Dubious headlines from suspicious sources


Elon Musk’s Estranged Father had a baby with his stepdaughter

And they wonder why the car is failing.      “Paging DeLorean, Mister John DeLorean.”


Storm Daniels Strips To Make America Horny Again

MAHA ? Please, I don’t think that’s a problem.


Utah Bar Sends Topless Photos To States Attorney’s

Now I’m not clear if that’s “a bar” or “the bar”.


Color Code For Fence Post; Purple Means No Trespassing

Wait, I thought fences meant “No trespassing”. Gotta go paint my posts.


Scientists Say Uranus Smells Like Rotten Eggs

Something for all the seventh graders to snicker about. Again


“Sergeant Noel Ramirez, 30, and Deputy Taylor Lindsey, 25, of the Gilchrist County Sheriff’s Office were murdered while they ate in a restaurant on Thursday.
“Gilchrist Sheriff Bobby Schultz released a statement saying that the two deputies were eating inside of the Ace China restaurant in Trenton at around 3:00 p.m.

Recently these two Florida deputy were shot and killed while eating dinner. The “War on police” is nothing new.


I met Reggie while shooting in competition with Frank, a DEA agent. That agent taught me a lot about shooting, investigating and surviving. To my knowledge he survived at least 3 close quarter gun fights. One of which was in a vehicle and he was facing 2 to 1 odds. He won, they lost.

Reggie, at the time I met him, was working very deep undercover. He was “employed” as a freight handler with an airline which put him in place to see who was sending what and where.

Shooting on the weekends was really my release as well as “training”. I met a lot of good people shooting “guns”. Hey, almost none of them ever screwed me over (unlike my other biker and police brothers).

I had done something to irritate someone (again) because I was pulling turn-key duty in the cell block. You know jailer duty. A long tedious waste of time for a street cop like me. It was usually assigned as punishment for some minor indiscretion; especially on a Friday or Saturday.

This was even worse because DEA had made a round up and brought in 12 or 15 people. As felony arrests, they had to be processed and then all locked in separate cells. Separate cells were supposed to keep them from making up alibis or talking about their situation. Didn’t really work, they talked, they planned, but mostly they compared notes and tried to figure out how they got caught.

With so many people brought in at once, it was hard to keep them from talking with each other, even harder for me to not over hear them and I heard one say; “It had to be that fucking handler Reggie. He was the only one who knew when the shit was coming in.”

The other responded, “Yeah, it had to be that fucking guy. I’ll have that fuck taken care of, soon as I get out of here”.

They had mentioned the Reggie’s last name so I was sure it was the same Reggie I knew.


Again, the days before cell phones, and you weren’t supposed to make personal call from the desk, so I had to wait till I could get outside and the first thing I did was call Frank and tell him to warn Reggie. These were the kind of guys that would follow-up on these threats.

I had to leave a message at the DEA office, Frank’s house, and the airline freight office. Finally, Frank called back and I told him what I had overheard. He thanked me and said he’d warn everyone concerned.

I got off duty, had a couple of drinks, could be seeing a pattern here, and went home.

Time passed, I’d see Frank and Reggie, sometimes together but usually apart, at the weekend shooting.

Frank taught me some of the secrets of fast revolver shooting, Reggie taught me reloading. Nothing much was ever said about the threats I’d over heard.

It was 5 or 6 months later when I got a late night knock on my apartment door. There stood Frank and Reggie. Frank had called the department and found out what shift I was working. So they knew I was probably home.

I invited them in and after a few minutes they got to business. Three days earlier Reggie had been in San Jose, CA to see a lady friend. As he walked from his rental car to her front door he came under gun fire from 2 male individuals that had apparently been waiting for him.

There was a gunfight.They lost.

Reggie opened a bag he was carrying and handed me one of his guns I had often admired. He simply said: “Thanks”

Within the next few months I developed some problems of my own. Frank was transferred and Reggie just seemed to disappear.

Frank completed a long and brave career with DEA. He finished his career as an inspector and firearms instructor. He retired and moved down south somewhere.

Don’t really know what happened to Reggie.

The First

I originally called this story, “Lady In Waiting”. At that time I was going to name the collection “Battered Armor, Tarnished Shield”. A play of the old “Blue Knight” image. This story is how the shield start tarnishing.

Lady In Waiting.
The call said “possible suicide, overdose”. It was correct.
The victim was lying face down on the floor when I got there. The paramedics were right behind me. They went right to work and I started getting the story.

She was sixteen. The family was Chinese, from Hong Kong, the parents didn’t speak English but the victim and her sister were raised in Honolulu and considered themselves American.

I couldn’t see her face while the medic’s worked, but from the pictures on every wall I could see she was pretty. The pictures showed a shy looking, pretty girl just reaching the first bloom of womanhood.

Her sister was translating for the mother. Little sister was about 13 or 14 and when the mother stopped, the sister starting telling me the real background. The real story the parents would never acknowledge.

She told me her sister had finally gone on a “real” date and the boy treated her really well. He was older, he would graduate that year, but had already been accepted to the University of Hawaii. He seemed to have a good sense of where he was going.

The problem was he was Filipino. Mother and Father could not stand that. They told her she wasn’t to see him anymore. She tried to tell them how good he was and how he made her feel. They didn’t want to hear it.

She just knew it would be okay if they just would meet him and talk with him. They would see.

So she invited him over for dinner last night. She didn’t tell her family until just before he was to arrive.

Her father answered the door. He then shut it in the boy’s face, refusing to let her speak to him. He then locked her in her bedroom.

So the next day she left school early, about 9:30, and went home. She went home alone and swallowed 30-40 of her mother’s prescription sleeping pills. It was almost 5:00 before anyone came home and found her. That’s when they called.

I watched the paramedics working on her and thought what a waste. Then I realized one of the paramedic’s was looking at me from where he was air- bagging the girl. When he was sure no one else was looking, he slowly shook his head. She was already dead; they were just going through the motions for the family.

They put her on a gurney and took her to the hospital where it was made official. I made all the proper calls and notifications. Then I headed back out on patrol.

She was only 16, and had her whole life ahead of her. But because of some petty prejudices she was now and forever dead. Life wasted.

Every beat cop has some place he likes to go to write reports, maybe have a cup of coffee while he does his paperwork. I went to mine where I sat down and started to write up the report.

I couldn’t seem to get anything down on paper. I couldn’t concentrate on the report.
I couldn’t explain the tears that seemed to come on their own.
After 7 years of street patrol, it happened.  I couldn’t think, I couldn’t write.
Instead I had the first drink I ever took on duty.
The first.

50-Still Going STRONG

Today was the 50th Anniversary party for the RENEGADES M/C. 

The M/C had a huge party and a good time was had by all. Members from all over returned to join on the celebration and partake of the brotherhood and joy.

There was music, food, and a great feeling of family for the RENEGADES as well as all the visiting clubs and their members. It was something that hasn’t been seen in a long long time.

To the RENEGADES, well done. And Congratulations.



The Lovers

The early 70’s were a little less forgiving than today. Then, those involved in a “non-traditional” marriage found very few places to live. Gay couples were often forced to rent in the less desirable areas and usually had to suffer severe restrictions.

The Lovers

This was one of those “less desirable” areas. It was a small block with 3 or 4 apartment buildings clustered together. All the units were rented by same sex couples and the area beat-men had some rather off color, and very un-p.c., names for each building and its occupants.

The call was for a “Domestic Dispute”, but upon hearing the address I knew what I would probably find, Gay couples were known for violence and brutality with each other. Remember, this was the 70’s.

The apartment was no bigger than a sub-divided broom closet. One of those places you go outside to get enough room to change your mind. It was small.

But it was the decoration that caught my eye. There was blood on the walls, on the floor, and even on the ceiling. I got there just behind the EMT’s. My beat partner was already getting the story, a pretty simple one. Bob and Ted lived as man and wife. Tonight Bob came home late while Ted was doing the cleaning, the cooking and the ironing.

Ted said something about Bob being late.

Bob said something about Ted minding his own business for a change.

Ted said something about Bob’s lack of concern.

Bob said something about Ted’s cooking.

Ted said something about Bob’s masculinity.

Bob slapped Ted.

Ted hit Bob, with the steam iron, several times.

Not much of a story but one we had become familiar with when working the area. The EMT’s had Bob’s head wrapped up and were getting ready to transport him to the hospital. Ted was walking alongside the gurney holding Bob’s hand, actually patting it, and telling him not to worry, he would not let anyone hurt him.

The officer handling the case took Ted aside and put the cuffs on him and led him off.

As I gazed at the blood spattered walls the EMT pushing the gurney turned his head, and said softly, “Ain’t love grand?”


I’ve mentioned that I was a country music disc jockey. I was actually at the changing of the “ways”.


The station used mostly “CD’s” but was also set-up to use cassettes, cartridges, vinyl LP’s and  reel to reel tape players. We had both old and new technology.I learned to work all of them and since I worked the overnight shift I got to “play” a little and would sometime merge 2 or 3 songs and systems into one.

I once merged Patsy Cline and Garth Brooks, both doing “Walking After Midnight” and it worked so well I had people calling in to ask where they could buy the CD or album. I had to tell them no such luck, but I had told them to get their recorders ready.

One of the most fun things I did was an interview, on “air”, with C.W. McCall of “Convoy” fame.

It all started when I got an idea I wanted to track C.W. down, for some reason.

So I approached the program director and asked if I could do and “on air interview”. She agreed, as long as I did the hunt on my own time and money. This was in 1993 so there was no internet, etc to use, so I did it the old fashion way, by telephone.

It was a labor of love and I finally got a home address from a “Post Mistress” in a little town in Colorado. She knew “C.W.” by his real name Bill Fries, as he had been the town mayor.

I mailed him a letter asking for an interview, included a list of questions I wanted to ask and gave him the stations telephone number (remember no cell phones).

A couple of weeks later I received a letter from Bill giving me his home number, the best times to call, Colorado time of course, and saying he’d be happy to  do the interview.

The station program manager almost fell over when I presented it to her with a request to record the interview that weekend. She said she had been sure I’d never find him.

My worry was I’d never be able to keep Bill talking, as C.W., long enough to fill a one hour show, including commercials and music inserts.

Oh boy, I couldn’t have been more wrong. I called on a Saturday. And by the time I hung up, we had more than 2 hours of taped conversation.

C.W. was a pro, he’d let me lead him into a conversation that would lead right into the music and he even did a couple of the commercials.

Then he recorded 9 or 10 introductions to include all the disc jockeys. Alas, I’ve lost the recording of the interview but I still have an 8 track cassette of his promo, a signed LP cover, and a very nice autographed picture and letter from him. It was a good show and suddenly the other disc jockeys started coming up with who they wanted to interview. But it was not to be.

A few months later the station, at least the country AM side, was sold and became an “alternative rock” station. For several years, there was no country music on the air. I’m glad that changed.

The C.W. McCall interview was some of the most fun I ever had on radio and he was genuine gentleman and a professional. He remains an e-mail and letter friend to this day.

I’d ride in his convoy any day.

It Was My Job

Sometimes, the job is more important that your fears. How you respond is your measure.


I’ve never made a secret of the fact I don’t like fire. I could never understand why a guy would leave the police department and join the fire department.

The argument was always something to the effect “At least I don’t have to face off with some knife/gun welding screwball”.

Yes that’s true, but you can talk to the screwball, you can’t talk to fire. It won’t listen. But it was part of the job. Police officers are expected to respond and act.

It could anything from a VW Van on fire while coming down the Pali. Those vans had a history of catching fire with the rear mounted engine, but usually not while driving. Most often it was parked in someone’s carport, they were “working” on it, and the whole house burns down with it.

That one was simple, radio for the fire department, take out the fire extinguisher, and try to keep anything else from catching.

Then there was the run down old building on Nuuanu Street. I came upon it as the fire was just getting started. It was known to be vacant so it would have the usual homeless persons, junkies, and maybe even a hooker turning a street trick, as occupants.

When I walked up it was just started and I knew someone had to go in and check to see if any of those occupants were present. Since I was there, it was my job. So I used my radio to report the fire and went inside.

It was a three story building, wood, left over from probably the early 1950’s. It had housed any number of stores and the last incarnation was a curio shop that had specialized in faux-oriental art. It had been there for years because the building owner and the store owner were the same guy. It was run at a loss for tax stuff.

The flames were coming from the top floor down, had started to burn the second floor when I had found it. I went inside, staying low, and checked the first floor and didn’t find anyone there. Smoke was heavy and acidic and there was no way I could get to the upper floors but I had to try.  I tried, but couldn’t get up the stairs.

The first fire company was arriving when I came out. The building was fully engulfed by then and really all the fire department could do was let it burn and keep the adjoining buildings from catching fire.

An ambulance had been dispatched, usual for any fire call out, for victims or firefighters, so the EMT’s gave me a quick check out, a couple of breaths of oxygen, I gave a verbal report to the sector supervisor  and returned to the station to start the paperwork. It was later determined the fire had been deliberate but it was never determined just who had started it.

The next one was on S. Beretania Street right where the Kapiolani and King Street  meet. There was an old one story residential building just past the intersection and I was returning to the main police station when I “observed” it was burning brightly. Again, it was uninhabited, but you don’t know until you check.

Again, the radio, the blue lights, and away I go.  The building wasn’t fully in flames when I stopped, and was raised about two feet off the ground by pilings. I got as close as I could and dropping to my stomach I did my best to look under the flames for any indication there was anybody trapped or trying to get out.

There wasn’t.  But it was my job to be as sure as possible so I kept looking.

The fire crew showed up and took over and I continued on to the station to start paperwork just like the other fire. And just like the other fire, my first stop was the locker room where I changed my uniform. It was bad enough the uniforms had smelled like smoke, but I changed because I had pissed my pants in fear, both times.

That’s correct, I am so afraid of fire, I would piss myself while forcing myself to go in and look for victims.

I went in, because it was my job.