In Los Angeles and Oakland, most gang victims of homicide are Hispanic. In Oklahoma City, they’re mostly black – and at a significantly higher rate than non-gang homicides. This ethnic dominance seems to make sense in L.A. and Long Beach, where Hispanics make up 48 percent and 40 percent of the population, respectively. But in Oklahoma City, blacks only account for about 15 percent of the population.

Why does gang violence make sense only if it’s racially proportional? Should gangsters of all races and hues band together and ensure politically correct quotas when they’re killing other gangsters? Or is the author trying to suggest that it’s shocking that blacks wreak more havoc than do other races?

I want to bring your attention to this officer involved shooting in California. In order to view the YouTube video, you must sign in with your Google account and verify your age. It’s worth the extra hassle.

From the video, it seems that the police are responding to a call for service at a fast food place. A male suspect emerges from the business with a blunt object in hand. The officers move in to take him into custody. He turns at one of the officers and raises the blunt object. One of the officers shoots him.

Despite all the ignorant commentary below the video, the video–and the juvenile statements as the camera is rolling–support the officer’s actions. Firstly, when the idiot raises the blunt object, he opens himself to get shot. And after the suspect is shot, the cameraboy and his buddy–amidst all their laughing and howling–repeatedly state that the suspect is “still fighting.”

I don’t find the shooting to be shocking. Nor do I find the asinine commentary below the video disturbing. What gets me are the kids who are shooting the video. Notice how they are laughing and joking as a deadly force situation unfolds. And after the suspect is shot, they laugh even harder.

Kids these days. They play way too many first-person shooter games but don’t know how to mentally process real shit when it unfolds right in front of them.

Every now and then, an old friend comes to me with something more serious, such as, “My son just ran away from home and the police aren’t helping me.” Such was the e-mail I received from an old friend back home.

Sounds terrible, right? Why the fuck wouldn’t the police help a single mom with a runaway teen? I went on and read the rest of the note: “I don’t like the way the police here are handling this. I don’t see why they just can’t go pick him up from school.”

My first thought was, “Why can’t you pick him up from school?” I thought of the many times I’ve told a similarly distraught parent: “We’re the police, not a shuttle service for your kids. I know parenting can be tough, but we can’t do your job for you.”

I think I’ll wait a while to respond to my friend’s e-mail. Maybe think of a more diplomatic way to say what I’ve said to so many other parents.

Wow. I feel horrible. I don’t like the feeling of starting something, only to give up on it.

Anyhow, I want to say that I’m back. Aside from putting together a proper post, one of the things I’m about to do is clean up my blogroll. Lots of stale links there. If any of you guys decide to dust off your blogs too, send me a message and I’ll put you back on.

To the handful of faithful readers still with me, stay tuned! I’ll be back.

Cinnamon, one of the hookers, strikes up a conversation with the tagger. “Shit nigga, you already know what they got us for. What they got you for?”

The tagger, a.k.a., Dough Boy, looks down at Cinnamon’s ample tits, squeezed together by a blouse only a hooker would wear. “They caught me writin.’”

Cinnamon bursts out laughing and turns towards the other hooker, Chocolate: “Hey bitch, did you hear this nigga? The police caught his ass tagging!” She turns back towards Dough Boy: “Nigga, how old are you? 26?”

“Naw, 23,” Dough Boy replies.

“You 23 and still tagging? What the fuck is wrong with you, nigga?”

Dough Boy defends his art: “It was graffiti, nigga. There’s a difference. But the police didn’t even see me writin.’ They just seen me with a can of paint when I was walking down the street with the little homies.”

“Nigga, you need to stop hanging out with little kids,” says Chocolate.

“What color was your paint?” asks Cinnamon.

“Rust Orange,” Dough Boy declares.

The hookers both laugh. Cinnamon turns to Chocolate: “This nigga didn’t have no red. He didn’t have no blue. He didn’t have no purple. This nigga talkin’ about some ‘Rust Orange!’”

Cinnamon leans forward and makes eye contact with me through my rear view mirror. “Yo Officer Butler, this shit back here is like ‘Taxicab Confessions.’ You need to make a show and call that shit ‘Police Car Confessions.’ Ya’ll could put on this grown ass man back here talkin’ about how he got caught taggin’ with some little kids. And then confessed that shit to a hoe!”

I look at Cinnamon through the rear view mirror and laugh. Lydia is laughing, too. Sometimes I think the best part of this job is listening to the many handcuffed comedians who wind up in the back seat of our police car.

To tell you the truth, sir, I don’t think much of the movement. Do I agree with some of the things they’re complaining about? Absolutely. But I’m not a chronically unemployed schmuck who has time to pitch a tent in a city park.

And yes, I was there when we dispersed those filthy, disease-carrying douche bags from the park. Which takes me to your last question about the Tea Party.

I generally dislike the Tea Party, too. But Tea Party protesters don’t make spears out of bamboo sticks reinforced with rebar. Tea Party protesters don’t stockpile bottles of human waste to be used as chemical weapons against the police. And they’re not spending their day constructing traps to hurt police horses, or training themselves on how to defeat a police skirmish line. The average Tea Party event doesn’t attract homeless baseheads and junkies, which means gangster drug dealers aren’t going to set up tents at a Tea Party.

All of the above means that the Tea Party requires less attention from law enforcement. Which brings me to your question about the number of police used to evict the occupiers. No, the number was not excessive. Given that there were elements at the park ready to engage in medieval-style combat with us, maybe there should have been even more police. But hey, I’m the low man on the totem pole and I don’t make those kinds of decisions.

Don’t you think the movement got hijacked by fringe elements?

Maybe, but why don’t they ever hijack the Tea Party?

What about what happened at UC Davis? What if that were your daughter getting pepper sprayed?

Fuck you. I’ve been pepper sprayed six times. It doesn’t kill you. If my daughter was there, I would hope she’d have enough sense to get up and walk away once she saw police forming skirmish lines and holding industrial-sized cans of pepper spray.

I politely reply that yes, we are conducting an investigation; however, the nature of the investigation is none of his business. “I don’t mind if you record us, but could you please step back so we can do our job?”

“I have a right to be here!” the unshaven, unkempt occupier shouts.

I smile for the camera. “I didn’t say you don’t have a right to be here. But you don’t have a right to impede our investigation.”

The occupier moves back half a step. He’s trying to bait me into a confrontation. Behind the occupier, I see another bonehead spray painting a slogan on a large sheet of cardboard: “THEY GOT BAILLED OUT. WE GOT SOLD OUT.”

You know, I haven’t tried out my iPhone 4S’s camera yet. I pull it out of my pocket and snap a few photos of Occupier #1, and his buddy, Occupier #2, who is now holding up his sign. “Hey buddy,” I say as I’m holding up my iPhone. “You’ve got a typo on your sign.”

Occupier #2′s face turns red as he faces the business end of my iPhone’s camera. “Really?”

“Yea. There’s only one ‘L’ in the word ‘BAILED.’”

Occupier #1 puts away his camera, puts a mask over his face, and drifts back into the crowd. Occupier #2 finds some white paint to cover up his typo. And my partner and I get back to the very mundane, otherwise routine business of detaining four possible truants.

The Occupy camp stinks. It reeks of human waste and body odor. There are Porta Johns everywhere, but too many people are choosing not to use them. Instead they are shitting, pissing, and jerking off in the open. It’s only a matter of time before there’s some sort of outbreak.

I’d rather be answering radio calls and putting gangsters in jail. But instead I’m here, working the Occupy Detail, until further notice.

Stay tuned.

Thanks to the last two cops who used this car, a higher power was watching over us during our shift. We left the little card right where were found it for the next two officers. I wonder if it will still be valid if they happen to be Muslims or cow worshipers.

In some ways, I get it. Everyone has a price. Hell, I went to school with plenty of girls who openly stated that they would not marry a man unless he made at least six figures. But a little bit of weed and some beer? When I was in high school, you could get that shit without blowing a fucking bum.

I suspect this isn’t about getting drunk or high. But however this kid rationalizes her behavior, I’m guessing it’s only a matter of time before she’ll be walking that track.