Reprinted from:
http://throughthescarydoor.blogspot.com/2007/05/all-fun-of-stasi.html
Without Permission.
All the fun of the Stasi
Stasi scent-tracking methods are being used to keep a check on selected protesters planning to demonstrate at next month's G8 summit.
Scent traces collected directly from everything from people's palm sweat to their vests and cigarette lighters have been made available to investigators so that sniffer dogs can detect potentially violent protesters, federal prosecutors confirmed yesterday following reports in the German media."Potentially violent"... What a turn of phrase.
The revelations have immediately led to comparisons with the methods of the former East Germany's secret police, the Stasi, who habitually collected the scents of dissidents to identify suspects at a later date. It was thought that such chilling espionage techniques had been consigned to history.But the news that similar methods are to be deployed at the upcoming summit in a democratic Germany has further angered activists already fuming over the construction of a 7.5-mile barbed-wire fence around the venue, at Heiligendamm on the Baltic coast."[This is] another step away from a democratic state of law towards a preventive security state," said Petra Pau, a member of the opposition Left party. "A state that adopts the methods of the East German Stasi robs itself of every legitimacy."Which is a good sign, that Left Party MPs are using their position to be tribunes of the movement. Having said that, I can imagine the responding slurs about the party's connections to the GDR.I treasure these two factlets though:
A 68-year-old atomic energy protester from Hamburg, identified by police as a possible danger to the G8 summit, reported how investigators knocked on his door at 8am and demanded scent samples from him.The man said he was made to hold metal pipes in his hands - as palms give off an immediate scent - which were then sealed and marked with his name before being taken away.But, worse than that:
The number of car burnings in Berlin has risen considerably over the past fortnight as tension rises, as have incidences of anti-G8 graffiti. Honestly, what is the world coming to?
Friday, May 25, 2007
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Drunken Misbehavior Award
"FIRST PLACE"
Too much "who hit John?" for breakfast.
A patients open mouth, and misplaced trust.
A high speed drill, "on the move"
"ding, ding, ding, ding, ding."
WE HAVE A WINNER!
I ran into this guy who used to be a dentist, but his license had been revoked three times. The last time, for life. This was back in the early eighties, when I worked at an "alternative to jail" program for the county, of San Diego.
It was, and is still, a program designed to free up jail space at the county jail for more serious offenders. Like people minding their own business, but are found to be in possession of an "illegal smile."
This was accomplished by decriminalizing people charged with California penal code 647-f. (public intoxication) So that they could be "handled" in a cheaper, non-custody type setting and manner. Back in the early eighties when I worked there, this approach was saving the county something like five million a year.
The program was designed to decriminalize "drunk in public" charges when a person was judged to be "under the influence" by the local gendarmes. "If" the person was not exhibiting hostile or threatening behavior. (While the police officer was still present.)
And promised to stay at the unlocked facility for a four hour period. And actually did so. (Until the officer drove out of the parking lot.)
Which someone had figured would result in most people achieving a sober state. Or near enough to it that you could set them afoot in the hard side of town and they would most likely be O.K. Stay the four hours and there was; "No fine. No record. No charge."
I was "team leader" for over two years. My shift ran from 11 p.m. at night, until 7 a.m. in the morning. During which time, the San Diego Police , San Diego County Sheriffs Department, and surrounding city police agencies brought me the 80 to 120 drunkest people that they could find on any given night.
Over a year and a half of that two years as team leader, I had no team. Even though state law mandated that at least three people must be on each shift, bare minimum, to deal with that many "impaired" individuals. They couldn't get anyone to work that shift but me. To this day, I can't imagine why. I loved it!
Every night was like a cross between Barney Miller and Fort Apache.
Downtown winos.
Beach bums.
Paddy wagons full of sailors, on their first leave in months.
Freshly minted Marines. Usually in groups of four to six, on their first "off the leash" departure from their gunny's loving wet nursing since enlisting.
Women, both young and old. From every economic station in life. Crying uncontrollably from the realization of how far they had fallen from their lofty perch above the masses, as a result of their first experimentation with jello shots.
Other women, mildly bemused at the entire spectacle, and their place within it.
All promised verbally, and affirmed that promise in writing, to stay four hours. By doing so, the police officer didn't file a formal charge. Which meant that there was no "record" of arrest. No listing of the incident on any enforcement data base of it as a "criminal matter."
If an individual refused to promise by word and signature that they would stay the prescribed period of time, then the police officer would place the cuffs back on the wrists, and the "stuck on stupid" individual back in the cruiser. And then `it was off to; "The prize behind door number three!" that Monty Hall had tried his best to talk you out of trading your; "All expense paid trip and no cost freeload" at some vacation spot that wasn't "exactly what you wanted." For; "Your very own Pig in a poke!" (Or, in this case, "drunken pigheaded persona in the local pokey!")
So almost all that were brought to me gladly, and quickly promised to stay the four hours.
About 12 percent of these people were straight up lying.
Especially the; half of a squad of: First time downtown/in full uniform/ just spent over a hundred and thirty dollars on a custom K-bar with a 7 inch, razor sharp blade/we all got arrested at a local tittie bar when I complained about the hostess reaching for my cock with one hand, while she reached for my wallet with the other one/you're out of your ever lovin' desk pushin', "sign here" mind if you think that this here group of Marines is gonna take orders from some long haired, hippie lookin' guy, who had better unlock that filing cabinet behind him and give us back our razor sharp K-bars back right now before we just climb over that desk and take them keys/Marines.
The percentage of these types from within the Marine population was something like 20 percent.
Fortunately, among the regular winos, which I affectionately named "the wrecking crew" were several former grab it and growl type individuals; A"seventh special forces" ;An "Airborne Ranger,"; A couple run of the mill Airborne types like myself. and one ex "seal team eleven" member named James Lee. Who while past his prime, had also been Archie Moore's favorite sparring partner.
Most of the "regulars" had gone from disinterest in me as a person, to tolerating, to ambivalence, to liking somewhat, to actually showing signs of genuine affection for my totally ignorant of their reality ass.
Because they percieved that I saw past the camoflauge that they threw up between themselves and most of the world. That kept most people from seeing that for the most part, they are honorable people. Bound and determined that they are going to live life on their terms. Come hell of high water.
As I learned more, I became less of a "rule twit." You know, holding the company line when it was stupid, and or wrong. Like; "Never let anyone in the facility who hasn't been brought there by a police officer, and signed in by him."
I got tired of seeing 20 or 30 men and women a night huddled outside using the building for a wind break on cold damp winter nights. With officer after officer walking by without responding to their request to be signed in.
Using my considerable power within the organization, (of being the only one crazy enough to actually work the graveyard shift) I began to flaunt the breaking of this rule.
This resulted in a letter being sent from the program director to me. Warning me of "serious consequences," if I didn't start exhibiting the baser qualities of a souless rat bastard.
(This letter to me, hand delivered by someone else, came from a man, I use that term loosely in this instance, that almost wet himself every infrequent time he actually had to show up in person. Inside the actual building where the program he "directs" takes place.
I called his secratary, and said I can drop off the keys today and will if you think I'm gonna look out huge plate glass windows all night at people freezing their ass off for no fucking reason at all.
It didn't cost a penny more to let them in. I told her to "get back to me with how it was gonna be."
About half an hour later she called me back, laughing and said "He won't be sending you anymore letters. He's scared to death of the target population that he is supposed to be helping,, and you go to work there each night like a kid going to Disneyland for the first time.
So he's straight up terrified of you. When his "letter" which was his attempt to get you to "jump through his "administrative hoop" ellicited a snarl from you instead, he told me to offer you a raise" He was all agitated and said "He can't quit. Who's going to work the night shift?" She told me it won't be much, but ask for more in about 60 days. And keep asking for mor after that every four months. You'll get it."
When the wrecking crew saw that I didn't value my check enough to aid and abet the county program's insensitivity to their vulnerabilty to health problems during cold and wet weather.
I was officially judge to be a; "human being, and not a poverty pimp" which was their designated term of ultimate disgust that was reserved for those that they felt profited from their misery. It is the little things in life that really count.
But James Lee took a shine to me when he won a five dollar bet with his brother, with the wager being; "He (me) won't last a week." This said by his brother after I narrowly ducked a folding metal chair that wasn't meant for me per se, but was more on target to do me damage, than the intended victim. James bet on me when I went over to the chair, picked it up, walked over to the guy who threw it and held it out to him. He didn't reach for it, but would alternate between looking at the chair and then at me.
I finally said to him; "I won't make your day any harder if you'll do the same for mine. Deal?"
He thought about it for a second. Looked at me one more time, and smiled. Then he said OK. He took the chair and sat in it. He became over the next few weeks my informal, back channel conduit to a society just as complex and nuanced as any you can name. I just refer to them as the regulars, or the wrecking crew.
And James was at the top of this particular food chain. And when ever a half squad of freshly minted Marines or any other dedicated malcontent threatened the tranquility of their nightly access to warmth and shelter, they were quickly disabused of such notions before it became so stupid the police had to become re involved. Although not always.
There were a few Marines, God Bless 'em, that have gained a healthier respect for old long haired hippie looking/"sign here"/pencil pushing/got their 7 inch razor sharp custom made hundred and thirty dollar K-bar knives in the filing cabinet/type individuals. And the flotsam and jetsam made up of our societies dispossessed that love them. Being a former 82nd Airborne, long haired hippie looking type made this learning experience a little easier for them to bear as well.
About one third were regulars. The local "wrecking crew" that were up and waiting in front of the liquor store before it opened at six. These folks for the most part were the basic elemental building blocks of every blues and hard luck song or story you ever heard or read.
Mostly harmless. Usually good natured. And for whatever reason, steadfastly determined to complete their slow motion deconstruction of self with an air of indifference.
Yes, it's a palpable air of indifference. To their present state, their situation, and their slightly modernized Chaplinesque attire. If "casual disarray" ever makes the fashion leap back up on to the New York, Paris and Rome runways, these wags and wagettes will be the power brokers of the "layered" look. Soothing colors like; "muscatel green" and "mad dog maroon" with extra large pockets for fifths of wine. Look! It doubles as a blanket!
Another third were "periodic problem drinkers. You might see them on a regular or semi-regular basis for a time and then, poof! They'd be gone from the mix. Out of the loop. On hiatus, sabbatical. Possibly due to something or someones intervention.. Family, friends, the court, or common sense.
The last third were the "one hit wonders." Victims of circumstance. Wrong place at the wrong time.
Their "Dog ma" got run over their "Kar ma" on this one night, types.
Everybody sat around tables in a large common area. Mostly drinking coffee and smoking, But if gravity wasn't your buddy at the moment, we had these green plastic lined, foam filled mattresses stacked to the ceiling. Just grab one throw it down and surf the linoleum until your time was up.
Because this wasn't a lock up facility, there was no segregation of the men from the women.
Which led to so many "Kodak moments" without a camera I could cry.
As an example, I have seen more than one woman's hair set ablaze by the weaving flames of multiple stick matches, zippos and other undetermined accellerants in the cluches of near blind drunk men "intent on Chivalry." (as Van Morrisson so eloquently said about entirely different men, in his song, "Tupelo Honey")
When you see a ball of flame moving accross the room like some indoor equivalent of a St. Elmos fire, meteorlogical phemomena on parade, but you know better, then you can count on it being a platoon of inebriates bum rushing some gal to let her know that "Chivalry isn't dead. Just dead drunk enough to believe that they have the whole "pitching woo" flame game thing down to a science.
But when there are seperate heat sources, in a large enough number of drunken hands, in a cramped enough space, the thermal dynamics of the beast, in conjunction with the almost complete loss of hand eye coordination within 20 feet of this about to go south endeavor, can end up blazing its own trail, where it will. Especially if the girl is sporting some highly teased, laquer coated into place, conflagouration in waiting hairstyle.
I have actually quickly grabbed and thrown a girl down to the ground, then furiously beat her around the head and shoulders with my jacket to knock down the flames, and been thanked sincerely for giving her the "rough treatment." Truly, I've been blessed.
But now, on to the matter at hand. One of the people that I met while leading my team of me into nightly forays with the dispossessed, and those that actually seemed to be possessed. was a dentist that had lost his license to practice for life.
Because while drunk, he passed out while drilling inside this guys mouth! Oh yeah! I was intrigued immediately. (If not sooner.) This two year period of constant strange doings coincided with me doing my post graduate work at the highly exclusive, routinely abusive School of Hard Knocks. In the extremely competitive field of "staying alive and in mostly one piece."
(My dissertation was on understanding the underlying principals and protocols that operate while in a discombobulated state. I titled it; "Malfunction Junction. What's your Compunction?)"
Anyway, Doctor Mortimer, which really is his name, was a regular. He used to see me putting pen to paper routinely, and read a few of my rhyme stories. At one point, he asked me to "put his madness to rhyme" I bullshit you not.
I explain to him that there is no way that I am going to be able to even come up with anything within the city limits of accurate, as pertains to his behavior, unless he is willing to suffer my questions, and answer them honestly. Then there is a chance, of getting a word picture that he might recognize aspects of himself within. He agreed to undergo my verbal scrutinizing of his persona.
So I began to worked him over vigorously with the; who, what, when, where, and
ALWAYS why. (what's up with that "sometimes" stuff?)
Asking him things like; "How did you keep your patients from catching on to the fact that you were higher than the price of silver, when the Hunt brothers tried to corner the futures market?"
His way around that little fly in his 100 proof ointment was to hire a receptionist that was open to aiding him in his deceptive charade. "IF" he paid her three times the going rate that an average gum chewing, nail filing, hickey on the neck, teenager was likely to be paid. ("IF" they quit chewing gum, filing their nails and, "showcasing the silver dollar sized blood bruises that straddled their jugular vein by wearing a blouse with a collar.)
When asked by a patient, who was there to have some mouth mechanics performed by the drunkified doctor, and had noticed that doctor Mortimer was looking like he was far from being at the top of his game, if the; "doc was alright?" All this "Little Miss can't be wrong" (with thanks, and apologies to the musical group "The spin doctors" for this spun doctor's spin meister's spiel") had to do to earn this extra swag was feign a look of dedicated (to the proposition) concern for her boss, lean forward, as if in confidence, and say; "Doctor Mortimer has the flu."
Well, right there, I knew that I had the title of this sad and venal vingette.
My next question was of course; And this worked?"
To which former doctor Mortimer replied; "For a while. Until it didn't. " Which was his way of saying; "Until I do something like pass out, while operating my high tech, variable speed dental drill in its mega rpm "getting busy mode " in some poor guy's mouth." (Talk about a Kodak moment. Yikes!)
DR. MORTIMER HAS THE FLU.
A DRUNK DENTIST. WHO LOST HIS LICENSE TO PRACTICE THREE TIMES.
(The last time for life.)
His office
opens up at nine.
By ten o'clock,
there is a line
of patients pained,
and feeling blue.
But Doctor Mortimer
has the flu.
He comes wheezing in
at ten o' five.
Scarcley looking
half alive.
Extractions!
Impactions!
Await his veiw.
But Doctor Mortimer
has the flu.
This fact has been
explained to all.
Who walk on in,
or place a call.
His secratary
pleads his case.
She tries to spare him
the disgrace,.
NEVER mentioning
what is true.
Doctor Mortimer...
(has had a few!)
He whispers;
"Hold them here awhile."
To his patients he turns.
Offering up a smile.
So full of suffering.
So devoid of guile.
They're just amazed
at how well he's bearing up,
against his viral trial.
Then: "Send the first one."
He commands.
As he tries to still
his shaking hands.
The patient enters
right on cue.
And says: "Hey Doc.
I here you have the flu."
"Uhhh, just a touch."
The Doc informs.
His insides,
like a can of worms.
"This time I think
that just a cleaning will do.
Excuse me a moment.
Won't you?"
Once behind
his office door,
where he feels safe,
he begins to pour.
Then doubles his double,
just because.
Never reflecting
on the things he does,
just to make it
through the day.
In seconds,
the bottle is put away.
Do you know that
the flu is gone,
when he returns.
He laughs!
He jokes.
His being yearns,
to make this patient realize,
that Doctor Mortimer is authorized,
to work miracles north and south,
INSIDE ANYBODIES MOUTH!
Well.
Halfway through
this dialogue deep.
Doctor Mortimer
began to weep.
I pray the Lord
his soul to keep.
With drill in mouth,
he fell asleep.
Too much "who hit John?" for breakfast.
A patients open mouth, and misplaced trust.
A high speed drill, "on the move"
"ding, ding, ding, ding, ding."
WE HAVE A WINNER!
I ran into this guy who used to be a dentist, but his license had been revoked three times. The last time, for life. This was back in the early eighties, when I worked at an "alternative to jail" program for the county, of San Diego.
It was, and is still, a program designed to free up jail space at the county jail for more serious offenders. Like people minding their own business, but are found to be in possession of an "illegal smile."
This was accomplished by decriminalizing people charged with California penal code 647-f. (public intoxication) So that they could be "handled" in a cheaper, non-custody type setting and manner. Back in the early eighties when I worked there, this approach was saving the county something like five million a year.
The program was designed to decriminalize "drunk in public" charges when a person was judged to be "under the influence" by the local gendarmes. "If" the person was not exhibiting hostile or threatening behavior. (While the police officer was still present.)
And promised to stay at the unlocked facility for a four hour period. And actually did so. (Until the officer drove out of the parking lot.)
Which someone had figured would result in most people achieving a sober state. Or near enough to it that you could set them afoot in the hard side of town and they would most likely be O.K. Stay the four hours and there was; "No fine. No record. No charge."
I was "team leader" for over two years. My shift ran from 11 p.m. at night, until 7 a.m. in the morning. During which time, the San Diego Police , San Diego County Sheriffs Department, and surrounding city police agencies brought me the 80 to 120 drunkest people that they could find on any given night.
Over a year and a half of that two years as team leader, I had no team. Even though state law mandated that at least three people must be on each shift, bare minimum, to deal with that many "impaired" individuals. They couldn't get anyone to work that shift but me. To this day, I can't imagine why. I loved it!
Every night was like a cross between Barney Miller and Fort Apache.
Downtown winos.
Beach bums.
Paddy wagons full of sailors, on their first leave in months.
Freshly minted Marines. Usually in groups of four to six, on their first "off the leash" departure from their gunny's loving wet nursing since enlisting.
Women, both young and old. From every economic station in life. Crying uncontrollably from the realization of how far they had fallen from their lofty perch above the masses, as a result of their first experimentation with jello shots.
Other women, mildly bemused at the entire spectacle, and their place within it.
All promised verbally, and affirmed that promise in writing, to stay four hours. By doing so, the police officer didn't file a formal charge. Which meant that there was no "record" of arrest. No listing of the incident on any enforcement data base of it as a "criminal matter."
If an individual refused to promise by word and signature that they would stay the prescribed period of time, then the police officer would place the cuffs back on the wrists, and the "stuck on stupid" individual back in the cruiser. And then `it was off to; "The prize behind door number three!" that Monty Hall had tried his best to talk you out of trading your; "All expense paid trip and no cost freeload" at some vacation spot that wasn't "exactly what you wanted." For; "Your very own Pig in a poke!" (Or, in this case, "drunken pigheaded persona in the local pokey!")
So almost all that were brought to me gladly, and quickly promised to stay the four hours.
About 12 percent of these people were straight up lying.
Especially the; half of a squad of: First time downtown/in full uniform/ just spent over a hundred and thirty dollars on a custom K-bar with a 7 inch, razor sharp blade/we all got arrested at a local tittie bar when I complained about the hostess reaching for my cock with one hand, while she reached for my wallet with the other one/you're out of your ever lovin' desk pushin', "sign here" mind if you think that this here group of Marines is gonna take orders from some long haired, hippie lookin' guy, who had better unlock that filing cabinet behind him and give us back our razor sharp K-bars back right now before we just climb over that desk and take them keys/Marines.
The percentage of these types from within the Marine population was something like 20 percent.
Fortunately, among the regular winos, which I affectionately named "the wrecking crew" were several former grab it and growl type individuals; A"seventh special forces" ;An "Airborne Ranger,"; A couple run of the mill Airborne types like myself. and one ex "seal team eleven" member named James Lee. Who while past his prime, had also been Archie Moore's favorite sparring partner.
Most of the "regulars" had gone from disinterest in me as a person, to tolerating, to ambivalence, to liking somewhat, to actually showing signs of genuine affection for my totally ignorant of their reality ass.
Because they percieved that I saw past the camoflauge that they threw up between themselves and most of the world. That kept most people from seeing that for the most part, they are honorable people. Bound and determined that they are going to live life on their terms. Come hell of high water.
As I learned more, I became less of a "rule twit." You know, holding the company line when it was stupid, and or wrong. Like; "Never let anyone in the facility who hasn't been brought there by a police officer, and signed in by him."
I got tired of seeing 20 or 30 men and women a night huddled outside using the building for a wind break on cold damp winter nights. With officer after officer walking by without responding to their request to be signed in.
Using my considerable power within the organization, (of being the only one crazy enough to actually work the graveyard shift) I began to flaunt the breaking of this rule.
This resulted in a letter being sent from the program director to me. Warning me of "serious consequences," if I didn't start exhibiting the baser qualities of a souless rat bastard.
(This letter to me, hand delivered by someone else, came from a man, I use that term loosely in this instance, that almost wet himself every infrequent time he actually had to show up in person. Inside the actual building where the program he "directs" takes place.
I called his secratary, and said I can drop off the keys today and will if you think I'm gonna look out huge plate glass windows all night at people freezing their ass off for no fucking reason at all.
It didn't cost a penny more to let them in. I told her to "get back to me with how it was gonna be."
About half an hour later she called me back, laughing and said "He won't be sending you anymore letters. He's scared to death of the target population that he is supposed to be helping,, and you go to work there each night like a kid going to Disneyland for the first time.
So he's straight up terrified of you. When his "letter" which was his attempt to get you to "jump through his "administrative hoop" ellicited a snarl from you instead, he told me to offer you a raise" He was all agitated and said "He can't quit. Who's going to work the night shift?" She told me it won't be much, but ask for more in about 60 days. And keep asking for mor after that every four months. You'll get it."
When the wrecking crew saw that I didn't value my check enough to aid and abet the county program's insensitivity to their vulnerabilty to health problems during cold and wet weather.
I was officially judge to be a; "human being, and not a poverty pimp" which was their designated term of ultimate disgust that was reserved for those that they felt profited from their misery. It is the little things in life that really count.
But James Lee took a shine to me when he won a five dollar bet with his brother, with the wager being; "He (me) won't last a week." This said by his brother after I narrowly ducked a folding metal chair that wasn't meant for me per se, but was more on target to do me damage, than the intended victim. James bet on me when I went over to the chair, picked it up, walked over to the guy who threw it and held it out to him. He didn't reach for it, but would alternate between looking at the chair and then at me.
I finally said to him; "I won't make your day any harder if you'll do the same for mine. Deal?"
He thought about it for a second. Looked at me one more time, and smiled. Then he said OK. He took the chair and sat in it. He became over the next few weeks my informal, back channel conduit to a society just as complex and nuanced as any you can name. I just refer to them as the regulars, or the wrecking crew.
And James was at the top of this particular food chain. And when ever a half squad of freshly minted Marines or any other dedicated malcontent threatened the tranquility of their nightly access to warmth and shelter, they were quickly disabused of such notions before it became so stupid the police had to become re involved. Although not always.
There were a few Marines, God Bless 'em, that have gained a healthier respect for old long haired hippie looking/"sign here"/pencil pushing/got their 7 inch razor sharp custom made hundred and thirty dollar K-bar knives in the filing cabinet/type individuals. And the flotsam and jetsam made up of our societies dispossessed that love them. Being a former 82nd Airborne, long haired hippie looking type made this learning experience a little easier for them to bear as well.
About one third were regulars. The local "wrecking crew" that were up and waiting in front of the liquor store before it opened at six. These folks for the most part were the basic elemental building blocks of every blues and hard luck song or story you ever heard or read.
Mostly harmless. Usually good natured. And for whatever reason, steadfastly determined to complete their slow motion deconstruction of self with an air of indifference.
Yes, it's a palpable air of indifference. To their present state, their situation, and their slightly modernized Chaplinesque attire. If "casual disarray" ever makes the fashion leap back up on to the New York, Paris and Rome runways, these wags and wagettes will be the power brokers of the "layered" look. Soothing colors like; "muscatel green" and "mad dog maroon" with extra large pockets for fifths of wine. Look! It doubles as a blanket!
Another third were "periodic problem drinkers. You might see them on a regular or semi-regular basis for a time and then, poof! They'd be gone from the mix. Out of the loop. On hiatus, sabbatical. Possibly due to something or someones intervention.. Family, friends, the court, or common sense.
The last third were the "one hit wonders." Victims of circumstance. Wrong place at the wrong time.
Their "Dog ma" got run over their "Kar ma" on this one night, types.
Everybody sat around tables in a large common area. Mostly drinking coffee and smoking, But if gravity wasn't your buddy at the moment, we had these green plastic lined, foam filled mattresses stacked to the ceiling. Just grab one throw it down and surf the linoleum until your time was up.
Because this wasn't a lock up facility, there was no segregation of the men from the women.
Which led to so many "Kodak moments" without a camera I could cry.
As an example, I have seen more than one woman's hair set ablaze by the weaving flames of multiple stick matches, zippos and other undetermined accellerants in the cluches of near blind drunk men "intent on Chivalry." (as Van Morrisson so eloquently said about entirely different men, in his song, "Tupelo Honey")
When you see a ball of flame moving accross the room like some indoor equivalent of a St. Elmos fire, meteorlogical phemomena on parade, but you know better, then you can count on it being a platoon of inebriates bum rushing some gal to let her know that "Chivalry isn't dead. Just dead drunk enough to believe that they have the whole "pitching woo" flame game thing down to a science.
But when there are seperate heat sources, in a large enough number of drunken hands, in a cramped enough space, the thermal dynamics of the beast, in conjunction with the almost complete loss of hand eye coordination within 20 feet of this about to go south endeavor, can end up blazing its own trail, where it will. Especially if the girl is sporting some highly teased, laquer coated into place, conflagouration in waiting hairstyle.
I have actually quickly grabbed and thrown a girl down to the ground, then furiously beat her around the head and shoulders with my jacket to knock down the flames, and been thanked sincerely for giving her the "rough treatment." Truly, I've been blessed.
But now, on to the matter at hand. One of the people that I met while leading my team of me into nightly forays with the dispossessed, and those that actually seemed to be possessed. was a dentist that had lost his license to practice for life.
Because while drunk, he passed out while drilling inside this guys mouth! Oh yeah! I was intrigued immediately. (If not sooner.) This two year period of constant strange doings coincided with me doing my post graduate work at the highly exclusive, routinely abusive School of Hard Knocks. In the extremely competitive field of "staying alive and in mostly one piece."
(My dissertation was on understanding the underlying principals and protocols that operate while in a discombobulated state. I titled it; "Malfunction Junction. What's your Compunction?)"
Anyway, Doctor Mortimer, which really is his name, was a regular. He used to see me putting pen to paper routinely, and read a few of my rhyme stories. At one point, he asked me to "put his madness to rhyme" I bullshit you not.
I explain to him that there is no way that I am going to be able to even come up with anything within the city limits of accurate, as pertains to his behavior, unless he is willing to suffer my questions, and answer them honestly. Then there is a chance, of getting a word picture that he might recognize aspects of himself within. He agreed to undergo my verbal scrutinizing of his persona.
So I began to worked him over vigorously with the; who, what, when, where, and
ALWAYS why. (what's up with that "sometimes" stuff?)
Asking him things like; "How did you keep your patients from catching on to the fact that you were higher than the price of silver, when the Hunt brothers tried to corner the futures market?"
His way around that little fly in his 100 proof ointment was to hire a receptionist that was open to aiding him in his deceptive charade. "IF" he paid her three times the going rate that an average gum chewing, nail filing, hickey on the neck, teenager was likely to be paid. ("IF" they quit chewing gum, filing their nails and, "showcasing the silver dollar sized blood bruises that straddled their jugular vein by wearing a blouse with a collar.)
When asked by a patient, who was there to have some mouth mechanics performed by the drunkified doctor, and had noticed that doctor Mortimer was looking like he was far from being at the top of his game, if the; "doc was alright?" All this "Little Miss can't be wrong" (with thanks, and apologies to the musical group "The spin doctors" for this spun doctor's spin meister's spiel") had to do to earn this extra swag was feign a look of dedicated (to the proposition) concern for her boss, lean forward, as if in confidence, and say; "Doctor Mortimer has the flu."
Well, right there, I knew that I had the title of this sad and venal vingette.
My next question was of course; And this worked?"
To which former doctor Mortimer replied; "For a while. Until it didn't. " Which was his way of saying; "Until I do something like pass out, while operating my high tech, variable speed dental drill in its mega rpm "getting busy mode " in some poor guy's mouth." (Talk about a Kodak moment. Yikes!)
DR. MORTIMER HAS THE FLU.
A DRUNK DENTIST. WHO LOST HIS LICENSE TO PRACTICE THREE TIMES.
(The last time for life.)
His office
opens up at nine.
By ten o'clock,
there is a line
of patients pained,
and feeling blue.
But Doctor Mortimer
has the flu.
He comes wheezing in
at ten o' five.
Scarcley looking
half alive.
Extractions!
Impactions!
Await his veiw.
But Doctor Mortimer
has the flu.
This fact has been
explained to all.
Who walk on in,
or place a call.
His secratary
pleads his case.
She tries to spare him
the disgrace,.
NEVER mentioning
what is true.
Doctor Mortimer...
(has had a few!)
He whispers;
"Hold them here awhile."
To his patients he turns.
Offering up a smile.
So full of suffering.
So devoid of guile.
They're just amazed
at how well he's bearing up,
against his viral trial.
Then: "Send the first one."
He commands.
As he tries to still
his shaking hands.
The patient enters
right on cue.
And says: "Hey Doc.
I here you have the flu."
"Uhhh, just a touch."
The Doc informs.
His insides,
like a can of worms.
"This time I think
that just a cleaning will do.
Excuse me a moment.
Won't you?"
Once behind
his office door,
where he feels safe,
he begins to pour.
Then doubles his double,
just because.
Never reflecting
on the things he does,
just to make it
through the day.
In seconds,
the bottle is put away.
Do you know that
the flu is gone,
when he returns.
He laughs!
He jokes.
His being yearns,
to make this patient realize,
that Doctor Mortimer is authorized,
to work miracles north and south,
INSIDE ANYBODIES MOUTH!
Well.
Halfway through
this dialogue deep.
Doctor Mortimer
began to weep.
I pray the Lord
his soul to keep.
With drill in mouth,
he fell asleep.
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