ordered drinks, and had a table in the back corner farthest from me. My buddy.

After a couple of minutes, Donna the bartender walked to my end of the bar and asked me what that had been all about. My only answer was, “I ain’t got a clue.”

Two or three drinks later, Groudy’s girl gets up goes to the bathroom. He hauls ass over to me as soon as the door started to close.

As soon as he gets close enough I asked, “What the hell was that all about?”

Well, the story is an old Groudy classic. The week before he’d been out riding, drinking, and running around and this other stripper had fallen in love with him. So he had spent the next three days, and nights, with stripper number two. Then he went home and told his girlfriend it was all my fault, because he’d been with me.

His story was I’d dragged him around, bought the booze, chemical assistance, and kept him on the go for three days and nights. It was really all my fault. He was just weak. After all, he couldn’t just let a brother go on a bender by himself.  Now it says something about a man’s reputation when she doesn’t even blink and is totally willing to buy this story without any proof or verification.

Now, as I said I don’t mind being an alibi, but at least tell me ahead of time. At least give me a fighting chance.

So I took the hit for Groudy. She would never speak to me as long as she was with Groudy, which was another couple of weeks, and he would buy my drinks any time we were together.

Of course, once she left my gravy train stopped. But, believe me, it was the first story I’d tell to every new girlfriend Groudy brought around.

I’m a good alibi, but I’m not a stupid one.

Yama’s Roofing Inc.


My suffered roof damage in Oct 2017. It was inspected by our insurance company and a check was issued. We contacted several roofing companies and accepted a proposal from Yama’s Roofing.

On Jan 4, 2018 Yama’s was given the requested deposit of 65% and that check was deposited by them.

Time went by without any contact from Yama’s. My wife had to repeatedly call the office to get any kind opf information. The answer was basically,” it’s been raining and we’re behind and we’ll call you.”. They never did. After 6 weeks I began to become a little worried.

My wife continued to contact the office, the “office manager”  Kelly continued to take messages and despite numerous requests to have someone in authority call back no one did. Instead Kelly  repeatedly passed back messages form the boss. In fact, the clerk intimated it was our fault for the delay as we had not delivered the paint required for the trim. Being the first time this had been mentioned, my wife returned home, and then drove back to Yama’s and hand delivered a gallon of paint we had gotten for that purpose.

On 3/5 I told my wife we should consider asking to have our deposit returned as there had been no work or communication for 2 months. The officer clerk advised my wife that it could be returned but it would be minus the monies spent already on materials. The conversation became non -producing so my wife gave the clerk her cell number and departed. She admits she slammed the door.

Today, 3/8/18  Brian Peterson drove to my home. He was there to leave the gallon of paint and a letter. He did not knock, use the door bell, or make any attempt to contact my wife while he was there.  He was going to  drive off without even speaking to her.

My wife saw him in the driveway and opened the garage door. Mr. Peterson was less than pleasant and far less than professional. In fact, when he returned to his vehicle he took the time to make an obscene gesture to my wife while parked in my driveway. Peterson is a large man, my wife is a physically frail cancer survivor and this was very disturbing to her.

In his letter Peterson said “Due to your unacceptable  and rude behavior” he was refunding our deposit in full.  BUT, they were willing to “reconsider” if we write a written apology to “Kelly”.


Since then I have found numerous Yelp reviews that basically tell the same story over and over. But nobody has done anything. Well, that stops now. This letter is going to the BBB, Contractors Licensing Board, the Roofers Union Rep., Action Line, The Hawaii Herald Tribune and any one else I can think of.

Hey Peterson, maybe someone will forward this to you. Come on over to the house, we’ll talk.

Random Thoughts and Headlines

I swear, they’re all true.

Scientists say owning a cat may cause mental illness

Duh, Crazy Cat Lady !!


When did being called a “Dive Bar” become a good thing?


China cracks down on funeral strippers

“Cracks down” indicates this has been addressed before? And Funeral  Strippers?  I remember trying to get a brothers urn a lap dance . Just like politicians, there are some things even a stripper won’t do, until the money is right.


Since when do employees (NFL players) tell the boss (NFL owners) what they will and won’t do??


Teen paralyzed after swallowing a slug. 

What happened to Tide Pods? And they want to tell us what we’re doing wrong!


Study reveals the amazing health benefits of tequila.

Obviously those conducting this study have never had a tequila hangover. Trust me, there is nothing healthy about a tequila hangover.


Candle Light Run


For many years Julie and I attended the “Candle Light Run” to Punchbowl Cemetery. This was started by the VNV M/C and is the Sunday before Memorial Day.

I’d been going since the first one, and have been friends with most of the VNV over the years. Hell, I helped start the charter in Hawaii. The VNV brothers here all wear a pocket tab that says, in Hawaiian, “The First to Stand”. Hawaii VNV members are the only ones to do so. That tab was the child of Bill “Fatchi” Fortini and me in 1985 or 1986.

The service in Punchbowl is always a little hard on me.  I would think about all the friends I know buried there, and other Military cemeteries around the nation. Often it was the only time of the year I’d see “Point man”, Leo.

Leo was a high school friend of mine, who went into the USMC the year after I enlisted in the Air Force. The problem is Leo “never came home”

But he was always there to greet me and call Julie “Honey girl”. God bless her,  she has never complained.

The major thing about the Sunday run is very few politicians show up. One year they asked a former Hawaii Congresswoman to be speaker of honor, and the majority of the crowd stood and turned their backs to her , this was done is a matter of her stand on the VN war and her condemnation of the warriors. Since then most politicians stay away.

There is also very little media coverage except to say “a bunch of hairy bearded guys with sleazy girlfriends, rode their really loud motorcycles in to Punchbowl. Now to the weather”.

So it’s a run for those of us that will not forget. It is the  the “Missing man” fly over is especially hard on me.

I don’t recall exactly the year but there was a good crowd the year this happened. Probably the late 90’s.

Julie and I had ridden in by ourselves and talked with friends as they arrived. Everyone keeps their voices low there, it’s a respect thing. But even at a whisper 3-4 hundred people talking is loud. As usual there weren’t enough chairs, but a lot of the riders seemed to like to stand during the service. When you come in, or shortly after, ROTC cadets pass out candles (pushed through the bottom of wax paper cups to act as windshields) for the lighting ceremony after the speeches and before the fly over.

Julie and I had seats near the back rows, and next to us was a guy from “Indiana” who was on vacation and had come up to pay his respects. He was by himself that night. I say Indiana because he was wearing a “Viet Nam Veteran” baseball cap that had an Indiana patch sewn on the back.

At the end, everyone shares flame to light the candles, four helicopters would enter Punchbowl flying low, the helicopters would be in a “V” formation, and as all the people on the ground raise their candles one chopper pulls out and away as the formation passes overhead. The “Missing man” signifying those lost in battle.

I make no bones about my deep hatred for helicopters. I didn’t like ’em then, like ’em even less now. It’s mostly the damn sound that bothers me. A chopper over the house at night can set off nightmares. It is that much of a problem.

Normally, if I’m with Julie, the fly over is easier to handle. It’s not easy, just easier.

But this year was different. As the chopper pulled out, it was all I could do to keep it together. Then I looked at the guy from Indiana and recognized the stark terror and pain in his eyes. It was the same look I had. And the same tears.

Julie has a sixth sense about these things, or maybe she just reads me real good, because she was looking at him also.

Not really thinking, I took a step forward, put my arms around him, and I whispered, “You ain’t alone”. Julie stepped up and we all held each other tight. Tears fell but nobody cared. We just held on.

I never got his name, never saw him again; I don’t know what he did, where he had been, or what caused his pain.

All I do know is for that moment, he knew he was not alone, and neither was I. That’s enough.