On reading, thinking, drinking and the decline of modern society.

Oh, to have been young in the 1920's.

I could have gone to Paris. I could have written the great American novel.

Growing up when I did, everything was pre-packaged for me. There is no adventure left, save maybe for warfare, and even that's not available to me "at my age."

Re-reading books from Thompson and Fitzgerald, I realize how small our world has become, how circumscribed, and I weep at the thought there's nothing left worth doing.

damn.

The Flashbang Story

The Flashbang Story
Mark Williamson
July 2011
732 words

We raided a meth lab one Friday night.

In case you don't know me, I'm a a cop. I used to be a narcotics detective. "Narc" for short. No, it's not considered derogatory, unless by narc you mean "Not A Real Cop."

Anyway, the narcs didn't get to do the entry at the raid, our SWAT team did. SWATTIES like to call themselves "operators." We sometimes call them "SWATZIS." My sergeant, a real gung-ho former Marine, is both a narc -and- on the SWAT team.

After all the fun stuff was done and all the bad guys were wearing bracelets, he asked me to get him a piece gear from his truck. He was stuck in the "hot zone," which means on the other side of yellow tape that reads "Crime Scene."

The piece of gear he sent me to get: A pair of pants.

It seems one of the other SWAT guys (real smart, those "operators") did not wear -any pants- underneath his raid coveralls.

See, when you go into a meth lab, you have to strip off the top layer of clothes to decontaminate because of all the chemicals and OSHA regulations. Since I did not enter, I was tasked with the mundane chores in the "cold zone." Like getting pants.

Exciting work, being a detective. I feel just like Serpico.

Anyway, while retrieving said pair of pants from the rear of his 4Runner, I heard -something- hit the road next to my right foot. It sounded solid, like a flashlight or a radio. Unfortunately, I didn't know what fell out, but, as a natural reaction, I turned around and bent over at the waist to pick up whatever it was. Only to realize it was a live flash-bang grenade.

Because meth labs have all those flammable chemicals about, the SWAT guys don't take the flash-bangs in with them, lest "something bad" happen. My sergeant, being the conscientious SWAT Operator that he is, dutifully took his off.

And put them in the back of his 4Runner.
Under his spare uniform.

In a what I believe (since I am an atheist) to be -An Act Of God-, the "spoon" on the thing broke off when it hit the road. I had just enough time to realize "hey, that ain't right...." and get my hands in front of my face before having what I can only describe as "a unique experience."

In addition to the real bright light, flash-bang grenades also produce a concussion (or so the tactical-medical guy on scene said) of about 5X normal pressure. So, my ears, being about 3 feet from the blast, immediately got overloaded with a sound so loud and intense that I do not remember even hearing it. I am assured I caused several people to pee their pants.

My ears instantly began that high-pitched whine we've all experienced when something loud happens near us.

It should be noted here I did not fall down, nor did I soil myself.

Of course, given my unique perspective and proximity to the damn thing, I was the only one within a mile radius that was aware "something bad" was about to happen. Even if my awareness was only a split-second or so. I'm told "shots heard" calls came into dispatch.

After the hand-shaped soot prints were wiped off my face and my vision returned and the big blobs of color were no longer fogging up my sight, I went to the ER. The doc there checked and said I had no physical damage and the whining "should" go away and my hearing "should" come back in about four or five days.

I hope so. It's getting on my nerves. I went to my personal doctor the following Monday and asked him if I would regain my hearing. In his expert, medical opinion he said, with no irony at all after me telling him just how lucky I am to be the one to be sent to get the pants, "keep your fingers crossed."

In an even more unfortunate circumstance, there was a video crew from the Idaho Meth Project on scene. They assure me they caught the whole thing on tape. I'm expecting to see it on youtube within the week.

I'm glad I like my job.

It could be worse, of course. I could be a lawyer.

And yes, that ringing is still fucking there.

Amos and me in Georgia.

It just keeps on going...

...without even the slightest hint that things are going to get better.

Camus was right.

Jesus just left Chicago...

..or so ZZ Top is telling me this morning.

But, after having driven through there once before myself, I cannot say I'd blame him one goddamn bit. It seemed like a shithole.

It's very late (or early, according to your perspective) here in Garden City, Idaho, and I have just finished polishing off a bottle of cheap Tisdale Pinot Noir, a light red that goes well with dishes that you’d normally think of serving with white wine.

I drank the whole bottle in one sitting while munching on some locally made cheddar, which I shared with my pet rat, Buford.  Poor Buford is old and his rear legs no longer work. He's spiraling the drain and I do all I can to make him feel loved, because, even if he is a rodent, I think he understands the emotion. At least I tell myself he does because he doesn't bite me when I pick him up.

Shit happens

...and things don't work out like you want them to.

A day came.

The phone rang and I'll throw drastic change into my life once again.

"A man is to be pitied who lacked the courage to accept the challenge of freedom and depart from the cushion of security and see life as it is...."

-Hunter S. Thompson, 1955