Protection

They were running "Crocodile Dundee" on television the other day, and so I naturally got to thinking about what weapons I have on hand to defend myself. Mick Dundee, as portrayed in the film, is best known for his larger-than-most knife, with which he shamed a New York City street thug. If memory serves, he might have had other weapons on hand as well. I don't remember guns being a big thing for him, as it seemed he mostly relied on wits.

Hopefully I can depend on my wits as well. I will need that to supplement my strength and speed, although it is my hope that I can improve those over time. Regrettably, that may not come in time, and so I take inventory of weapons that may level the playing field. They do not include guns, I hasten to say. I have had a modest amount of experience with firearms, but never have owned one. I may at some point in the future, but it is not likely to be soon enough.

The Burning Question

As I write this, an arsonist roams free here in Los Angeles. Indeed, we may be talking about multiple arsonists, either operating independently or cooperatively. It is an unsettling notion to know that out there lurks a person or persons with the urge to destroy and the inclination to act on it. In my very neighborhood this is happening, although it's only fair to note that the neighborhood encompasses no small amount of territory.

I understand that it has been cars in garages and carports set ablaze. I suppose it's more likely that the arsonist appreciates the easy of burning cars rather than that he (or she) harbors ill will towards cars. Still, nothing can be overlooked. Cars often make me plenty mad, and I inhibit myself better than some. Whoever is doing it (and why), they are clearly quite motivated, especially if there's just one person. There have been dozens of them in just a few days.

The Searchers (Or, The Wake-up Callers)

I live in a somewhat nice and hip neighborhood. It is in that early phase of neighborhood cycles where the poor artists have really put down roots and begun to prosper, setting the stage for the area to be co-opted by the rich. The artists then are priced out forcing subsequent artists to find cheap accommodations elsewhere. For the time being though, they can still afford the rent here, and part of the reason has got to be the question of safety.

I seldom feel unsafe here, but somewhat more often feel uneasy about one thing or another. Suffice it to say that while this is no Ciudad Juarez. crime is not unknown here. I have known friends to be robbed, and further north in worse districts, there have been worse crimes. I have, therefore, mixed feelings about the tactics employed by law enforcement. They may well help matters, but I tend to be selfish about how much they put me out.

Hazard Lane

I like my neighborhood. Maybe you thought that I was done musing on what I had found it it, but I never was going to be for long. New things surface over time, which is a nice consequence of having such a poor capacity for focus. Every walk along the same ground turns up fresh material. What I finally started to think about is this jogging/dog walking path that we have. I don't jog or have a dog, but I do use this path. It runs north and south for an indeterminate distance, and is separated from the major road by a hedge and the little adjacent street by a raised curb.

It's meant to be a nice green belt area to jog in and take your dog on for its exercise. It essentially serves that purpose well, given that people are more likely to do any such thing during daylight hours. The thing is that there are no lights worth noting anywhere near this path. No street light mars the perfect darkness of the main road anywhere in between the two nearest traffic light-governed intersections, which have got to be at least half a mile apart if not more. At night, you could not have a more ideal set of conditions for setting upon innocent citizens with ill intent than this path.

Thievery Of Spite

When I get the feeling that I'm being directed to do something, I want to do nothing less than that thing. People online sometimes seem to command that I offer my two cents on some subject, or that I make a contribution of some other kind. God knows that I'm as eager as can be to voice my thoughts on any subject that might be put before me- I mean ANYTHING. You can't shut me up, and people know that. Nothing makes me clam up faster than the idea that I'm being ordered. The recipe for manipulating me into doing something is similar. When I'm brusquely told to not do something, my whole being becomes consumed with unrelenting desire to do it. People's suspicions can be very suggestive. It's interesting how it seems to work.

I happened to stop in at my local grocery store late at night on my way back one recently. There was nothing on my mind but investigating leave-in conditioners, as I'm getting more interested in maintaining my appearance and had just received some pointers from lady friends of mine who have been accustomed to doing so for far longer. When I set foot in the place, I was accosted by the lone cashier, who insisted that I leave my backpack in checkout aisle 6 before proceeding. My laconically-voiced consent masked my instant rage, and my mind turned on a dime to larceny. I thought to myself, the only way I can recover here is to steal something- anything- in order to walk away knowing I put one over on this guy.

Schrodinger's Doorknob

The act of assumption is most thought-provoking. Maybe that's not so for the average person, but I find it almost endlessly stimulating to think about. When confronted with a situation, people will size up all the moving parts of it. They'll try to see how it all fits together, and then they'll draw an eminently reasonable and rational conclusion that is totally wrong precisely because it makes so much sense. To his last day in power, Saddam Hussein acted as though he possessed the weapons of mass destruction that never were found. He apparently did this to appear so strong as to forestall invasion, and in so doing, invited invasion.

I was some time ago struck by the fact that people generally make certain assumptions about closed doors. If they want to go inside (or outside, as the case may be) and they think that it should be unlocked, then they will of course try to open it. If, on the other hand, they think the closed door must be locked, the chances are that they won't even put their hand on the knob. People sometimes come to our apartment building and see the formidable gate out front whose operation appears to depend on the call box mounted on it. When they can't get it to work, they helplessly stand there, or try to reach us on the phone for help. If they tried the gate, they would find it to not even be locked.

Thinking Criminally

From time to time, the matter of safety from crime comes up here where I live. Sometimes it's something I read that others don't see, and yet when I'm out and about, it's most often those around me who feel unsafe and I who fail to see any particular reason for concern. Often I make a quick trip on foot out to the mailbox late at night, and am surprised to be cautioned about doing so. Other times, ladies leaving a party or other social engagement at a similar hour either request escort or have it foisted upon them. That's a reasonable course of action, of course. I just don't think of it because I generally don't feel unsafe except in the worst quarters of the city.

It isn't that I'm unaware of my surroundings. I guess that I just have a different methodology for determining whether or not it's warranted to feel unsafe. Frequently the outcome is the same either way. When I was ignorant of what was what downtown, I was definitely ill at ease when walking through the Fashion District at night. The thing is just that for me, red flags are raised by more than tents on the sidewalk and young men displaying commonly recognized gang paraphernalia.