October,2008

SFC HEADQUARTERS DOCTRINE

"Read by Thousands Round' the World!"

Al Gore says the world is a burnen' up! There's a financial crisis on every street corner between here and Hong Kong.

The entire galaxy is in a painful price fix. Everything ain't what it was and ain't gonna' be what its supposed to be.

The USA election looks like a poor choice and I smell higher taxes in air.

Good God man, Click here!

So every dang DVD and book is on major sale, starting now until we dodge that bullet.

Good God man, Click here!

27 October 2008: Eye on the Bridge. Bridging the Gap

Back in about 2001, a young man contacted me for a survey. He was a Filipino martial artist and he'd read that I had been teaching various military and police training groups around the world. He was delighted to see that a Filipino practitioner was doing such work. He was writing an article on this. I will reconstruct his email as best I can recall.

“The Filipino Martial Arts (FMA) are often disrespected as a reality survival and combat system. I want to contact various FMA exponents and quiz them on how many police and military groups they teach FMA to, compile this information and publish it to at last prove my point to the public.”

The email went something like that. But I quickly had to disappoint him and report that though I had an FMA past, he had assumed wrongly. I did not teach these groups FMA and worse for his theories, I felt the very structure, dogma and organization of almost every FMA program was simply not conducive to police and military training. Even citizen self defense for that matter.

Soldiers and cops did not want to do double sticks! To put it simply, but there is much more to this art-to-real disconnect problem than double sticks. I could tell you story after story about FMA material just didn't fit the police, military and citizen bill. But, why stop there and “pick” on just FMA? We must add any martial art to this inept list. Arts have their own flavor, look, agenda and demands that distract and deter from sheer survival and self defense. That's a fact of business. Its bad enough we must use so many abstract methods in reality training, but all martial arts exist on an abstract continuum. Only striped down parts of each can be used, and then so generic and very tactical until such a stripping that the movements lose the international flavor and root to any specific martial art. It becomes a generic...tactic.

Historically, the military, policing and citizens seeking self-defense have relied upon the martial arts for a main source of information. But each group does have their own body of tactical knowledge. Many moons ago I saw such a stratified collection of training material coming from the four “food “groups –the military, the police, the martial arts and the citizenry. I saw things from each that never crossed boundaries (and some that shouldn't). There were things that each needed to know about each other in order to maximize their survival. These things could be molded, shaped and presented to each other in an acceptable way. Then I discovered for myself the material, once skinned and isolated, did exist in a group of its own. What I nickname the "essence of combat." Once the root is established, then the material can be properly nuanced and massaged into the four “food groups” for their specific needs. Bridge the gap to import the essence. Bridge the gap to export the nuance.

"You have to have a base," one other veteran martial artist confronted me with. "What is your base art? Kempo? FMA? Even JKD has to have a base art. You have to have a base art! " My answer to this question was and still is, "the essence of combat." THIS essence is the raw, base "art!" I am not sure this MA vet or too many established martial artists can grasp the raw root concept. There is a universal, generic essence of combat beyond all martial arts.

This generic essence, enlightenment is an important point to adhere to. For examples, a karate course does not automatically fit as a self defense course. Strip center TaeKwonDo does not help the Marines out much. There are military combatives groups today that feel they too have isolated this same survival material also. Yet, they fall too much in love with the idea of being …a military group. I speak of this, what is to me an odd obsession with Israeli, or WW II or Russian military “martial arts” groups? Once in this love, in so many overt and innocent ways the mind trap starts to close, doesn't it? The distractions and agendas begin.

I decided in 1994 that one of my business mottos and therefore one of my missions would be ”bridging the gap.” It's a tattoo moment! I would try to act as a vessel to pass important information to the four groups. For one example? I can't say that I have ever learned one single thing about how criminals act, that citizens shouldn't also know. Yet this info is routinely held back. Folks are pretty much told to hide in the closet and wait for Mr. Policeman to come.

In the first few years it was difficult to keep to these two agendas, the bridging the gap agenda, and the essence of combat agenda. so in January 1997, I had to quit teaching all the systems I'd been in for decades. You all know that story by now.

And do, back on the point, I had to disappoint the young man and his FMA survey. What I teach to the military, police and citizen's self defense is not Filipino Martial Arts. It might at times look like parts of FMA, but its not. It looks like a lot of things. I think that in our current times, many students and practitioners are wiser about what their choices are. Virgin students still aren', but seasoned ones are. And I just befuddled and frustrated the veteran and his "base art," argument.

Bridging the gap is an important idea, a chant for me in a mission statement. Its bridging hand, stick, knife, gun. Its military, its police, its martial arts, its aware citizenry. No one group or system has all the answers. I just like to hang out with the group who admits this point and keeps a watchful eye out on the big bridge. There's a lot of traffic out there.

Adios, Amigos,

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22 October 2008: Life on Mars, Life in the 70s.

There I was years ago, in a London hotel, killing time and I channel surfed through the 4 TV stations available BB1, BB2, BBC3, BBC4. For some reason the U.K. hotels haven’t caught on to the cable tv craze like in the States. Even a bum's cardboard box in the USA has a 50 channel cable tv. But I usually do enjoy British “later-night” tv. Still one must put up with early hours of prime time snooker and soccer. Prime time SNOOKER! What? But, they have many good home grown shows and even USA shows. Oddly, the first time I saw C.S.I. was in a downtown London flat!

Many of the really cool Brit shows must be on cable, but the free BBCs still have some good stuff. So, it was one winter night in Kingston, I first saw the original Life on Mars. You see the name is weird. The show is weird, about a modern cop who goes back in time, to the 1970s and well...wha? Sci-fi? Police? Yes and no. But it was clever, clever, clever. And like so many British shows I’ve seen? I was pretty impressed.

Life on Mars had a cult following and I saw it again years later in Canada. Finally the USA caught the fever but they decided to remake the whole thing, because you see, no matter how rough and tumble 1970s police work was in Manchester, England? It ain’t jack on pistol-packen' Dirty Harry. The USA version of Life on Mars received a considerable hub-bub in the media before premiering this October in the USA. The show here is about a 2008 NYC detective named Tyler who gets hit by a car and wakes up as a 1973 NYC detective. The prospect being, the modern, politically correct, educated, forensic professional, is thrust into the chauvinistic shenanigans of old school bruisen’ and quick-shootin’ cops!

While watching the American commercials for the show, a sudden fact struck home to me. Hey now! They were making fun of me! I was a 1970s cop! So, as interested as I was in the plot line and overall premise, I watched the opening shows with a jaundiced and wary eye waiting to be “scriminated” against, no doubt like many of my afro brothers and womens' lib sisters would be on the show?

Still I took to the show as quickly as I took to the British show. I think it is more nuanced and developed than the British version however, I simply have not seen more than a handful of the Brit show episodes to truly know. I suggest you watch these shows. I really like both of them. The British show had an unusual and highly regarded ending that you of course, can see on u-tube. In fact this ending came in first place in a list of 50 "best TV endings" contest.

So, where things in the 70s as bad as the themes of Life on Mars might suggest? Or are they parodies of films of that time? Sometimes yes and sometimes no. I will tell you that the show does play fast and free with the Dirty Harry-ness theme. It might actually been better set in the 1960s than the 70s to fully experience the semi-lawlessness that they are trying to capture. Dirty Harry was actually written in the 1960s and Frank Sinatra was listed to play Callahan. It was eventually made 1971 with Clint. In the 70s, Harry was cleaning the same American streets as Kojak and Efrem Zemblist’s FBI and hosts of other TV shows that were not as suggestively gritty as the 50s and 60s, and played by the rules of the day. In the 70s, women’s rights was in full swing. People protested Vietnam, etc. Gloria Steinem was a household name. And there was a very strong movement to bring education and science into the policing scene. Police were paid to go to college thanks to the LEAA and the LEEP.

In the 1968 Omnibus Crime Control and Safe Streets Act, politicians created the Law Enforcement Assistance Administration and the Law Enforcement Education Program. LEEP funded 54,778 cops college money in its first year! Then a few years later, the nut farmer President Jimmy Carter struck down the LEAA and LEEP. Great news for the Life on Mars premise of run-amok cops, huh? And the LEAA - The Law Enforcement Assistance Administration program was created to fund all these and many projects , as well as supply some awesome tank-like vehicles and firepower to small agencies fearing riots, rebellions and Panthers. I guess that's the part that Mister JIM-may didn’t like.

But, there is a lot of punching and shoving and pistol-cocking in Life on Mars. And well, yes, I have done some of this. I would be a liar if I said I hadn't. We had a police chief that would slap burglars around if he got near them. He loved high-speed chases and shooting at cars at the drop of his Stetson. This was the chief! But still, not as much of this as these tv shows like to suggest went on. (They did issue us blackjacks and saps for God’s sakes!) And we got some jobs done. Ugly jobs.

This is the great dichotomy of police work, ethics and the difference between “working in the justice system” and “the work of justice.” In case you do live on Mars, you will know that the twain often do not meet. Its the work and it gets ugly. Heads roll on both sides. I managed to walk the tightrope and keep my head. And in some ways, I also recall feeling the same way "Detective Tyler" did about the methods being used around me at the time. And years later, I remember seeing the same shocked and surprised “Detective Tyler” expressions on the faces of the newer, younger guys around me. Time it seems, marches on.

But the American and British public are funny. We want ugly results from pretty methods. I recall the scene in Dirty Harry where Harry crunches down on the killer’s wounded leg demanding the location of the buried-alive girl. The disgusting killer cries out. “I have a right to have a lawyer.” Harry crunches further. The audience gasped. They cheered. They gasped. They cheered. They gasped. They cheered. They looked away. They peeked. They looked away. They peeked....

What's a Martian do?

BBC1, BB2, BB3, BB4, BB5, BB6, BB7

Adios, Amigos,

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18 October 2008: A Roach Story

Every week we read about another this-or-that species that is going extinct. No one seems to keep track of bugs. Insects. The visible bacteria of our world. I operate under the motto that “the world is a better place with one less insect,” and try to do my share by squashing things before they multiple. Imagine the planet overrun by ants. And don't doubt for a moment they would love that. Love to have their way with our terrain in an eerie landscape of giant ant hills. Planet of the Apes? HA! We have apes under control. More likely, Planet of the Ants. Chuck Heston wouldn't drop to his knees and declare, “they blew it all up.” He would say instead, “they ate us all up.” Ants.

Kill as many ants as possible. Make it a daily chore. Did you know that when you tiptoe up to an ant hill to drop weapons of mass destruction upon their headquarters, they feel the vibrations in the ground of your initial approach and start saving the queen. Thats right, hundreds of little SAS ants start saving the Queen, and you haven't even unscrewed the ant killer container yet, so fearful that a little whiff of the atomic insecticide will give you lung cancer and kill you. You then will die early and if not hermetically sealed? Bugs will eat your corpse. And that damn queen will still be pushing out baby ants.

Even overpriced coffins can't last forever as bugs gnaw away at them through the ages. There is a certain bug that likes everything. Wood. Plastic. Whatever, it will be eaten by some kind of bug that delights on some kind of substance. Look at the dung beetle. If God made a bug that eats shit? He's made a bug that will eat anything. Then bugs will enter your expensive, sealed tomb like obsessed miners discovering an underground vein of silver and start a feast on you. No! No, only cremation saves you from this fate, my friends. Don't you see the dramatic struggle for survival? I do not have a bug phobia! I have just seen their extreme work and I'm telling you, its ugly and they need killing.

Lets not even talk about fleas, chiggers or mosquitoes...or roaches. They would eat you alive if they could. Don't think so? Just stay still too long. I remember hundreds of homes I have been in as a cop that were covered with these bugs. David Stewart and I were searching a house once and fled like screaming psychos, suddenly overwhelmed by thick waves of starving fleas. Shrieking, we about stripped to our underwear on the street, flagellating ourselves like repenting Iranians. I have already written here in the past about chiggers while digging up murdered bodies in the woods and fields.

And everyone knows about mosquitoes. Once on an assignment, I was bitten over 80 times on each forearm in the open space between my gloves and short-sleeved shirt. God's little vampires. Why God? Why? Why did you make the mosquito? I am a bit stung on that point, as if it were a litmus test of the religious universe. Imagine the moveable feast on Noah's Ark? The insects came in two-by-two, also! Then they quickly multiplied? Somebody had to keep watch on the termites because they love them some ark wood. But the mosquitoes! An Ark full of critters was flesh and blood heaven.

Lets prepare your own little ark. Inside the cubits of every cop's trunk, there must be a kit containing emergency bug or mosquito spray or lotion. One never knows where one will suddenly be assigned a scene or surveillance.

In my official days, I have seen some big bugs. (Snakes? That's another essay.) I do recall the day I saw the biggest roach in my life. No, not a marijuana joint, but a genuine, bona-fide, all-American, even George Soros has-em', been-here-since prehistoric times, cockroach story. A roach so big, it was first mistaken as a pet.

On one of my dinner breaks, after my food was delivered, I glanced up to see several local salesmen enter. All in a neat, pressed, hot-combed (remember “hot combs?”) group they joked and sauntered their way up to the ordering counter.

But one of them stood out of the crowd, a man among men, with a particular unique characteristic, something each and every human should easily notice upon first glance. There on his shoulder, much like a parrot might perch on a sailor, like a falcon on a hunter, sat a huge, curious, cockroach. I say curious because his incredibly long feelers were in constant motion and his head appeared to be jerking around as if scanning the menu on the wall. I say huge because I could see its damn ribs.

Now, several thoughts flashed through my mind. First came the instantaneous loss of a once ferocious appetite. Then, I wondered if this was some sort of joke that his fellow colleagues were playing. Either they had super human, self-control or they simply hadn't spied the bug? Perhaps it was a pet? No, I thought, it must be there by accident. It was just a question of time...

An elderly woman, going for a cup of coffee, approached the salesman and with an impatient disgust reported, "sir, sir, there is a large roach on your shoulder!"

Shaken from his thoughts he said, "Huh?"

"There is a roach on your shoulder!" she growled.

The others turned to the salesman and like a bunch of school kids wined and chimed in with this announcement.

The salesman's face turned white as his peripheral vision caught this parasite's visage atop his torso. With uncontrollable, epileptic motions, he spastically began slapping at his shoulders. The other salesmen, knowing this action would surely send the roach flying, dodged and lunged around the man as if he'd suddenly become a germ-passing leper. Meanwhile, other customers began watching, interrupted by a series of snorts, helpless grunts and gags the other salesmen made.

A hero nearby made a dashing sweep, both cuffing the salesman on the back of the neck and striking the roach forward, but it took a few seconds of searching on the part of the group to discover that the long brown antlers protruding from the salesman's breast pocket was not the new design for the top of a Bic pen. This hero had knocked the large bugger right into the salesman's shirt pocket. The creature, either desperately frightened, or calm and cozy, remained perfectly still there - just a Banlon layer away from the salesman's heart.

The crowd gasped. “There IT is!” they yelled. The salesman's helpless, animal grunts suddenly became louder. He began shaking his overweight torso, striking at his chest below the pocket. He banged into a table and sent a napkin holder, salt and pepper shakers, as well as his several pens and a small scratch pad flying, but still no roach! The prehistoric survivor was probably clutching on for dear life.

With a country-western, two-step through the eatery, the salesman began a grotesque disco-flamingo macabre march that would rival John Travolta. I'm sure all he really wanted to do is turn up side down, but even in such a crisis, we all must adhere to some social graces.

As an officer of the law, duly sworn to protect and serve, even I was frozen in shock, repulsed as this bug opera unfolded before my eyes. Finally, out the hideous creature flew. It apparently had enough! Ever resilient, ever strong, it flipped through the air, cracked to the ground and sped off. First, it started in my direction. I thought for a second about drawing my revolver, but knew it was foolish. I might cause a ricochet on its hard shell. It turned and ran towards some shrieking woman, her hands to her face, her feet in a pathetic, aerobic routine, limiting contact with the floor. Then it disappeared into the woodwork of the restaurant, setting up a new residency and future roach empire for all times until the establishment would be nuked in the next world war. (Even that is questionable as some bugs actually survived Hiroshima.)

The manager, circling the incident was at least relieved the roach hadn't originated from her eatery. I guess her herd was branded and easily identifiable? The salesmen settled down and our victim carrier had only ice water for lunch. I finished my meal and left the place for the elevated safety of my squad car, checked both my shoulders in the mirror and drove off, feeling really, really itchy.

Calling all cars! Calling all cars! Kill all bugs you see. Repeat. Kill all bugs. Kill them before they multiply. Before they eat us all up.

Adios, Amigos,

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14 October 2008: "Anatomy of a" Tactical Anatomy Shooting Course

Training civilians, the military and police to shoot for “center of mass” usually translates, in most officers' minds, to “shoot somewhere in the middle”. This middle-muddle sets up the officer for failure—failure to hit vital structures, failure to neutralize the armed attacker, and by extension, failure to protect himself and the community from a dangerous criminal. Tactical Anatomy Systems is not simply a new kind of target. Tactical Anatomy uses simple but accurate representations of anatomy on humanoid models, both in the classroom and on the firing range. The system explains relevant anatomy in a manner that can be easily grasped by non-medical personnel. Use of the Tactical Anatomy system in the classroom setting, then in force-on-force or live fire range sessions, enhances the likelihood that shots fired by trained officers will strike anatomically effective areas of the subject.

Tactical Anatomy Systems was developed by James S. Williams, M.D. M.Sc. in response to a perceived need for more effective shot placement in police shootings. Dr. Williams used his experience as a hunter and a competitive shooter in conjunction with his extensive trauma medicine experience to develop the Tactical Anatomy model and instruction system. Dr. Williams is a fulltime Emergency Physician with over 14,000 hours of Emergency Department and Intensive Care Unit experience, and is Medical Officer for the City of Ripon Police Department. An experienced competitive shooter in smallbore pistol, combat pistol (Wisconsin IDPA Revolver State Champion, 2001 and 2005), trap, and sporting clays, Dr. Williams brings a unique blend of medical and firearms experience to the field. He is an NRA certified firearms instructor and a Staff Instructor with Firearms Training Associates of Wisconsin.

Dr. Williams also has some teaching creds. He has 8 years experience as a public school teacher, and several years experience teaching at the college/university level. His lectures are highly informative and uniquely formatted to maximize learning. Dr. Williams was a member of ASLET since 1999. He has been a speaker at law enforcement meetings and has taught his special brand of anatomy-based, shooting instruction at shooting ranges around the United States.

“I saw Doc's talk at Chapman Academy's Advanced Pistol class in April, 2003. I went up to him afterwards and told him I had spent 25 years attending shooting scenes, hospital emergency rooms, and autopsies trying to learn what he taught us in under two hours.” .............. - Denny Reichard, Detective, Rochester IN PD

“Dr. Williams has been giving his Tactical Anatomy presentation to select Lethal Force Institute Classes since 2001. In my opinion as a firearms instructor and police Captain, this information should be made available to every law enforcement officer in America.” ......... Massad Ayoob, acclaimed Director of Lethal Force Institute.

For more: William's Tactical Anatomy

Adios, Amigos,

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11 October 2008: The Big Back Off!

While struggling through Chuck Remsberg new book Blood Lessons: What Cops Learn From Life-Or-Death Encounters, I often have to close the book and sort of catch my breath. I use the word struggle only because of the emotional content of each true story. Even Chuck himself suggests reading his book in 24 days. A chapter a day. I wish I had listened to him. Any significant veteran has been in and around many of the events retold in Blood Lessons, and for some of us, it's just all too close. There is truly blood and pain on these pages.

One chapter is about a patrolman making a traffic stop. Sound familiar? A top five dangerous event in the day in the life of everyone in prowl car? According to the FBI's Law Enforcement Officers Killed and Assaulted (LEOKA) annual publication, 106 law enforcement officers were feloniously killed and 61,353 were assaulted while conducting traffic stops and traffic pursuits during the 10 years from 1996 through 2005. In this chapter, our officer walked to the stopped car and saw two men acting strangely, as if somewhat drugged and worse, the tips of some guns here and there, visible to him.

The officer recalls starting out “acting like dumb cop” and talking to these men, in a defusing way to suggest he was unaware he was dealing with some desperados. BUT, in his heart, in our hearts, he and we all know the dumb act has to stop at some point and the physical orders demanding these armed men up and out of the car simply has got to happen next! Or does it?

Must it? Hey, I have been there. Thousands of cops have been there. This is a felony stop and by God we do what we gotta' do. We are there face-to-face with the bad guys, they got guns and we are not backing down. It's an oath, a creed that comes all the way back from the Ok Corral and High Noon. True Grit. I was part of the showdown brotherhood, this stand-off mentality and backing off is just not an acceptable option. So unacceptable that it no longer becomes a strategic option in the playbook.

It wasn't an option for the officer in this story either. High noon. What would Gary Cooper do? He can't wait for distant back-up to arrive. The “dumb cop act” quickly ended, the orders started and the bloodbath began. It is a sad, sad story descending into many a worst nightmare.

But, what if the big “back off” became a socially and professionally acceptable option? What if the officer keeps that "dumb-cop grin" and just says to the bad guys,

“well fellers', keep an eye out for those stop signs! See ya'.”

Or says,

“slow it down some, see ya!”

and backs off to his car. He gets on the radio and tells the world he is about to slow-follow a car load of armed bad guys and to pay attention to his directions as there must now be a multi-car, multi-officer traffic stop…ambush down the highway or road.

The bad guys pull off. The officer pulls off, radio mike held out of sight and giving directions of travel. Officers are converging. Will this possibly become a high-speed chase? Many of these incidents happen at night with less overall traffic. I don't know? There are a lot “I don't know” factors to consider, but I do know a tactical traffic stop with several cars, loudspeakers, lots of officers with pistols, shotguns and rifles converging just down the road, is a lot better than what happened that night in Remsberg's book, or what has happened thousands of other nights just like it. Sometimes you can't wait for the cavalry. Sometimes you have to find them and bring them back with you.

How does the “big back-off” become socially acceptable in this macho, police world of ours? It begins as a grass roots movement. Starting with the officers and then sergeants on up. It starts out in bull sessions, then gets discussed in squad room briefings and then becomes a department policy option. If it becomes an official option, and expected smart, alternative, then it becomes part of the “macho,” strategic, survival methods.

Next? It must be practiced on training days, and with sims weapons. The bad guy actors run through several scenarios from surrendering to shoot-outs. You are not learning to gunfight unless moving, thinking people are shooting back at you. Period. End of sentence. For every one hour of gun training, fifteen minutes on the range, forty-five minutes should be with simulated ammo of some type, shooting at people shooting back. It's the “Hock 15/45 Split,” if you will, and I have been preaching and teaching this for years and years, Back when it wasn't cool. It still isn't cool really, as gun ranges need to be brought kicking and screaming into simulated ammo training.

"Sometimes you can't wait for the cavalry.

Sometimes you have to find them and bring them back with you."

Adios, Amigos,

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8 October 2008: McQueen, Buddha and a Leashed Kangaroo

I had a dream last night.

Sleep doctors will ask you, “do you remember your dreams?” If you're like me, and you know that REM sleep is important and REM sleep means dreams, then you are proud you are doing some deep sleeping and dreaming. “Yes, Doc,” we answer. But, the sawbones knows better and shakes his head sadly. If you remember your dreams? That is not good. That means your sleep is interrupted. You are sleeping best when you don't remember your dreams! Darn! Failed another medical test.

In periods of life I don't sleep well. When I am not sleeping well, I have many dreams I recall and some are not pleasant. But however unpleasant they are, I am usually motivated to file away or write about them in some fashion. What dreams may come, often end up in what essays may come. Or what fiction or non-fiction? Ever have a bad taste in your mouth? How about a bad taste in your brain?

I had a dream last night that I remembered, but this one is challenging. Last night I dreamed I was walking down a Texas dirt road. Flat land. Sunny. Dry. And whom should I see there walking also? Steve McQueen. The movie actor. And he held a rope leash. The leash held…a kangaroo. Steve McQueen walking a kangaroo down a Texas road. I struck up a conversation with Steve and as we walked on, I quizzed him about his television and movie career. Then I woke up.

I lay in bed, eyes wide, looking at the ceiling as dawn burned a glow across the bedroom. What the hell was that? I searched my memory for events of the day before. I could not make a connection. Why this dream? But my mind wandered to another surprise visitor and road story. Buddha. There is an old Zen parable about Buddha and the road. It goes, and I translate loosely,

“If you see Buddha on the side of the road? Kill him.”

Why kill the Buddha? Because you shouldn't see Buddha on the side of any road, anywhere. Buddha is dead. In a complicated Zen explanation, seeing him is impossible, a distraction and false god, and you should terminate this unhealthy false visage; else you will loose your true way and be led astray by falsehoods.

Zen is usually a “ridable,” a riddle and a parable, but not unlike the advice found in most holy books, which often say one thing on one page, then contradict that advice elsewhere on another page. Zen is pretty blatant about this sort of thing while other philosophies tend to hide their contradictions away.

We are led astray and distracted by so many things. So, so many ideas, governments and religions. Yet the real truth of life on this dirt road journey is really beyond these flimsy curtains. I use to love the X Files shows when, in the end of a quixotic episode, someone would turn to Agent Fox Molder and ask, “what does it mean?” Fox would answer, “How the hell would I know?” The truth is that no one knows the deepest mystery of the universe. Life puts the "X" in the X-Files.

But, if I really do see Steve McQueen on the side of the road? A Shame, but I think I'd better kill him. Something ain't right! And the kangaroo? He was on leash being led astray by McQueen. Best set that funny looking sombitch free.

Where are those red-colored sleeping pills? Or, was it the blue ones?

Adios, Amigos,

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4 October 2008: The October CQC Dispatches is out

Nuked Economy. Feeling Fried? This month, I would like to write a bit about some "in-house" news and the hard times facing the martial and training business. There has been a decline in the training industry....(for the rest of the story and the whole October issue....Click here

Adios, Amigos,

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1 October 2008: The Bodyguard Gig That Did Me In

You see. I am prejudiced.
The issue is race.
I have been prejudiced since early childhood.
I have hated and despised the very thought of and the mere existence of the Klu Klux Klan. Now, as a ordinary, plain-speaking citizen and not some tongue-tied, governmental, politically correct robot, I can easily say that nothing would delight me than to kick a KKKs ass and if given the golden, legal opportunity to kill one or more slimy, scumbag KKK. It would "make my day." Oh, you thought I was a better person than that? I'm not. Martin Luther King might have advised me otherwise, might have advised me against such hate, but I am not as good a soul as he was. So imagine my surprise in August, 1996 when I was ordered to appear at a public park in police uniform and protect, none other than...the Klu Klux Klan.

As the public record goes, some Texas wing nut chapter of the KKK requested a city permit to demonstrate in our city, and of course it had to be in the public park in our largest black neighborhood. That's their whole point, to stir up problems and create a sort of internal terrorism. And since it was all legal to do so, they also petitioned to be "protected." And since this is America and every damn fool has their rights and all like that, the city - in its infinite wisdom - granted this genetically insufficient band their due process protection. That protection would be the PO-lice.

This was suddenly all dumped into the lap of one of our Captains, Paul Abbott, who was also in charge of the SWAT team. And Paul, a very smart guy whom I always liked and trusted, could not have been happy about the chore. But being a pro, Paul really whipped together a comprehensive, professional, tight plan with a few new tricks I'd never seen. In summary, he organized a front police line, a line between the potential hostile crowd and the idiot KKK. Then in reserve, the SWAT team remained close behind in nearby city building, ready to deploy. Abbott organized the manpower and since I was prior-military/riot trained, and was over 6-foot tall (I suspect the later was the more important) I was in this front line, standing before a potential angry crowd and also in front of the KKK, which stood behind us. Betwixt and between. That's us. The PO-lice. The KKK advertised in the local newspaper about their event because after all, what fun would it be for them if no black people came?

Of course I really dreaded this, but there is just an enough US Army left in me to go where I am told, as assigned. So I did. About two hours before the event, we got to this park city building and Abbott briefed everyone. Abbott instituted some clever things. One was that we front liners were in very plain uniforms with no medals or extra trappings. I cannot remember if we even had name tags on. And now, 13 years later? I can't say for sure if we wore riot helmets or those damn silly blue hats, but I am pretty sure we wore the helmets. SWAT remained out of sight in the building in case all went to SWAT hell they were on the scene. Abbott planned on running a short line, and sending officers in and out as the crowd tension grew or diminished, which is damn good psychology. This way, our mere over-presence would not instigate anything, and we would instead just react to the tempo, not create the tempo. We were armed with our service pistols, pepper spray and no batons. SWAT was SWAT, locked, loaded and ready for bear. We had radios running on a separate frequency and I think earpieces. Once on line, we would stand in proper posture, arms down and straight, not slouched and arms crossed. No crotch or nose picking. Not that I do that, but when they tell you that you absolutely can't? You start missing it.

A pack of KKK showed up, and as expected they were a group of toothless, slobby-fat or meth-skinny degenerates (hey now, I warned you I was prejudiced.) They were guided to their designated spot. Me and others were planted in a line and the KKK began waving the Confederate flag and making racial epitaphs from toothless mouths from two-bit bullhorns.

At first it was great! No black people. No one else was there. Just these idiots preaching hate to no one. Of course the newspaper and TV were there. Hoping for news that might go network and national! In a perfect world these KKK roaches would be utterly ignored until they crawled away into their cesspools. But nature abhors a vacuum and before long people in the neighborhood started showing up. And the race-baiting spoutings caused a reaction and people yelled back. Abbott would send a few more guys out to the line. Then it would quiet down, and the radio would order certain of the line to return to the park building. Intense. Decrease. And so on.

It was here at one of the crowd peaks, in the blazing hot August, Texas sun, with sopping wet polyester clinging to my body, that I realized something. The universe, the fates and their quirks, happenstance, karma, whatever, had somehow manipulated and positioned me into a line of people protecting the Klu Klux Klan. I, me, was protecting the KKK. How could this have happened to me? And for the first time in my life, the deeply emotional thought passed through my brain, "I gotta get out of this job." You know I actually felt ashamed. Ashamed of myself in front of the black people in the park, in the very district I'd worked so hard in for years and years. Ashamed that I would stand before the KKK as though I cared to protect them. And, I was also ashamed of my department for having to do this. We were forced too, sure, but I was still very, very ashamed. How did the stars align so badly that this happened to me?

"I gotta get out of this job." You know how it is at times, you say words like this in passing, or even in jest in your lifetime. And you don't really mean them. You also say, "Im getting too old for this," or similar catch-phrases. But you persevere. And, in this business countless people tell you all the time, "I could never do your job," or worse "I would never do your job," as if they were smarter than you in the first place by never even starting. Could versus would. You don't know if they are praising you or just calling you stupid.

Sweat dripped off my chin. I got called back into the park building for a quick water break and a minute or two in front of an air conditioner vent. It was pretty evident from the demeanor of the room that none of us wanted to be there. But, watching the demonstration through the windows, hearing the garbled chants from the bullhorns, I couldn't shake the thought that this life-long marriage with police work was about end in a hasty divorce. Yeah, it sounds emotional? Because it was. Something came over me. I knew that this would be the last police scene of this nature I would partake in.

The KKK demonstration day went as peacefully and perfectly as Abbott planned. Everyone went home relieved and I went home both relieved and relegated to leaving. The blastoff clock began ticking. With this idea really implanted in my thick skull, six months later I was gone. In the final coming months I had this "last time" sense about all the calls I was sent too. There is an old saying that you should live each year as though it were your last. I am not sure much would get done in such a philosophy in such a world except a lot of maxing out on credit cards and passing out drunk on the beach? I didn't mind doing what I had done, "one more time," those last few months on the job. They each had a sense of irony about them.

Back in patrol in the mid 1990s, I was dinosaur patrolman anyway. I shunned a lot of the new gear, and shunned the new, "officer friendly" persona and just acted like a 1970s street cop, as was my grounding. 1970s met 1990s. And in the mid 1990s, my city was getting way bigger and way more tame...and in so doing, way more boring. Remember police work is already quite boring in even the biggest of cities. In the 1990s political correctness abounded and a new, certain brand of professionalism was rampant. Community Oriented Policing (C.O.P.) and a general...well...super, ass-kissing mindset came into the serve of protect and serve. "Protect and SERVE?" Serve now meant many new things. But it all made people FEEL safe and happy. Happy, happy, happy.

In some cities this style of C.O.P. policing became extreme and actually got officers involved in free lawn care! For those "no comprende" the very idea of this official landscaping service? Its an old slippery-slope argument about the "broken windows" theory in policing. In summary, some believe that clean and neat means less crime. While true to some extent I do think, this approach actually sloped on down to police officers cutting and manicuring lawns. For free. Duty time. Whew! (Broken windows is becoming a broken theory? Read this...click here )

In C.O.P.S. some officers were also helping business owners shape and change zoning laws in their C.O.P areas. Public service sure had a new meaning for the badge. I myself saw more effort and care go into a Civic Center Easter Egg hunt or a neighborhood, barbeque block party than a burglary team, stake-out to catch some felons at night. But...happy. Happy. Happy. The residents felt they were safe, so they were happy. The kids were happy. And the burglars were happy. I wasn't so damn happy anymore. I still read the burglary reports. And burglaries pissed me off. Always have. Always will.

Divorced from my police mistress, in my first martial/tactical weekend seminar in January in 1997, I made more in just two 6-hour days of days of teaching than in one whole month's salary as a veteran cop. That helped me feel better. And, as I have written here before, I still did some private investigation and protective duties as a private corporation for a number of years afterward, but I picked and chose the assignments, and you can be damn sure I never worked for the fucking Klu Klux Klan. Because as you can see. I am prejudiced.

Some Notes on Riot Control...

These are non-aggressive and less aggressive riot stick stances. If a whole team assumes stances in unison the team can have a psychological effect on the crowd. In the first picture the stick is completely hidden from the crowd. In the second and third postures, the "behind-the-leg" hamstrings pose is less offensive than the having the stick up front and across the thighs. Both are relaxed and non-combative. Suggestive, but non-combative, and less aggressive than the two ready and advance positions below, which are very aggressive.

Adios, Amigos,

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Email Hock at Hock.Hochheim@sbcglobal.net

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