Motivate This

I have studied and practiced public speaking to the extent of winning awards for it. In my study I have run across a lot of 'motivational speakers'. I have concluded that the bottom line to life is the bottom line.

So I spent about a year at Toastmasters. I got good at getting up in front of a small group and doing my speech thing. I learned not to use 'So', so much, and to never begin a sentence with it. It was fun and has given me more education than I thought possible. One way I studied technique was to see some motivational speakers. Some few minutes into having sunshine blown up my ass I began to wonder how these paramours of attitude reacted when their kids cranked out or the dog crapped up the persian rug and chewed their 'one of a kind' electric guitar they never played. The magic quickly dissolved after working with a few celebrity’s I don't work with celebrity’s for fun, mine or theirs, enough said.

I had the wonderful opportunity to produce a radio show all about seniors. Some I remember vividly. One was a cranky, loud, Jewish-Italian lady, “I'm not dead yet” was her bottom line to continue new projects. She spoke several languages fluently according to some of the others she spoke with. She liked me, I know this because she yelled at me a lot. It was not yelling, I was a member of her family so the others told me. She lost the blood ones and was the first to tell me that family is the one you make. “Forget the blood and go with the ones good to you!” That came complete with hand gestures. She was of 'the greatest generation', a WWII survivor. By 1947 Italy was no longer a home to her. I lost contact with her and the others when I left KPCC.

The bottom line is the final end. You die, it's over. Carry a minimum sage with you at all times, make it concrete, a hammer blow to the barriers of your progress. Your bottom line could be; “your not dead yet.” I know someone who will smile down on you for using it.

Getting There

I went to court to define what kind of response I do. There are codes for how emergency personnel respond. In the end the head of my department stopped debating me and walked out of an arbitration hearing.

It was the hottest day in downtown one could be in as I carried my coat and made my way uphill to testify on behalf of my union and coworkers. I don't like going to court, I do what I can to frustrate the living daylights out of all who would bother my normal routine. In this session the question of forced overtime was supposed to be discussed. It went from pundit bantering to questioning me personally about my extensive knowledge regarding emergency response. I don't have such knowledge. Five deferrals to the judge later the other side got up and left. They quit. I guess turning to the judge and saying, “You honor, what does that mean?” had a deleterious effect on their case.

Emergency response codes come in many colors. Depending on where you are, they enact special teams to do specific things. I was supposed to respond to the very color that meant lights and sirens. That takes special training and sign off by the city that I am not responsible for munching pedestrians with my car or skid marks where ever. Ah, no kay? I get there, in one piece, and to the harm of no one.

I don't like being trapped between doing the right thing and an overbearing bureaucracy bent on making sure that I understand above all else that they are in charge of my every fiber and sinew. I eat high fiber to pass such build ups and send them to Hyperion, the billion gallon a day waste treatment facility owned by the bureaucracy I tactfully ignore just so I can help someone.

Please Pass The Ammunition

Behind the thin blue line a polite society exists. This even applies to the conversations detectives have with gang members, particularly geared toward rank.

“Good morning sir.” One could expect to hear around HQ. Head Quarters is quite polite indeed, providing your just visiting. Anyone above Sargent is a politician. Some politicians care and work hard. The rest make sure someone else does that. Everyone in the department has a rank. I am a photographer III. I can tell subordinates what to do. For instance a request by me to a photographer one should be followed as an order, the same applies for another photographer III that I have seniority over. Even one day counts. I never give orders, I always listen to requests.

All together we help each other out. I have been on shootings where a brand new detective is used. They have, quite often, no idea of how to use me, I coach them through it, explain what I'm doing. I will label holes, show them camera angles, ask if more or less would help. Receptive respecting people get the most out of me. I clam up around the others.

More than once I have been in a situation where the scene goes 'tactical'. When I arrive, all the danger is supposed to be over. Sometimes it does not stay that way. I remember fumbling with my issued bullet proof vest for the first time, wanting to at least look like everyone else. It was obvious that it would take all night so a Lieutenant from SWAT came over with a Sargent and they helped me learn how to get the contraption on by myself, for future reference... I then observed the team regearing for more action. I thought about how polite they were. “Could you please pass me that ammunition, the less than lethal?” I overheard that, it was a striking contrast to the insipid portrayal of officers as gruff testosterone monkeys with guns.

Gang members also have rank. Someone really important is a lieutenant. They are known by their monikers; heavy boy, kiddo, you can look them up. I was told by a detective that gang members are quite honest. They will talk if allowed, especially if someone did something on their own. Gang members are supposed to follow orders. They can be turned out or worse if they cause the gang problems like bring down the heat. LAPD knows how to deliver heat, polity, see above.

I have a favorite pair of pants. I like 'em. I don't love 'em but I like 'em. They are made of a thin rip-stop nylon that keeps me cooler on hot days than a pair of blue jeans might. Made for hiking they remain comfortable during the miles of walking around I have to do. They have fewer belt loops in them and being the soft, flimsy style so made for easy movement they do not stay up unless aided by a belt, tape, suspenders, or glue. I have to carry around a rather heavy radio. The back pocket makes for ideal storage of it. This is a very bad idea when using a urinal. The wonderful porcelain replacement for a tree so popular in organized society. They require standing up, which helps get business done fast. I forgot about the radio and the flimsy pants went for the floor as I opened up my belt. I caught the whole deal by quickly raising my left knee up toward my chest. A detective walked in and took up residence in the next stall. He was polite enough not to say anything about me standing there one footed like a peeing stork. I could not stand the silence and asked if this ever happened to him. He said that yes and tactical pants were like that, pockets full of ammo made it worse.

I am not the least in the department in rank. I am grateful that those I have spent time with, including our current Chief, have made it a good place to work. I practice using the vest now and then. I remember to remove the radio from my back pocket before taking care of business.

Broken Down

It is what it is. That is the motto currant of my mechanic. I have break downs at work, some are physical.

This weird noise has been coming from my car when I drive. It's like a screaming hamster under the hood every time I make a tight turn. There is a burning smell, like a dead hamster roasting on the exhaust. They turn out to be related. The hamster is the rack and pinion steering that on my all wheel drive, seriously reliable car, is just as expensive in labor to replace as the parts. Poor hamster. So there goes the cost of about two car payments none of which I have made for three years. Screw the hamster, it is what it is. The owner of the shop gave me a ride home. His son had died some years ago, he had a fight with his wife last night. He wanted a break, I felt privileged to let him have one. We enjoyed my not yet finished property together, the view of the snow capped Southern California mountains is very good from here. We hung out with my rather sociable chickens and dog. We collected some eggs. He told me about the many things that had come together to give him some important answers, we were talking about my work, I always have something to say about how short life is. I live off the idea that if we have a choice, we can take a direction. A direction is a path we choose. A path goes somewhere. We live to travel, resting bloats the body and the mind.

Of the break downs at work. The mechanical ones are always covered by an 'extra'. There are spare lenses, camera bodies, batteries and helicopters. There are even extra people when I can't get there, sick or otherwise. I'm not spare, but the position, if there is a hole in the schedule can be filled. What can't be filled is the endless pit of self pity and woe is me some people seem to live for. They create drama and then come in as hero's to solve it. I don't get it. I do have to work with some whom I have seen 'excused from duty' in the 'real world' outside of 'civil service'. So many times I have had to reground myself and accept the steady pay check with the steady flow of poor judgment and attitudes. I really do like the core of what I do, it's what I focus on to get past the breakdowns.

I have a choice, that makes me alive, living really. If only being able to think and not get around how you like is the end of things for you, then please have a chat with Steven Hawking, if he can find the time for you. It is what it is. Please, go have a nice long walk down your path.

Programming

I'm surrounded by programming. It is in the miserable cheap aged computers I have to use. It is in the “protect our way at all costs” mentality that is called management. It is in the children I work with, allays abused and one day waiting to crash.

There are allways three things, times nine, plus leftovers for me to do when I get in. As a photographer III I am primarily responsible for the taking of photographs in the field for the purpose of documenting crime scenes. Otherwise I can take the images and process them so they are ready for pick up or delivery to an investigator. Part of that is storage and retrieval. Part of that is data locked up in a system that was cheap the day it was bought and updates are not helping. I have gotten into a relaxed pattern of finding the least wanted station, booting it, logging in, and putting out a fire if I find one. I work with people who don't get there place, get overwrought, and scream for validation in many passive-aggressive ways. I don't bother with demanding my bit of power, I don't have any, except when I need to be a pain in the ass.

Enter management. I do not work with what you might call leadership. The civilian side of my job tries to emulate the paramilitary side of the police department and gets it sore-fully wrong. They don't get the culture of solving problems at the lowest level first. I have been a part of investigations that could be billed for tens of thousands of dollars if they were done by an outside agency or billed by us to another. I have been a cog in them and their focus. They never come to much. I have never seen one that could not have been solved by some actual leadership. Once started they are taken to a conclusion that is shot down. Somewhere in the nine months it takes to so much as send someone home for a few days without pay there is a screw up in the paperwork. The system brings its self down, I don't even put in much effort, it is natural for a top heavy object to tip over.

Anything said or done with enough repetition becomes OK. One can be programmed into thinking abuse is normal. It's not, I still find miserable remnants to rip off the new me, the one I raise, with kindness and patience. I let them fly, let the sun rot them to ashes before they hit the ground. At the last moment of their physical state I ruin their future chance of return with a fat dose of forgiveness. I know the dead who started them, I know they regret not seeing the original impact of their put downs and lack of encouragement. It's the best way of keeping psychic litter from piling up, it's deprogramming, derezing.

Children don't know what they are getting into. That's why I would never let a ten year old start a fire with lighter fluid, or drive my car. Sharp objects, things that shoot? No. Somehow, multi hundred pound, multi decade aged people feel the need to dominate someone before they hit double digits in weight and age. I document that constantly. So many detectives have taught me the lesson of multigenerational abuse cycles. I hope to be gone in another career before I see it. Maybe I'll be a writer.

I was having a coffee near Brentwood CA. There were some pumpkin flavored items, cookies, cake, that I know a dear one just LOVES and wished I could buy one and take to her later. No, that day we are separated by schedule. In this place I saw some young boys having an informal tutoring session. They wore blazers with their school shield on them. They were now ten hours into a day of thorough programming. I thought about the real trail blazers and how they were all drop outs and hoped the boys would one day hit their own stride and do something really creative. I was being stared at while they ignored their tutor. I walked out to leave the sanguine scene alone, I was disturbing it.

It feels great to give your past the finger and drive off. Try it.

Dying on your feet

I want to affirm what being alive is. Most of us, me included die too much. How little we live.

Alive is choice. You choose so much. How much of what to eat. When to do anything. What route, scenic, or fast, to take. It is not true that you choose how you feel. Not at first. You can change how you deal with feelings for the long term but I think it best to let the big ones fly, and dilute, provided you don't scare the kids or dog. Examine how you got their later. I wonder how many killings could be prevented by people if they would just give themselves a break from their own standards.

Dying starts with regression. You can have a great job like, Crime Scene Photographer. This career could wear you down like any other if you let it. Trust me, a lot of crime scenes look alike and are hard to remember. I'm glad a person, special to me, encouraged my writing and specifically this blogging. It makes me feel like I have 'something else' going on. Regression starts with stagnation, I kill stagnation knowing that I can use what I go through to help others. A purpose, a higher calling breathes new life into a stagnant circumstance. Purpose kills the lingering death that is beset upon us to such a degree that many are dying on our feet.

I don't like picking weeds or overgrown grass. I have discovered that my chickens love the stuff. Where I had an acre of weeds and grass before I now see a food source for my birds who make the best eggs ever. Just the thought bouyes me in the effort to pick and clean up. I am running low on weeds now, the grass is getting farther away from the coop. Those silly birds have added purpose and motivation to my maintenance.

Instead of dying on your feet, give stagnation a kick in the ass, when it runs off you will see a clear path ahead.

The good. The bad. The really really stupid.

Some scenes I respond too are created by good people with the best of intentions. Most of what I respond too is caused by those who were born bad or otherwise and have decided to continue being evil. It does not take long to go through the three stages of regard considering the really really stupid.

There was the good young man working hard at a processing plant that made designer blue jeans. These are the kinds of jeans one buys that look wreaked already. Holes in the knees, heavily worn, nearly worn out fabric. Finally there is bedazzling or bead work that is stapled or riveted all over.

I would like to apologize now to the makers of the bedazzeler, I have no intention of making fun of your product that makes other crappy crappy products look good. You do in fact now own a brand that is a generic reference for making things like the aforementioned jeans something special and you deserve credit: Look up BeDazzeler.

Now, back to the scene: The young man was working with the machine that is like a rolling barrel with holes in it that fits just inside another barrel that is solid. The contraption is spun with a 440 volt motor connected by six belts, the kind you see under the hood of a car. The motor is so big you would need the space found under the hood of a truck. The machine jammed, he went to unjam it and was successful until his upper body jammed it again after being pulled in. The fire department had cut all the electrical and belts. I mean they cut the wires and made sure they stayed that way. The body was layed out on the floor, he was somewhat flat and long.

I think of him as being a good man. I saw a young lady crying with the kind of deep heaving one does when shock has not worn off yet. Coworkers were still gathered, sobbing, heads and eyes looking back and forth into the distance that would have been his future. I could tell he was well liked.

A gang banger represents reprehensible humanity. They are the kind that live for the moment and will knife or shoot someone over the slightest form of disrespect. One such cur ran from the police in a high speed chase. He ran his small lowered car into a large complex of town homes. There were children playing outside. One small girl who looked like my niece was trapped up against a short retaining wall by his car that was going sixty plus in an area that one would be driving briskly doing fifteen.

When I got to the hospital that had her body the Emergency Room nurse said; “brace your self, it's the worst I have seen.” I said; “I gotta get you out to some train wrecks.” I was serious about that, she was correct. It was bad, I'll skip the details.

The cur was laying on a gurney cuffed in place and had just come out of the radiology lab having had his neck cleared. Anyone in an accident is brought in on a board and their head secured with tape to prevent further damage. X-rays confirmed no broken neck. He refused to look at me so I could take an identification shot of his face. I don't speak spanish so I don't know what was said to him in terse tones but he slowly turned toward me, it looked like it hurt. I don't know if it was the sudden stop, or the hiding in a garbage can for three hours curled up. He was discovered by a police dog and still had rotten food smell all over him.

Some accidents caused by the really really stupid used to depress me, I felt sorry for them. Then I evolved into a bit of anger toward those who toss out their life with the same effort I toss my fast food left overs. Im not laughing but... Everyone and anyone is supposed to know that alcohol does not help you drive, operate machinery, or do high wire work. It does not help you run in a straight line. Nor is it really useful in helping you with judgements like, how far away is that truck coming from anyway? Lots of prescription meds have warnings on them that echo the same idea; don't....and don't... and really really don't.....

A chaloob with a sixty page wrap sheet dosed up on anti anxiety meds by washing them down with malt liqueur. He sprinted across a six lane street in the foothills of Sunland, the legal speed is fifty miles an hour. He did not do well when struck by a jeep that was outfitted for travel in the back country. Imagine a really huge bumper et et et. The jeep still ran and was quite drivable afterward. The guy would need a new hood.

There would not be a page sixty one.