Knock, knock.

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Look, I know it ain't right. I know it.


I do.


But I fucking love to kick in a door.



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We were down in a "major metropolitan area" yesterday. Bunch of local guys, some FBI guys, me. Working on tying up the back end of an investigation that led down there. So we got to be tourists for the day.

Really bad tourists.

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We made some folks pretty mad. We really did.


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Thing I love about my job, sometimes I get to drive somewhere I don't know, get up at four in the AM, meet up in some hotel lobby or Wal-Mart parking lot or local PD briefing room with twenty, or forty, or a hundred cops. Bunch of hard nuts, those. Funny, grab-assing, goofballs that turn into balls-to-the-wall tigers in the blink of an eye. Lots of ropey forearms and wide backs and short hair and black tee shirts on the tactical guys, and long hair and soul-patches and goats and bald domes and tats and flannels and pot-bellies and red eyes on the dope cops and those are the women dope cops I'm talking about. The guys are worse. The folks we take to jail look better. God love 'em.

Coffee and photocopied stacks of handouts with pictures of our bad guys and pictures of the houses and rap sheets and vehicle plates and tactical plans and assignments and chalk-talks and walkthroughs and questions and questions and ironing out the last minute changes and getting the latest scoop from the teams that are eyes on and then it's out to the parking lot and gearing up in the dark, standing by your open trunk and putting on vests and carriers and thigh rigs and slinging long guns and checking magazines and flashlights and gloves and flex-ties and pens and lock and load and load up and caravan out. A long parade of three year old white or silver or tan sedans ghosting slow down a city street just before the sun comes up.

Once you pull to the curb and step out, it gets juicy. For me it used to be all jangly and wired and razor sharp but now it's mellowed into something fine. Quiet, still, serious. All lines up. All systems on full alert. It's still adrenaline, it's still full-tilt-boogie, but mostly it just feels good.

So you trot up to a wall on the side of the house or a hedge in front and you stick up and you make your approach. Knock and notice and a wait that seems like forever and then some ape is swinging the ram and in you go. Then it really is all assholes and elbows for two minutes. Some guys like to yell and scream and shout and order this and order that, but I much prefer a little bit of peace and quiet. Normal tone of voice. Lie down now. Put your hands out to the side. Is anybody else in the house? Any kids? Any bad dogs? If they aren't total fuckwads this usually works pretty good and it tends to calm things down in a hurry.

Don't get me wrong. Sometimes you gotta yell and shout to get a motherfucker to do what's right, and sometimes you got to do a lot more than that.

But if you don't have to?

Quiet's better.


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So, anyway, that's my crack pipe.


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Used to be, I thought I could get to perfect. Eradicate my negative views. My faults and shortcomings and lumps and warts and misshapen parts.

Know what though. Cain't do it. Not meant to be.

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Sometimes its best to just embrace the ugly. Give it a big ol' smack on the lips and a squeeze on the tush and buy it a goddamn beer. Shit, it's gonna be around long as you are, might as well try to get on with it.


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Sending out good thoughts your way. Seriously. Not just saying that. I am actually doing it.

Right now.


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Pay attention, now...

Did you get them?



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