At the Ingleside police station, on Ocean ave., there's an old slab of bullet-proof glass hanging on display next to the desk where they write down reports and deal with the public. The lexan (i think that's what they call it - now) has five highly visible impacts from what I guessed was a 12ga. shotgun firing 00 buckshot. It looks quite striking, hanging there on the wall. It's the first thing you see when you walk into the station. The second thing you see is a plaque commemorating an officer who was killed in the line of duty, back in 1971.
Now I don't know why, but 1971 just seems like the year that kind of thing would happen. The early seventies has this tough, psycho, bluntness to it; or so it seems to me now. Maybe it's just the way cars were designed... Those Detroit irons, with their V-8 hemmies and glass-pack mufflers were the chariots of that decade's villains. There were certainly a lot of tough-guy movies (DOG DAY AFTERNOON, DIRTY HARRY, TAXI DRIVER).
I found it easy to imagine the night it happened. The parking lot full of cruisers, and fog rolling in from Daly City... Some Hellborn villain with a trenchcoat and three-days growth of a beard, skulks up to the old wooden door of the precinct house and slips in under the greenish glow of the bare flouro tubes... Pulling that sawed-off duck gun from under the coat and...
"Can I help you sir?"

In any case the night that the cop got killed was the same night the lexan got that nice, decorative etching. I asked: That's how I know. I happened to be there at the precinct because some fool kid with a shaved head in a souped-up Honda Civic hit me in my truck and then drove off. It was more dramatic than that in the moment, but I'm just tired of recounting the story. I changed lanes, pulling in front of him: He didn't like it, so he pulled into the emergency lane and passed the two cars on my right, cut hard across two lanes of traffic so that he was 4' in front of my bumper, and then he locked his brakes. I didn't have a chance of stopping, so I skidded right into the back of his car. He booked out of there, but another car stopped and the driver said he saw the whole thing and would testify the guy had made a reckless, deliberate move causing an accident - and then fled the scene. So I'm probably not going to get shagged for any money (thank God).
But it's looking like there's nothing I can do to that punk kid. The cops won't touch a traffic violation, unless an officer witnesses it. No one really cares. What the kid did is basically legal, because it's not covered by any part of the vehicle code. I doubt that kid even has a licence, let alone insurance. Driving like he was I would guess he is a convicted felon. No one just pulls a move like that suddenly - out of the blue.

When i finished the paperwork at the police station, I asked one of the cops what happened to the guy who shot up their station house.
"Did he get the San Quentin gas chamber?" I asked the desk sergeant.
He barely looked up from his paperwork.
"He was never caught." He grumbled.

So why in Christ's name do they have that 30 year old nightmare hanging on the wall like a trophy? Is that to show what a tough job it is? Or to remind people to be patient when they wait in line for an hour to report their injury or wrongdoing? I was really puzzled about that as I drove home. These guys adorn their station with a souvenir of the night some psycho came in and shot the place up like a Terminator - and then got away - through a parking lot full of cop cars. Whatever.

I was just grateful to get my car home and into the garage without any altercations, road rage or freeway shootings. There was a humorously ironic moment as I drove home, and looking back in the rearview mirror, I noticed my new punched-steel cab screen that protects the rear window (since it got smashed in three weeks ago). I cover my back, and I get hit in the front! What do i need now? Roo-Bars? A roll-cage? Self-inflating tires? I'll just have to go back to the truck accesory center and spend some more money. Just make the check payable to Mad Max.

I'm struck by the high political content of my fellow bloggers at filbert.net. Perhaps I should jump in too.

Then some might say: Perhaps not, Vinnie.

Ever since I was in film school, I kept hearing about the "old-boy networks" that kept women out of the movie business. It was assured to me that I would one day become one of the gatekeepers, as that was a position a white guy was guaranteed, but it didn't really work out that way. Perhaps it was the year that I spent in Latin America: People said I possessed a "Corazon latino". I wonder if I could use that to get into UCLA grad school.

Anyway, women do really well at the crew level of film production. I suspect this "fast-track" is a result of guys (best boys and keys) who like having chicks around, which is a form of objectification, but if that gets you a union card and some benefits - what the hell.

But I wonder why there aren't more women struggling to break into the male-dominated world of construction. No one is swinging at the glass ceiling of drywall carpentry, or plumbing. I've worked on hundreds of construction crews, and it's a cock-fest through and through. I think iIt would be great to have some gals around. It would be almost tolerable.

I read somewhere that women and minorities are under-represented in the world of architecture. Now obviously you don't need to know conduit bending and rebar framing to design a building, but it would make sense to me that someone in the field would have to possess at least SOME background in the trades, as opposed to a mere certificate from an art school. We build on the experience of others. Every stud you nail up in a house is a microcosm of the Brooklyn Bridge, because the principles are identical. Layout, cutting, joining...

When John Roebling died, something like four years into the ten year construction of the Brooklyn Bridge, it was his wife who picked up the project and carried it to completion. She didn't write columns about women's under-representation in bridge-building, from the student's lounge of the gender studies department. She just jumped in and did it, and I would imagine she thoroughly understood the project because she was a partner in the family business of cable-making. I don't imagine she did this in order to attain rockstar status in 19th century New York society circles.

I've heard that James Cameron can perform any technical fuction on a film set. From mixing sound, to loading magazines to setting C-stands; he has a firm grasp of all the mechanics of production. That's a total grasp of the medium. I think that's a worthwhile goal for anyone who aspires to lead. But now most directors and D.P.s go to film school, and graduate right into their postions at the top of the industry. It's a shame because those sexy jobs are like a fancy uniform worn by an army officer who's bought a regiment for it's social status, but shuns other officers who've actually had experience in a bush war.

Like in THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

I think I'm most annoyed at my new environmentalist roomate, who can't seem to even get a handle on recycling. The guy never seems to turn the taps all the way off, and if the toilet's running, he'll let it go for hours. In his room he has five 100W bulbs burning in the overhead chandelier, instead of just getting a 60W desk-lamp for his computer table. But to hear him go on about proposed oil drilling in Alaska! I think that stuff is just social grist for San Francisco kids. You have to say what everyone else is saying. I guess if you went to Los Angeles with a mouthful of Ralph Nader and Noam Chomsky, you'd last as long as water lily in the Mojave Desert (and I'm talking L.A. - not Santa Monica)

All the roomates I've had here, upon moving out, throw all their unwanted crap into the breezway between our place and Alan's. When people are under the gun, it's TO HELL with principles.

Nothing will turn you into a redneck quicker than the rental business. As long as home-ownership increases in America, folks will vote conservative. It's not the media herding everyone around with frightening headlines about crime and terrorism.

Brad was telling someone a story about a carpenter who had sawed off the end of a piece of plywood that he was actually standing on. I guess the point of the story was that people actually do such things.

Today I got to thinking that I did something similar, when i rented this apartment to a couple of guys, on the promise that I would "almost never" be around. Well, I'm around. I live there. I sleep there, and wake up there. I have my morning coffee and shower there... I'm there. How fucking dumb. I wasn't supposed to be there. I hang out in the garage a lot.

The camping trip turned out to be kind of nice. Roadtripping with one's old man can be challenging, but we did alright. The lowest moment had to be when we drove 26 miles up a valley, and then plunged down another 16 miles of dirt roads, to get to a hot spring (which i insisted that we go to) only to find forty cars there. The place was a friggin' built-up ashram/meditation center. And this is in the hinterland. What was I thinking? That there would be a wild, untouched "stash" of a hot spring - in fucking California?

Ass-rams and zen yoga centers have this really positive, benign image (becaiuse they're soooo spiritual), but as far as I'm concerned it's just one more way to get you to pay $200/day to go into a hot spring - THAT'S IN A NATIONAL FOREST! How is that any different than a resort in palm Springs, or a golf course in Florida? I'll tell you what's different: Semantics. Which (ety-MO-logically means "some antics". Like - those are SOME antics you're up to, but I'm smelling through it!

So we dusted that place, and set up camp in a very buggy site about five miles back up the hot, dusty road. Whatever.

Walking up 21st street tonight, I turned back towards my house, and caught sight of the moon - the big, bright full moon, with fast moving white fog drifting by -- it made me gasp. I really did a double-take. I thought to myself - "the moon is full. So that's what's going on." The house looked like something from a horror film, with the tall chimney pots and plastic owls silhouetted against the gunmetal-blue night sky. And then i thought to myself: I can't believe I have to paint that motherfucker.

Summer 2002. You son of a bitch- are you still here?