I just got back from watching "The War Tapes" (Trailer: http://www.thewartapes.com/trailer/).
Its the story of National Guard soliders in Iraq as told through their eyes, their camera shots. The movie disturbed me very much.
The movie disturbed me because it pulled on many strings to my life experiences. Though I have never fought in battle nor even been involved in a shooting as a police officer, there were enough occurrences that they shared that hit too close to to home. For instance, a team was running escort on the MSR (Main Supply Route) doing about 50 MPH when a girl exited a car on the side of the road and then inadvertently walked into the path of their HUMVEE. The collision threw her into the path of the 18-wheeler rigs that were in covoy. One after another, they rolled over ther until she was like hamburger (Read Tragedy on Sand Hill Road).
The scenes of predeployment, deployment, and return all struck home. W hen I was sent to Desert Storm I remember the fear and rumors that circulated while we prepared for deployment. I remember the fear and surrealism that this could not be happening as we loaded the bus for Travis AFB where we'd be flown OCONUS (outside continental Unites States).
I also remember the sahme I felt for not being in combat with my fellow soldiers in Iraq. I feel it today. Though I did my part, my fair share, I still felt that I had an oblogation to be there on the front lines. I was a soldier trained for combat, not guard duty in Germany. Yes, I understand the mission my platoon served in Germany was critical (law enforcement duty, counter terrorism readiness, and ammunition train security), it still wasn't enough. I feel that it has always been my destiny to be a soldier, first and foremost...certainly not the path I have taken in life today.
I am sad, ashamed, and mad as hell at our government (OK, President Bush) for ruining so many lives, innocent lives, and two countries.
Copyright (c), ANDY HOLMES, 2005
Monday, July 24, 2006
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Take Down
Fall of 1984—Stanford University PD
Tony, Steve, and myself made up the swing shift in the second half of 1984.
It was supposed to be a quiet night. The fall quarter had not yet started. The swing shift sergeant called in sick and the brass had left for the evening. It was just the three of us to cover the university, a small city in its own right.
It was twilight and I can remember the sun setting behind the foothills on the west side of campus. Clouds drifted high in the horizon offering a silver lining over a deep blue sky of nightfall burnt orange by the setting sun. We saddled up our patrol cars with the essentials—map books, penal codes, vehicle codes, keys, radios, shotgun, forms, binoculars, tape recorders, cameras, pens, citation books, etc. Then it was time to check the units themselves. A quick walk-around looking for damage from the previous shift; a search of the back seat area for weapons an earlier prisoner may have ditched. Once, an officer found a butcher knife! Check the lights, the reds and blues…siren, public address system, and siren. It all worked. Time for briefing.
Tony was the senior officer so he was the acting sergeant. There were no pass-downs this night and only minor bulletins, so the briefing merely existed of standing around outside having a last cup of coffee while Tony passed out some Tiparillo cigars. We lit up, reviewed the daily BOLs (be on the look-out bulletins) and bull-shitted about recent events in the news.
Our portable radios had been quiet with only minor traffic from Palo Alto PD. We shared their radio frequency and about 95% of the traffic was theirs. The key was to pay enough attention to what was going on to know what was relevant to us and to know when to pay attention. Some times the dispatchers made it clear with a double-beep alert tone.
We had been chatting along delaying the inevitable departure to hit our beats. We were having fun, kicking it around by the cars, drinking some coffee and smoking our high-class nickel cigars when…
BEEP-BEEP, the high-pitched alert sounded on our radios, “attention Palo Alto units, attention L‑32 (a Palo Alto officer’s call-sign), a 211 (armed robbery) just occurred in front of Antonio’s Nut House at the corner of South California and Birch streets.”
Then there was a brief pause to give everybody a chance to halt conversations and/or get ready to take notes.
BEEP-BEEP, again; The dispatcher continued…
“L-32, L-53 (it was L-32’s beat and L-52 would assist) the victim reports 3 white male adults approximately 23 to 27 years of age driving a black older model Ford Mustang, license plate 123 XYZ (not the real license plate), pulled up to the curb where the victim was standing. The front seat passenger of the Mustang exited the vehicle, grabbed the victim and held a knife to her throat while the rear seat passenger exited the vehicle, took her purse, watch and other jewelry.”
The dispatcher went on to provide suspect descriptions, last seen route of travel and answer other questions L-32 and 53 had for the dispatcher. After a short time, Palo Alto dispatch opened the frequency back up to usual traffic.
We took notes and paid particular attention because the incident happened about a mile away. We didn’t get actively involved because Palo Alto had it well covered and because there were no avenues of fleet from the scene; Stanford was like an island on the border of Palo Alto. We had no direct routes that let to any major thoroughfares or freeways. We would definitely be on the lookout.
And it happened again.
BEEP-BEEP. “Code-22 (meant all units hold traffic, frequency restricted) Attention Stanford units, multiple code-3 (emergency) calls, attention Q-2; Q-2 a report of an 11-81 (traffic accident-major injuries involved) at Campus Drive South and Junipero Serra Expressway. California Highway Patrol has been advised (that was their turf for traffic accidents).”
Tony (Q-2) acknowledged the dispatcher. As he did so over his hand-pak (slang for portable radio) you could hear him breathe a little harder and faster as he dumped his coffee and briskly walked toward his patrol car.
The dispatcher continued…
“Q-10, a 10-33 (box alarm: fire or police) at the Hoover building. Report on the need for fire.” Steve acknowledged and mimicked Tony in his actions.
I thought it unusual that fire was not dispatched on Steve’s call. Dispatch normally sends fire assets as well as the police on box alarm call, but not this time. I soon found out why.
The dispatcher continued once again…
“Q-12, respond to a man-down call at Kresge auditorium; possible heart attack. Fire and paramedics all ready enroute.” I acknowledged and followed Tony and Steve. I hated my call. I had performed CPR on one old guy before and couldn’t get the taste out of my mouth for a day. To this day I can still remember the cracking sounds of his ribs as my partner broke them while doing compressions.
Within moments Tony, Steve and me were leaving the police department with lights and siren headed in 3 different directions. I saw the traffic stop for us and saw the expression on the people’s faces. They had to be wondering what the hell was going on at little old prim and proper Stanford.
Individually we reached our assigned calls. Tony’s call didn’t take long. He got there and saw a little debris in the roadway, but no other evidence of a collision. It’s not uncommon for passers-by to call in an accident and provide exaggerated details of an accident or other incident. He was back in service almost as soon as he arrived. He would of course, check nearby areas in case the location was misidentified.
I got to my call and was relieved to see fire and paramedics on scene already. I parked and made my way through the crowd to size up the situation, get some names and details. Fortunately, there were two physicians from the audience there working with the rescue team. I was simply in the way and returned to my car.
Steve arrived at the box alarm but no evidence of fire or police emergency could be found. Since there only so many call boxes per area, Steve would have to search the area to make sure he didn’t miss anything.
Soon, all three of us were back in service and returning to the station to pick us some things we left behind or to take care of other issues like making follow-up calls, or to revise reports kicked back by the Dicks (slang for detectives).
Shortly after we were all cleared from our calls, Tony asked dispatch to confirm the license plate numbers from the car used in the armed robbery earlier in Palo Alto. Dispatch re-read the vehicle description and the license plate. Tony came back and said he was following the suspect vehicle on Campus Drive east bound approaching Bowdoin Street.
The radio came alive with several Palo Alto units reporting their position with the implied intent of offering assistance if needed. The radio was so busy that neither Steve nor me could get on and tell Tony we were just down the street.
Dispatch took control of the radio…
BEEP-BEEP. “All units this channel Code 22.” The radio went silent.
“Q-10, Q-12 are you in position to cover Q-2?”
Steve answered up, “Affirmative, I’m at Escondido and Campus.”
“Q-12 what’s your 20 (an abbreviation for 10-20 which means location)” dispatched asked. “I’m at Serra and Campus” I said quickly with adrenaline starting to shoot within my bloodstream. We were all within ½ of each other and they were headed my way. I would be last in line to join my colleagues in the take down.
Since the frequency was restricted, we could talk openly and freely without codes and formality. All other radio traffic had been diverted to a secondary frequency. Tony was calling it out, explaining where and how we’d take these guys down. He directed Palo Alto units to cover possible escape routes. It was awesome. The hair stood on the back of my neck. We were all in sync, a part of a huge team with high stakes at hand.
Tony continued, he’d be the lead in the take down executing the traffic stop, calling commands to the suspects, and directing us as needed. Steve would do the cuffing and securing of the arrestees, and I was responsible for security—covering the vehicle while Tony and Steve did their job. After the arrestees were secured, it would be my job to approach the vehicle and make sure there was no one else hiding in it to ambush us and to secure it as a crime scene once I declared it “clear.” This was going to be a textbook example of a felony car stop just like we were taught at the academy.
I waited in eager anticipation. I soon saw Tony approaching me. Steve was right behind him in the next lane over. The road was a divided roadway with two lanes in each direction. Steve was blocking the free lane so unsuspecting traffic would get past them and become a safety issue.
As soon as Tony past me I fell in behind him and Steve. Tony asked if we were ready. We replied that we were and then he hit the lights and siren. Steve and I lit up our light bars as well. By now it had become dark and we were impossible not to see or hear, but the suspect vehicle wasn’t stopping. We turned our spotlights into the car and Tony ordered the vehicle stop.
The car finally stopped in front of Maples Pavilion. Steve pulled up on Tony’s right. I pulled up on Tony’s left. The road was completely blocked. I heard Palo Alto units blocks away racing to our aid and to take custody of our catch.
Tony opened his door and crouched behind it pointed his weapon at the car. Steve did the same. I started to as well with the shotgun, but quickly replaced it in the rack because it would limit my mobility when I approached the car. I unholstered my weapon and took aim at the car.
I looked to my right to see what Tony and Steve were doing, how they were positioned and crouched. Being the rookie, I wanted to make sure I was doing it right, that I was cool and badass like my peers whom I respected immensely. As I took inventory I smiled broadly; we looked badass all right, all three of us still had our glowing Tiparillo cigars clenched in our teeth and all on the right side of our mouths!
Slowly Steve and Tony took all three of the dirt bags out of their car in textbook style. Steve cuffed them and secured each in a separate car. Once the suspects were secure, it was time to do my job. Steve and Tony focused on the car to cover me in case someone was still hiding in the car—most likely not, but we were taught to never take needless chances.
I left the cover of my door and approached the suspect’s car, crouching all the way to make me as small as target as possible. I reached the left rear bumper and quickly tried to lift the trunk to see if it was unlocked and if so, if anyone was hiding in there.
Next, it was a slow trip to the rear side passenger window. Keeping my head below the window, I tried using my pocket mirror like a periscope to see inside, but with all of the lights on the car, I couldn’t see shit. I had to do a couple of quick pop-ups like jack in the box to see if anyone was inside. To my relief, it was empty. I called out “clear” and everybody could sigh a sign of relief.
—Continued—
Copyright (c), ANDY HOLMES, 2005
Tony, Steve, and myself made up the swing shift in the second half of 1984.
It was supposed to be a quiet night. The fall quarter had not yet started. The swing shift sergeant called in sick and the brass had left for the evening. It was just the three of us to cover the university, a small city in its own right.
It was twilight and I can remember the sun setting behind the foothills on the west side of campus. Clouds drifted high in the horizon offering a silver lining over a deep blue sky of nightfall burnt orange by the setting sun. We saddled up our patrol cars with the essentials—map books, penal codes, vehicle codes, keys, radios, shotgun, forms, binoculars, tape recorders, cameras, pens, citation books, etc. Then it was time to check the units themselves. A quick walk-around looking for damage from the previous shift; a search of the back seat area for weapons an earlier prisoner may have ditched. Once, an officer found a butcher knife! Check the lights, the reds and blues…siren, public address system, and siren. It all worked. Time for briefing.
Tony was the senior officer so he was the acting sergeant. There were no pass-downs this night and only minor bulletins, so the briefing merely existed of standing around outside having a last cup of coffee while Tony passed out some Tiparillo cigars. We lit up, reviewed the daily BOLs (be on the look-out bulletins) and bull-shitted about recent events in the news.
Our portable radios had been quiet with only minor traffic from Palo Alto PD. We shared their radio frequency and about 95% of the traffic was theirs. The key was to pay enough attention to what was going on to know what was relevant to us and to know when to pay attention. Some times the dispatchers made it clear with a double-beep alert tone.
We had been chatting along delaying the inevitable departure to hit our beats. We were having fun, kicking it around by the cars, drinking some coffee and smoking our high-class nickel cigars when…
BEEP-BEEP, the high-pitched alert sounded on our radios, “attention Palo Alto units, attention L‑32 (a Palo Alto officer’s call-sign), a 211 (armed robbery) just occurred in front of Antonio’s Nut House at the corner of South California and Birch streets.”
Then there was a brief pause to give everybody a chance to halt conversations and/or get ready to take notes.
BEEP-BEEP, again; The dispatcher continued…
“L-32, L-53 (it was L-32’s beat and L-52 would assist) the victim reports 3 white male adults approximately 23 to 27 years of age driving a black older model Ford Mustang, license plate 123 XYZ (not the real license plate), pulled up to the curb where the victim was standing. The front seat passenger of the Mustang exited the vehicle, grabbed the victim and held a knife to her throat while the rear seat passenger exited the vehicle, took her purse, watch and other jewelry.”
The dispatcher went on to provide suspect descriptions, last seen route of travel and answer other questions L-32 and 53 had for the dispatcher. After a short time, Palo Alto dispatch opened the frequency back up to usual traffic.
We took notes and paid particular attention because the incident happened about a mile away. We didn’t get actively involved because Palo Alto had it well covered and because there were no avenues of fleet from the scene; Stanford was like an island on the border of Palo Alto. We had no direct routes that let to any major thoroughfares or freeways. We would definitely be on the lookout.
And it happened again.
BEEP-BEEP. “Code-22 (meant all units hold traffic, frequency restricted) Attention Stanford units, multiple code-3 (emergency) calls, attention Q-2; Q-2 a report of an 11-81 (traffic accident-major injuries involved) at Campus Drive South and Junipero Serra Expressway. California Highway Patrol has been advised (that was their turf for traffic accidents).”
Tony (Q-2) acknowledged the dispatcher. As he did so over his hand-pak (slang for portable radio) you could hear him breathe a little harder and faster as he dumped his coffee and briskly walked toward his patrol car.
The dispatcher continued…
“Q-10, a 10-33 (box alarm: fire or police) at the Hoover building. Report on the need for fire.” Steve acknowledged and mimicked Tony in his actions.
I thought it unusual that fire was not dispatched on Steve’s call. Dispatch normally sends fire assets as well as the police on box alarm call, but not this time. I soon found out why.
The dispatcher continued once again…
“Q-12, respond to a man-down call at Kresge auditorium; possible heart attack. Fire and paramedics all ready enroute.” I acknowledged and followed Tony and Steve. I hated my call. I had performed CPR on one old guy before and couldn’t get the taste out of my mouth for a day. To this day I can still remember the cracking sounds of his ribs as my partner broke them while doing compressions.
Within moments Tony, Steve and me were leaving the police department with lights and siren headed in 3 different directions. I saw the traffic stop for us and saw the expression on the people’s faces. They had to be wondering what the hell was going on at little old prim and proper Stanford.
Individually we reached our assigned calls. Tony’s call didn’t take long. He got there and saw a little debris in the roadway, but no other evidence of a collision. It’s not uncommon for passers-by to call in an accident and provide exaggerated details of an accident or other incident. He was back in service almost as soon as he arrived. He would of course, check nearby areas in case the location was misidentified.
I got to my call and was relieved to see fire and paramedics on scene already. I parked and made my way through the crowd to size up the situation, get some names and details. Fortunately, there were two physicians from the audience there working with the rescue team. I was simply in the way and returned to my car.
Steve arrived at the box alarm but no evidence of fire or police emergency could be found. Since there only so many call boxes per area, Steve would have to search the area to make sure he didn’t miss anything.
Soon, all three of us were back in service and returning to the station to pick us some things we left behind or to take care of other issues like making follow-up calls, or to revise reports kicked back by the Dicks (slang for detectives).
Shortly after we were all cleared from our calls, Tony asked dispatch to confirm the license plate numbers from the car used in the armed robbery earlier in Palo Alto. Dispatch re-read the vehicle description and the license plate. Tony came back and said he was following the suspect vehicle on Campus Drive east bound approaching Bowdoin Street.
The radio came alive with several Palo Alto units reporting their position with the implied intent of offering assistance if needed. The radio was so busy that neither Steve nor me could get on and tell Tony we were just down the street.
Dispatch took control of the radio…
BEEP-BEEP. “All units this channel Code 22.” The radio went silent.
“Q-10, Q-12 are you in position to cover Q-2?”
Steve answered up, “Affirmative, I’m at Escondido and Campus.”
“Q-12 what’s your 20 (an abbreviation for 10-20 which means location)” dispatched asked. “I’m at Serra and Campus” I said quickly with adrenaline starting to shoot within my bloodstream. We were all within ½ of each other and they were headed my way. I would be last in line to join my colleagues in the take down.
Since the frequency was restricted, we could talk openly and freely without codes and formality. All other radio traffic had been diverted to a secondary frequency. Tony was calling it out, explaining where and how we’d take these guys down. He directed Palo Alto units to cover possible escape routes. It was awesome. The hair stood on the back of my neck. We were all in sync, a part of a huge team with high stakes at hand.
Tony continued, he’d be the lead in the take down executing the traffic stop, calling commands to the suspects, and directing us as needed. Steve would do the cuffing and securing of the arrestees, and I was responsible for security—covering the vehicle while Tony and Steve did their job. After the arrestees were secured, it would be my job to approach the vehicle and make sure there was no one else hiding in it to ambush us and to secure it as a crime scene once I declared it “clear.” This was going to be a textbook example of a felony car stop just like we were taught at the academy.
I waited in eager anticipation. I soon saw Tony approaching me. Steve was right behind him in the next lane over. The road was a divided roadway with two lanes in each direction. Steve was blocking the free lane so unsuspecting traffic would get past them and become a safety issue.
As soon as Tony past me I fell in behind him and Steve. Tony asked if we were ready. We replied that we were and then he hit the lights and siren. Steve and I lit up our light bars as well. By now it had become dark and we were impossible not to see or hear, but the suspect vehicle wasn’t stopping. We turned our spotlights into the car and Tony ordered the vehicle stop.
The car finally stopped in front of Maples Pavilion. Steve pulled up on Tony’s right. I pulled up on Tony’s left. The road was completely blocked. I heard Palo Alto units blocks away racing to our aid and to take custody of our catch.
Tony opened his door and crouched behind it pointed his weapon at the car. Steve did the same. I started to as well with the shotgun, but quickly replaced it in the rack because it would limit my mobility when I approached the car. I unholstered my weapon and took aim at the car.
I looked to my right to see what Tony and Steve were doing, how they were positioned and crouched. Being the rookie, I wanted to make sure I was doing it right, that I was cool and badass like my peers whom I respected immensely. As I took inventory I smiled broadly; we looked badass all right, all three of us still had our glowing Tiparillo cigars clenched in our teeth and all on the right side of our mouths!
Slowly Steve and Tony took all three of the dirt bags out of their car in textbook style. Steve cuffed them and secured each in a separate car. Once the suspects were secure, it was time to do my job. Steve and Tony focused on the car to cover me in case someone was still hiding in the car—most likely not, but we were taught to never take needless chances.
I left the cover of my door and approached the suspect’s car, crouching all the way to make me as small as target as possible. I reached the left rear bumper and quickly tried to lift the trunk to see if it was unlocked and if so, if anyone was hiding in there.
Next, it was a slow trip to the rear side passenger window. Keeping my head below the window, I tried using my pocket mirror like a periscope to see inside, but with all of the lights on the car, I couldn’t see shit. I had to do a couple of quick pop-ups like jack in the box to see if anyone was inside. To my relief, it was empty. I called out “clear” and everybody could sigh a sign of relief.
—Continued—
Copyright (c), ANDY HOLMES, 2005
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Tragedy on Sand Hill Road
Circa 1981—Woodside/Portola Valley
Before I became a police officer for Stanford University I worked for the oldest running private patrol in the state of California at that time—The Woodside Patrol. Because it was so old and the long standing relationship with the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Department, we worked closely with their deputies and a few California Highway Patrolmen. We were even permitted to equip our patrol cars with radios using their frequency. They even assigned us call signs. Mine was 10-Paul 26. We put out twice as many patrol cars as the sheriff in Woodside and Portola Valley, so it wasn’t unusual for them to ask us to respond to a burglar alarm or an accident when they had an extended ETA. I once waited 45 minutes for them to arrive at a burglary.
On a quiet Saturday night I was asked to Respond to Sand hill Road between Portola Road and Highway 280 on a report of a traffic accident. I was in Portola Valley and there was no traffic on the road as it was about 2:30 in the morning. I pushed it a little beyond the speed limit and got onto Sand Hill Road. As I neared Highway 280 I saw carnage on the road…steam from radiators, oil, water, transmission fluid, glass and parts all over the road.
One the roadway in front of me was a Toyota Celica, its front bumper smashed into the car where the windshield used to be. There was silence like I never heard before, except for the hissing of escaping steam. I walked toward the Celica afraid of what I was going to find. As I looked into the window I felt as if I was hovering above the scene watching myself. Then I began to peak in and everything seemed to switch to slow motion.
In the passenger side sat a young woman about 22 years old slumped forward. She was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the forehead. Her arms and legs were broken. I looked over to the driver, a young man around the age of 25, and it was a hideous sight. The steering wheel column impaled him forcing its way all the way through the front of his chest and exiting out the rear of the drivers seat. It was safe to say he was dead. No coroner needed for that conclusion.
I then noticed a full-size green Ford 4X4 truck laying on its side down the south side embankment all mangled. I could see two people in the cab, both unconscious. I got on the radio, gave the dispatcher an assessment and asked for fire, paramedics, and the Highway Patrol.
I returned to the car quickly to see if I could get some vitals on the girl, but as I did so I heard some one say, “This one’s dead.” I was so focused that I didn’t even hear the Highway Patrolman pull up, get out of his car and approach the accident. I was so glad he was there. It was his problem now.
The Result
The accident was attributed to drunk driving. Both the occupants of the Celica had very high blood/alcohol ratios. The accident occurred when the Celica veered into the path of oncoming Ford pickup. The Celica driver was dead, the passenger died enroute to the hospital. The Ford occupants sustained extensive injuries, but later recovered.
Copyright (c), ANDY HOLMES, 2005
Before I became a police officer for Stanford University I worked for the oldest running private patrol in the state of California at that time—The Woodside Patrol. Because it was so old and the long standing relationship with the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Department, we worked closely with their deputies and a few California Highway Patrolmen. We were even permitted to equip our patrol cars with radios using their frequency. They even assigned us call signs. Mine was 10-Paul 26. We put out twice as many patrol cars as the sheriff in Woodside and Portola Valley, so it wasn’t unusual for them to ask us to respond to a burglar alarm or an accident when they had an extended ETA. I once waited 45 minutes for them to arrive at a burglary.
On a quiet Saturday night I was asked to Respond to Sand hill Road between Portola Road and Highway 280 on a report of a traffic accident. I was in Portola Valley and there was no traffic on the road as it was about 2:30 in the morning. I pushed it a little beyond the speed limit and got onto Sand Hill Road. As I neared Highway 280 I saw carnage on the road…steam from radiators, oil, water, transmission fluid, glass and parts all over the road.
One the roadway in front of me was a Toyota Celica, its front bumper smashed into the car where the windshield used to be. There was silence like I never heard before, except for the hissing of escaping steam. I walked toward the Celica afraid of what I was going to find. As I looked into the window I felt as if I was hovering above the scene watching myself. Then I began to peak in and everything seemed to switch to slow motion.
In the passenger side sat a young woman about 22 years old slumped forward. She was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the forehead. Her arms and legs were broken. I looked over to the driver, a young man around the age of 25, and it was a hideous sight. The steering wheel column impaled him forcing its way all the way through the front of his chest and exiting out the rear of the drivers seat. It was safe to say he was dead. No coroner needed for that conclusion.
I then noticed a full-size green Ford 4X4 truck laying on its side down the south side embankment all mangled. I could see two people in the cab, both unconscious. I got on the radio, gave the dispatcher an assessment and asked for fire, paramedics, and the Highway Patrol.
I returned to the car quickly to see if I could get some vitals on the girl, but as I did so I heard some one say, “This one’s dead.” I was so focused that I didn’t even hear the Highway Patrolman pull up, get out of his car and approach the accident. I was so glad he was there. It was his problem now.
The Result
The accident was attributed to drunk driving. Both the occupants of the Celica had very high blood/alcohol ratios. The accident occurred when the Celica veered into the path of oncoming Ford pickup. The Celica driver was dead, the passenger died enroute to the hospital. The Ford occupants sustained extensive injuries, but later recovered.
Copyright (c), ANDY HOLMES, 2005
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Apartheid Boys
May 31, 1985—Stanford University
It never ceases to amaze me how gay communities rush to a call to arms whenever a segment of society has been targeted for discrimination; victimized due to intolerance or some other means of prejudice. I wonder why as a class they rush to defend the rights of others when those same people would return the favor with intolerance.
In the early ‘80’s South Africa’s policy of apartheid was being challenged around the world. Demonstrations popped up everywhere, especially on university campuses. Stanford was no exception.
Stanford’s board of trustees was gathering at the university for their regularly scheduled meeting. A group of students organized by the Gay and Lesbian Alliance at Stanford (GLAS) assembled a large group of students including gays, straights, whites, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, etc., to demonstrate outside of the board meeting. The demonstrations were peaceful, but never the less a police presence was required.
The tactic demonstrators used was one of obstruction. They would block entrances to the buildings where the trustees would meet and impede their movement any way possible. They went so far as holding trustee’s cars hostage. After their first day of demonstrating, some protestors decided to campout in front of building entrances, afraid the police would erect some type of barriers that would prevent them from being effective.
On the following morning I was sent out with a team of other officers to evaluate the demonstrator’s strength and motivations. We found them all asleep. In the gay group of demonstrators they were the most prepared in their overnight accommodations; equipped with mattresses, candles, blankets, pillows, food and drink. A few of the gay boys were sleeping together all spooned and cuddled in each others arms. I watched, no—I stared at them for a long while taking it all in. I thought how loving it looked; how peaceful they were; how intimate and natural it all seemed. I also thought of how brave they were.
It never ceases to amaze me how gay communities rush to a call to arms whenever a segment of society has been targeted for discrimination; victimized due to intolerance or some other means of prejudice. I wonder why as a class they rush to defend the rights of others when those same people would return the favor with intolerance.
In the early ‘80’s South Africa’s policy of apartheid was being challenged around the world. Demonstrations popped up everywhere, especially on university campuses. Stanford was no exception.
Stanford’s board of trustees was gathering at the university for their regularly scheduled meeting. A group of students organized by the Gay and Lesbian Alliance at Stanford (GLAS) assembled a large group of students including gays, straights, whites, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, etc., to demonstrate outside of the board meeting. The demonstrations were peaceful, but never the less a police presence was required.
The tactic demonstrators used was one of obstruction. They would block entrances to the buildings where the trustees would meet and impede their movement any way possible. They went so far as holding trustee’s cars hostage. After their first day of demonstrating, some protestors decided to campout in front of building entrances, afraid the police would erect some type of barriers that would prevent them from being effective.
On the following morning I was sent out with a team of other officers to evaluate the demonstrator’s strength and motivations. We found them all asleep. In the gay group of demonstrators they were the most prepared in their overnight accommodations; equipped with mattresses, candles, blankets, pillows, food and drink. A few of the gay boys were sleeping together all spooned and cuddled in each others arms. I watched, no—I stared at them for a long while taking it all in. I thought how loving it looked; how peaceful they were; how intimate and natural it all seemed. I also thought of how brave they were.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Eye-Candy
1982-86—Stanford University (Palo Alto), California
After graduation from the police academy, I was hired by the Stanford University Department of Public Safety. As I went through my field training, the period in which a rookie is trained by a seasoned officer, one of the first things I noticed about the student body was the overwhelming number of attractive males. They outnumbered women 3:1, and were mostly white. While the other officers complained of this, I was pleased to see so many guys out and about while I was on patrol. The collegiate eye-candy kept me entertained on quieter days.
When I started working at Stanford, it was May and the weather was warm. The afternoon temperatures begged many a young man to shed his shirt and don a pair of shorts. They were everywhere: on the soccer fields, basketball courts, tennis courts, at the pool (swim suits instead of shorts), the track, around the quad, in front yards, the fraternity houses and on and on. I couldn’t get enough boy-watching on any given shift.
I couldn’t explain it, but it was like an itch. I was nearly obsessed with befriending as many of these hotties as possible. Had I known I was gay, that there were other men like me, I wouldn’t have been so obsessed because these guys were 90% straight…maybe more. If I had known, I would have gone to San Francisco (30 minutes away) where the odds were a little more in my favor. But I didn’t, so I just kept trying to scratch an itch I couldn’t find.
I loitered my patrol around the dorms, fraternities and intramural fields on the watch for the errant bicyclist, motorcycle or car to run a stop sign or commit some minor traffic violation. If it was serious, I’d stop the person and take appropriate action. If the violation was really minor, and if the guy was cute (not a conscious motivation) I would stop him and give a verbal warning as I tried to initiate a friendly conversation. Girls rarely got stopped. I did make some friends this way and to this day a few still are, but none are gay (that I know of).
After graduation from the police academy, I was hired by the Stanford University Department of Public Safety. As I went through my field training, the period in which a rookie is trained by a seasoned officer, one of the first things I noticed about the student body was the overwhelming number of attractive males. They outnumbered women 3:1, and were mostly white. While the other officers complained of this, I was pleased to see so many guys out and about while I was on patrol. The collegiate eye-candy kept me entertained on quieter days.
When I started working at Stanford, it was May and the weather was warm. The afternoon temperatures begged many a young man to shed his shirt and don a pair of shorts. They were everywhere: on the soccer fields, basketball courts, tennis courts, at the pool (swim suits instead of shorts), the track, around the quad, in front yards, the fraternity houses and on and on. I couldn’t get enough boy-watching on any given shift.
I couldn’t explain it, but it was like an itch. I was nearly obsessed with befriending as many of these hotties as possible. Had I known I was gay, that there were other men like me, I wouldn’t have been so obsessed because these guys were 90% straight…maybe more. If I had known, I would have gone to San Francisco (30 minutes away) where the odds were a little more in my favor. But I didn’t, so I just kept trying to scratch an itch I couldn’t find.
I loitered my patrol around the dorms, fraternities and intramural fields on the watch for the errant bicyclist, motorcycle or car to run a stop sign or commit some minor traffic violation. If it was serious, I’d stop the person and take appropriate action. If the violation was really minor, and if the guy was cute (not a conscious motivation) I would stop him and give a verbal warning as I tried to initiate a friendly conversation. Girls rarely got stopped. I did make some friends this way and to this day a few still are, but none are gay (that I know of).
Monday, February 21, 2005
Close Encounter with the Female Kind
Summer of 1981—Santa Clara, California
I wanted to improve my chances of becoming a police officer, so I decided to put myself through the Santa Clara Valley Criminal Justice Training Academy; sponsored by San Jose City College, the San Jose Police Department, the Santa Clara County Sheriff's Office and other local agencys.
While attending the Academy I met a girl from San Jose while attending a buddy's pool party. I thought she was cute and she thought the same of me so we hung out together that day and started dating shortly thereafter. It was kinda nice having a companion. She'd bring lunch to me at the academy, fix meals for me after work and invite me to stay the night with her on occasion.
On the nights I stayed with her, I slept wearing a new pair of those bikini breifs I had seen in the department store. She thought I was sexy in them, so that was cool by me. You'd think I would be a shoe-in for some sex, but I wasn't. I was still a virgin and inexperienced in the way of figuring these things out. I didn't know how to initiate the action. I was paralyzed and didn't do anything. It was miserable. I'd spent many a night with this girl, awake the whole night with a total hardon and a case of blue balls so swollen I thought they would burst. Damn they hurt.
The closest I came to having sex with her was this one night when she drove up to stay with me. By now I was frustrated over not having any sex. I was determined to get some this time. I had become more comfortable with her, so I wasn't so apprehensive about going for it as we were making out after dinner. Big mistake! She went into a tirade accusing me of being same as all men with nothing on our minds but sex. Duh! That's what guys do.
Apparently all was forgiven in the moring because all she wanted to do was sit on my crotch and dry hump me through my boxers. Well, gawd, she went wild and was screaming and moaning and shit; she was bucking like a bronco. It all scared me because she was so wild and vocal. I think she came twice, which left me with really wet boxers :)
I wanted to improve my chances of becoming a police officer, so I decided to put myself through the Santa Clara Valley Criminal Justice Training Academy; sponsored by San Jose City College, the San Jose Police Department, the Santa Clara County Sheriff's Office and other local agencys.
While attending the Academy I met a girl from San Jose while attending a buddy's pool party. I thought she was cute and she thought the same of me so we hung out together that day and started dating shortly thereafter. It was kinda nice having a companion. She'd bring lunch to me at the academy, fix meals for me after work and invite me to stay the night with her on occasion.
On the nights I stayed with her, I slept wearing a new pair of those bikini breifs I had seen in the department store. She thought I was sexy in them, so that was cool by me. You'd think I would be a shoe-in for some sex, but I wasn't. I was still a virgin and inexperienced in the way of figuring these things out. I didn't know how to initiate the action. I was paralyzed and didn't do anything. It was miserable. I'd spent many a night with this girl, awake the whole night with a total hardon and a case of blue balls so swollen I thought they would burst. Damn they hurt.
The closest I came to having sex with her was this one night when she drove up to stay with me. By now I was frustrated over not having any sex. I was determined to get some this time. I had become more comfortable with her, so I wasn't so apprehensive about going for it as we were making out after dinner. Big mistake! She went into a tirade accusing me of being same as all men with nothing on our minds but sex. Duh! That's what guys do.
Apparently all was forgiven in the moring because all she wanted to do was sit on my crotch and dry hump me through my boxers. Well, gawd, she went wild and was screaming and moaning and shit; she was bucking like a bronco. It all scared me because she was so wild and vocal. I think she came twice, which left me with really wet boxers :)
Sunday, February 20, 2005
A New Friend of a Different Kind
Circa 1980—San Mateo, California
I worked at the mall in San Mateo for a couple of years and experienced and saw a lot of crazy crap. It's amazing how many thieves come to the mall to "shop" like everyone else...except they don't pay for anything. They bring their kids too. Some even come with their own Macy's and Nordstrom's bags. Of course, that's to make it look like they actually bought the stuff the lifted and tucked away inside.
The big stores had their own security of course and sometimes they needed an extra hand or two, so they'd call us—mall security. Usually it was to hang around outside the store in case a shoplifter decided to run for it. Security would wait until they actually walked out of the store to make their case stronger; thats when they'd usually bolt.
One afternoon we got a call to help Emporium store security (Agents) to aprehend a shoplifter. Me and a couple of guys went on over and hung around waiting for store security to tell us what they wanted us to do. After a while an agent came outside and said they wouldn't need us as the guy got spooked and left without the merchandise. My buddies left, but I hung around to chat with the agent.
Chad (not his real name) was an attractive young guy. He was about my age, 21 or so; lean, fit, short hair, witty, and very personable. We had stepped back into the store and it just so happened we were in the mens underwear department. Awful convenient I thought.
We just chatted about stuff and in casual mention I commented about the new mens underwear that were making a scene. This was around 1978-9 and mens bikini and thong underwear had recently made their appearance. Men were buying them up like crazy. Their popularity was astounding, but you wouldn't catch one guy admitting he bought a pair—men were still supposed to wear tighty-whities or boxers.
Chad didn't feel embarrassed talking about the thongs at all. We started joking about them as a matter of fact. We were Vanna Whites troducing the latest in mens fashion wear, highlighting the finer aspects of each. We had a great time joking and cutting up.
Chad was different. We could talk to each other honestly and when it came to sexual matters he didn't shy away from discussing the topic like straight guys did. He would talk about himself which was exciting because I didn't know what other guys did in their prvate lives or what they thought. I was always an outsider for some reason and never had any close friends. Chad changed all of that. We saw each other a lot after that day.
I didn't know what was so different about him, but we clicked and I liked it. I developed a crush on him but didn't understand my feelings. There were all of these little clues about me that should have told me the reason I was different was because I was gay, but I was too naive and the clues weren't close enough together in time for me to connect the dots. I just wasn't ready I guess.
I eventually left the mall and became a police officer for Stanford University in 1982. During that time we lost contact with one another and weren't to see each other for a couple more years.
I worked at the mall in San Mateo for a couple of years and experienced and saw a lot of crazy crap. It's amazing how many thieves come to the mall to "shop" like everyone else...except they don't pay for anything. They bring their kids too. Some even come with their own Macy's and Nordstrom's bags. Of course, that's to make it look like they actually bought the stuff the lifted and tucked away inside.
The big stores had their own security of course and sometimes they needed an extra hand or two, so they'd call us—mall security. Usually it was to hang around outside the store in case a shoplifter decided to run for it. Security would wait until they actually walked out of the store to make their case stronger; thats when they'd usually bolt.
One afternoon we got a call to help Emporium store security (Agents) to aprehend a shoplifter. Me and a couple of guys went on over and hung around waiting for store security to tell us what they wanted us to do. After a while an agent came outside and said they wouldn't need us as the guy got spooked and left without the merchandise. My buddies left, but I hung around to chat with the agent.
Chad (not his real name) was an attractive young guy. He was about my age, 21 or so; lean, fit, short hair, witty, and very personable. We had stepped back into the store and it just so happened we were in the mens underwear department. Awful convenient I thought.
We just chatted about stuff and in casual mention I commented about the new mens underwear that were making a scene. This was around 1978-9 and mens bikini and thong underwear had recently made their appearance. Men were buying them up like crazy. Their popularity was astounding, but you wouldn't catch one guy admitting he bought a pair—men were still supposed to wear tighty-whities or boxers.
Chad didn't feel embarrassed talking about the thongs at all. We started joking about them as a matter of fact. We were Vanna Whites troducing the latest in mens fashion wear, highlighting the finer aspects of each. We had a great time joking and cutting up.
Chad was different. We could talk to each other honestly and when it came to sexual matters he didn't shy away from discussing the topic like straight guys did. He would talk about himself which was exciting because I didn't know what other guys did in their prvate lives or what they thought. I was always an outsider for some reason and never had any close friends. Chad changed all of that. We saw each other a lot after that day.
I didn't know what was so different about him, but we clicked and I liked it. I developed a crush on him but didn't understand my feelings. There were all of these little clues about me that should have told me the reason I was different was because I was gay, but I was too naive and the clues weren't close enough together in time for me to connect the dots. I just wasn't ready I guess.
I eventually left the mall and became a police officer for Stanford University in 1982. During that time we lost contact with one another and weren't to see each other for a couple more years.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
