I'm Not Dead

Hello to those of you still dropping by now and then! I've been working on some projects outside of the virtual world. While I was still posting here, I realized I was writing about crime more and more. So, I created a crime blog that's more focused than this one. I'll be back for occasional rants on society, but if you're interested in my adventures as a crime analyst, please come by for roll call at Crime and Crooks.

Crooks are filthy bastards. Learn their tricks and protect yourself!

Phil Spector: Another Famous Creep Walks

Alright, a hung jury in the Phil Spector murder trial. What total FUBAR. I am telling you, it's hard to believe in the justice part of the justice system lately. From the Jena 6 teenagers accused of attempt murder for little more than a serious fight to Phil Spector's lame explanations for a model shot in the face in his home, where is Lady Justice? It just irks me to no end.

This little man is as bizarre as he is crafty, and that's not a compliment. He has a well-documented history of erratic behavior and violence, especially toward women. You've heard all the testimony highlights on TV, but do you know about some of the stranger things he did to his family while married to Ronnie Spector? He insisted the house be kept dark so nobody could see his balding head. He hid all her shoes in hopes of keeping her inside. When that didn't work he locked her in the mansion. He locked his young son in his bedroom with a little pot in the corner for a toilet (by his son's own account). I'm sure glad Ronnie left him in 1972, otherwise she might be six feet under with her head blown half off by now.

He fired a gun during a studio recording with John Lennon. He reportedly made other musicians play their instruments exactly to his specifications while holding a gun to their head. Who does this wing nut think he is? I wish someone would kick his ass and set his hair on fire.

I understand the whole 'beyond a reasonable doubt' concept, the foundation of our justice system. It's well-intentioned, but I truly think that train has left the station. The times, they are a changin'. I don't see how Phil Spector emerging from his home with murder weapon in hand, stating to his driver, "I think I just killed someone", does not go above AND beyond a reasonable doubt. The lunatics have taken over the asylum.

Warren Jeffs' Alter Ego

Warren Jeffs. Where to begin? He is so offensive and absolutely disturbing on so many levels that I feel justified picking on any aspect of him. Besides my utter contempt for the man behind the milk toast face, his physicality irks me as well. I noticed while watching courtroom coverage today how he slides across the floor, so stiff and pale and gangly; someone who looks like they probably spit when they talk and smell bad. I normally don't criticize appearance, but there's something about Warren Jeffs's being that makes my neck prickle.

Aside from the dastardly deeds he's committed with young girls and women, in addition to the injustices he's enacted against young boys and men, beyond the blasphemy against religion he's guilty of, his evil has covered him from the inside out. Even though he's so slight it looks like I could take him down single-handed, he still looks dangerous in a sly and ruthless way.

This funk of his reminds me of an evil character I saw in the movie "Pan's Labyrinth". These are pictures of him. His name was Pale Male and he loved eating little children. Pale Male wasn't outright with his evil; he was manipulative and deceptive first, then extremely cruel. He lured hungry kids with a fabulous feast, stayed calm and still as they explored and then killed them as soon as they were comfortable to eat. This is exactly who Warren Jeffs morphs into when I see him on the news. Besides the physical similarities (clothed and naked, I bet), Jeffs is a puppet master, too. And a heartless one.

With all the prophetizing he's done, I wonder if he's contemplated his own judgement day. He knows he's not the prophet. He's smarter than that. Well, he might not have to wait too much longer to get a sneak peak. Inmates often have special ways to welcome sex offenders into the fold (no pun intended, honest), especially those who have assaulted children. Bye bye, Warren. Watch out for Pale Male.

Disturbing Slang: Side Salads

I went to an Angel's baseball game with a group from work recently. One coworker is related to a team member and thus got to sit in the fancy boxes. Another friend pointed out where his box was. Then he gestured to another private area and said, "That's where the side salads sit". Huh?

Judging by the puzzled look on my face, he explained that 'side salads' are players' mistresses and advised that many of the wives are aware of this and consider it a price to pay for the lavish lifestyles. Well, I don't know about that, but I do have a little something to say about side salads.

First, how unsettling that sports mistresses must be so common as to warrant their own urban slang term. So, what do we call men on the side? Cheese sticks? I apologize; that was crude. But, something tells me we need not dwell on that because I bet there aren't many cheese sticks to speak of. I think this is primarily a male side order.

Second, shame on you side salads. Men are puppies with instinctual reactions to certain female traits and behavior. When I hear of affairs with married men, both parties are guilty, but I blame the woman more. If she turns it off the man will go sniff elsewhere, at least the kind of man inclined to do that. So listen, salads, leave the married men alone. Someone's already ordered that main dish.

I love side salads, particularly with blue cheese. I order them frequently, but I'll never be one.

Death Wand Massacre

Early this morning, in the hours of darkness, I awoke to tickles on my lip. Romantic, you might think? Hardly. A faint buzzing accompanied the tickle, jolting me into consciousness as I have terrible reactions to mosquito bites. I flipped on my light and blinked myself awake. Hmm, a fly buzzed overheard. A rather fat one, but only a fly. And then another, and another and...There must have been 10 flies in my bedroom, on the ceiling, on my nightstand, on ME! Oh, the horror. I hate flies. They're ugly, dirty, and oh, the places they've been, well...

I tried shaking off my sleepy fog to discover why there was a fly family in my bedroom. I don't have a fly swatter because I never have flies to swat. But, I do have a giant spatula. So, off to the kitchen I shuffled. Bumping into a few items on the way, I imagined more buzzing around my head. I flicked the kitchen light on and BAM! Not only did another flock of flies greet me but good Lord! A smell so sour and rank I coughed and covered my nose with both hands.

There, in my beautiful sink, were the regurgitations of more than one family's evening meals. I live on the ground floor of a three-story condo complex and while I do love my surroundings, it truly sucks to be on the bottom of everyone's plumbing issues. So there, in smelly glory, were corn kernels, bits of noodle, some rice, pieces of a cheese-like substance, a lot of black chunks and filmy liquid. But these flies!

How did this infestation happen so quickly? I still don't understand it. They danced around the filth juice, buzzing back and forth between my head and the sink. And so unleashed my rage. I snatched my spatula and went into commando mode. "Prepare to die, flies!" I squealed with bizarre excitement I can only describe as giddiness, after the fact. Is this the rush murderers are addicted to? I digress. I have an active imagination. What can I say?

Those flies were quick little nasties and I was soon talking like a seasoned trucker. But, one by one, I pounced and smashed them to death. Between my bedroom and kitchen, I made two little death piles with their bodies, some still writhing in their final moments. Perhaps most disturbing, I leaned down to the kitchen death pile and said, rather loudly, "What's up now, flies!"

Anyhow, after scooping all the corpses into the trash and promptly taking it out to the bins, I am left exhausted at only 6:30 a.m. It took me the better part of an hour to complete my death wand massacre, but I am extremely pleased with myself. I cleaned out my sink and sprayed it with orange oil (a natural pest deterrent) and sit poised to call maintenance at 8:00.

I make myself a nice pot of coffee and reach for the sugar. There, on top of my canister, a lone survivor. A single, fat, laughing fly rubbing its hands together and mocking me. Excuse me while I get my death wand...

Trouble

Warning, this post is so far out there it doesn't even register on the outer limits of the UltraJam common sense-o-meter. What's this about Leona Helmsley's will? The Queen of Mean died last week and left $12 million to the dog? The beneficiary, who shall be known as "Trouble" from here on (that really is his name) is apparently quite accustomed to living large. The Maltese wears a diamond collar and designer clothes.

I guess this kind of dog bling needs maintenance money, but for real now, $12 million? That's just obscene. Imagine all the struggling families who could be pulled off the bankruptcy cliff with just fractions of that amount. Ugh. Do the brains of the astronomically rich begin to marinade in fantasy juice after a certain net worth? I just don't understand it.

Others who might feel my pain are a few of Leona's grandchildren who were passed over financially for 'reasons known to them'. Ouch! I do wonder, though, what it was like having a grandmother dubbed, "the meanest woman in history" by Donald Trump. Hey, I respect family dynamics. I'm not in a position to judge from the outside looking in. But still! A dog? To be fair, Helmsley did leave billions to charity. But it still seems whack that two remaining grand kids get $5 million each and the dog barks off with $12 million.

Leona, look down or up depending on where you are and make some sense out of this for us 'little people who pay taxes'. Remember when she allegedly said that? I guess Trouble got a modest amount considering she was worth some $3 billion when she died. All the same, he better watch his back.

Aqua Death

I'm in mourning. My beautiful beta fish, affectionately named Bait, died. It was a slow death; painful to watch. He listed to one side on the bottom of his aquarium one evening. Several loud taps on the the walls didn't stir him. I was concerned but hoped he'd be back to his old self in the morning. I awoke to find him completely flat on his side, gasping slowly. Gills flapping out, holding open, then shaking closed. Poor Bait. I tried to make eye contact, let him know I was there. He just stared vacantly forward. I felt horrible going off to work, leaving him to struggle alone on the black gravel.

This went on for two more days. I debated about euthanizing him, just flushing him away and out of his misery. I couldn't do it. I let nature take its course. Upon returning from dinner (a fish dinner, no less), I found him still. He was dead.

What happened next is a bit concerning. I was unable to fish him out and flush him away. I kept his body there in the aquarium for two days. I knew it was wrong, a bit disturbing, even disrespectful to little Bait. But, I missed him and I just couldn't say goodbye. I started wondering about those sick souls you hear about on the news who keep the dead bodies of loved ones they've murdered in the house for weeks. Is this how it starts, I wondered? Did they keep their dead fish around for days? No. Snap out of it. I did not murder Bait. Big difference, as I see it.

One thing I did realize is that this is the first pet death I've experienced since leaving home. My Mom, saint that she is, always took care of our animals when they got sick and died. Dogs, hamsters, birds. You name it, Mom came through. She was the one strong enough to do what was best when the rest of us couldn't face it. So, I reminded myself I'm a grown-up now and fished Bait out, brought him to the toilet and flushed him down. Then I went to Petco and got another. Life goes on.