Last night, in the early hours of Oct. 2, 2005: I got arrested, Gypsies gave me my fortune.
The night was dark and stormy like Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, ominous. thunder and rain, the whole bit.
Synopsis: Told the cop he couldn't enter without a warrant and got arrested, broke no laws.
THE PARTY:
Syam threw a typical dance party, nothing to write home about, but I was still dancing my ass off…until word came that the cops had arrived. My instinctual problem with authority simmered.
"I'm a journalist Syam, I know the law. This is your first warning." I said as Syam and I approached the single, awkward-looking officer in his Paris-school-girl, Madeline-yellow rain jacket. His lips were like a talking asshole. He said the party had to be broken up.
I walked inside, told Syam to close the windows and doors, and tell people to go home. The cop approached the door with a idiotic ego-confidence only politicians and police could carry. He popped his head in the house and said,
"Alright, the party is over. You all have to go home"
The large, trendy crowd looked and (some) laughed, batting their eyes nonchalantly around the sole cop in a yellow rain jacket, attempting to breakup a small party, before 2:00am, and after only the first complaint. The cop's brow stiffened. He approached to come inside. I said,
"You are not allowed to enter the house without a warrant. Do you have a warrant? without a warrant, there has been no permission to enter."
(Okay, I have a BIG MOUTH and problem with confronting authority.)
From underneath his Super Troopers-like moustache he cried,
"what did you just say?"
I replied,
"you're not allowed to enter without a warrant."
Smirks.
"Oh yea smart ass" he replied,
Stepping inside, in one indecisive, forceful, movement, he grabbed my arm, twisted it behind my back, and yanked me outside.
"You know what, you're under arrest," he said,
as he fumbled for his handcuffs and awkwardly cuffed me.
I asked,
"Am I being arrested? I do not physically resist, but request to know what I am being arrested for."
"NOISE COMPLAINT," he replied.
He held me up in the door frame, and glanced at the now, less nonchalant eyes inside, and said,
"This party is over, you all need to go home, get out."
He held me up against the door frame as people shuffled out… you know, like making an example of me.
I commend, he did it all by himself, people cleared out. I asked the his name he said "officer McLaren." I was worried about him, and asked if I could get witnesses from inside as to my arrest. He said that was fine. I called out Syam and his roommate. They were both really nice. I just asked them to be witness to the fact . Again, I asked the officer, this time in their presence, what I was being arrested for. Officer McLaren repeated in their presence,
"Noise Disturbance, disturbing the peace."
He told them I was going to Douglass County Jail. I told Syam to write down the time, name of arresting officer and the charge I was being arrested for.
Syam gave the officer his number so I could call him to bail me out.
In the tight metal confines, circulation seized to be present in my numb, trembling, cuff-virgin hands. I asked him to loosen them. He said,
"Nope, my finger can fit through, its not too tight."
His finger could not fit in the cuff.
On the way out to the car he nodded at an approaching officer and said,
"I got it." Telling him he had things wrapped up, under control.
Upon putting me in the car, he noticed the blue hands dangling behind me, and said,
"Oh, you twisted your hands. That’s why they are tight. It's your fault."
He then took his time readjusting the handcuffs on the intersection, across from the fraternity. 11th and Indiana. I was thrown into the car.
THE CAR RIDE:
In the car he told me:
Your friends were fine, but you had to open your mouth and now you're the one being arrested.
I told him:
I was just trying to protect all of our rights.
He told me:
You should have kept your mouth shut.
I told him:
It was really shitty of you to make an example of me like that in front of everyone, just to bust up the party.
And then I think I called him Douche Bag or something, and he shut the window thing-it was like a taxi window.
We approached a really desolate area outside of the Lawrence I knew, and towards a big empty building that reminded me of Frankenstein's castle.
IN THE JAILHOUSE:
I was frisked, and searched on a blue gymnastics mat by a young guy who looked embarrassed to do his job.
The culture of that prison was so cruel, that the only thing that comforted me was the unprofessionality of it all. The desk cops/deputies were watching some cop movie-looked like The Terminator or something. On screen, cops were shooting minority gang members wearing bandanas. The Douglass county cops watched it really animatedly. The whole situation was totally surreal and kind of humorous in its utter irony. It seemed like a movie in itself.
I answered questions at the desk and then sat. Grown men and drunks were crying all about, afraid of losing their jobs, families, or freedom. I sat.
Officer McLaren brought in some pop-punk dude and was totally hitting on him and getting really close. After him, an African-American girl. She told him,
"I ain't answering no questions."
"what's your name ma'am," an officer adjacent to McLaren asked.
"I told you I ain't answering no questions."
McLaren laughed with delight and looked to his smirking counterpart. Then roughly escorted the women to the back with a smirk of satisfaction on his face.
I got my fingerprints and mug shot taken, and joked with the deputy taking my fingerprints-there was no ink. It was done on a scanner. They had nothing to hold me on. It was a City/Municipal charge and I bailed myself out via MasterCard. You have to call some credit card bailout service at the desk. And I did. The MasterCard bailout lady laughed when I told her I was being held for a City/Municipal charge. It's like the equivalent of a parking ticket, and DOES NOT GO ON MY PERMANENT RECORD!! The credit card operator's laughter and the pleasant treatment resulted because, a City/Municipal charge SHOULD NOT warrant a trip to the jail… they all knew how ridiculous it was.
On my ticket I saw the charges were "Disturbing The Peace" AND "Interference With Duties." I'm glad Syam and his roommates were witnesses-cop tried to pin more on me.
The deputy at the desk said if I go to my court date, everything should be fine, and my fine should be less than my bail (if any) which was $200, plus $20 for that stupid credit card bailout service. I signed so many papers, the place really looked like a scene out of Brazil: all these uniforms and cameras and stamps and papers and lines and waiting.
The deputy called a cab to take me back to town around 3:30am, and gave me a stamped ticket for a free ride. I waited in the visitors lobby that refrigerated unfriendliness. The cab pulled up.
THE VAN RIDE:
The ride home was with Midwest Transportation. I stepped inside and recognized the bearded figure driving the van-cab. He was the same cabby that dropped off Anni Rossi from the airport, a few weeks prior. She said he tried to blab on the whole ride, and she was just too tired for it. I decided to give him the satisfaction, and told him my story. He said,
"most of those guys (police officers), would be criminals if they weren't cops. those are the the guys who go into that field."
This from the guy who makes a living in transport from the jail and airport.
CONCLUSION:
My parents are totally going to kill me. But, in some weird fucked up way I value the experience. I always wanted to know what jail was like. I have such a fascination and disgust for authority, and now maybe I can really write about it, or at least understand the experience a bit more. There was something so amazing about it, like a voyeuristic rush.
And
For the parents: although I had good intentions (that got me arrested) I might need to wean my efforts in a more constructive way, or at least have better foresight; In the end, even though I learned a lot, I lost and the Po-Po won ( I guess the court date will determine that). The really fucked up thing about it is that I didn't even break the law. But, most people know the police are not just, and the law is not self-abiding.
MY COURT DATE IS SET FOR OCTOBER 12, and I think a bunch of people from the party are coming to be witnesses. To testify against that McLaren, to show support, and to protect our rights in the future from unjust cops like him. Thanks!
PROLOUGE IN POST: EARLIER ON SATURDAY... The Gypsy Came Before The Police ( Skip this section)
We filmed at Baerbel's house, Kat, Theresa our actors. After filming, Baerbel busted out her Tarot Cards. She is an intelligent 29-year-old film student who moved here from Germany last year. She is also a Gypsy (from a Gypsy heritage), and the card reader of her family. Reading cards is like religion to them (as far as I understand), and I put in it about as much merit as any other religion-If people believe in it so strongly, there might be something to it-even if it IS bullshit. After Baerbel Goebel's great-aunt died, she was selected to be the families next card reader, and taught the skill. Her family lines up and she reads the cards for them. She is not the run-of-the-mill expired-hippie, turned fortuneteller, who operates one of those sleazy crystal ball/palm reading/Tarot joints, that hang a $10 neon sign and have a wizard holding a crystal ball in the window. Rather, a well dressed, versed, educated and intriguing personage who practices a tradition with a stigma, and a tradition that has been adopted (and adapted) by the Borg-like New Age culture (Tarot Card reading). Like an atheist agreeing to a blessing a rabbi, I decided to let her do a reading- but, before she did, Austin, a superstitious Psychology major vacated the premises. Her reading was truly accurate, non-general, informative and beneficial, like an amazing therapy session. I wouldn't brand it as a mystical experience, rather as input from a clairvoyant person, using tools I don't quite understand-it was like a breakthrough session with a psychoanalyst of thirty years. It was like talking with my mom (she's a psychotherapist, clinical hypnotist, and cognitive psychologist). My mom got an education constructed over many years by rich, white, elite (a University Doctorate), and Baerbel Goebel received an education developed by poor nomadic women over many years (a Gypsy card reader); yet the two would refute one another's validity (at least my mom would of Tarot). Regardless, the reading was intense like an unexpected hand touching your shoulder. or like realizing yourself in a dying relative's words, or like burning mental nets or like reigniting embers of self-knowledge with a match that was stuck so far down your tear ducts that only a good cry could get out.
Gypsy Truths (postscript)
Baerbel (the fortune teller filmmaker) was once caught on a burning rollercoaster in Germany, but is fine now. My life has been up and down like a rollercoaster, and the burning extremes, although make me feel dizzy at times, drives my internal artistic motor. I just have to make sure I don't derail.
UPDATE:
Excerpt from a reply email from my mom:
The $220 doesn't bother me, neither does your provocative (even if within the law) challenge of that poor Kansan officer.
What I do care about is your wellbeing and ability to discern real important fights from those which might just deplete you for very questionable gain and usually for a more probable loss.
I like it that you stand for justice, common sense and human rights. I do too. What's also important is to be effective. That has to do with what's practical, what reality is like, reviewing your vulnerabilities and limitations.
In a nut shell: go with the head first. Once you bang it--take a different direction and DO NOT repeat the same behavior.
This is not empty advice: I have been struggling with similar issues all my life.
So do you.
Synopsis: Told the cop he couldn't enter without a warrant and got arrested, broke no laws.
THE PARTY:
Syam threw a typical dance party, nothing to write home about, but I was still dancing my ass off…until word came that the cops had arrived. My instinctual problem with authority simmered.
"I'm a journalist Syam, I know the law. This is your first warning." I said as Syam and I approached the single, awkward-looking officer in his Paris-school-girl, Madeline-yellow rain jacket. His lips were like a talking asshole. He said the party had to be broken up.
I walked inside, told Syam to close the windows and doors, and tell people to go home. The cop approached the door with a idiotic ego-confidence only politicians and police could carry. He popped his head in the house and said,
"Alright, the party is over. You all have to go home"
The large, trendy crowd looked and (some) laughed, batting their eyes nonchalantly around the sole cop in a yellow rain jacket, attempting to breakup a small party, before 2:00am, and after only the first complaint. The cop's brow stiffened. He approached to come inside. I said,
"You are not allowed to enter the house without a warrant. Do you have a warrant? without a warrant, there has been no permission to enter."
(Okay, I have a BIG MOUTH and problem with confronting authority.)
From underneath his Super Troopers-like moustache he cried,
"what did you just say?"
I replied,
"you're not allowed to enter without a warrant."
Smirks.
"Oh yea smart ass" he replied,
Stepping inside, in one indecisive, forceful, movement, he grabbed my arm, twisted it behind my back, and yanked me outside.
"You know what, you're under arrest," he said,
as he fumbled for his handcuffs and awkwardly cuffed me.
I asked,
"Am I being arrested? I do not physically resist, but request to know what I am being arrested for."
"NOISE COMPLAINT," he replied.
He held me up in the door frame, and glanced at the now, less nonchalant eyes inside, and said,
"This party is over, you all need to go home, get out."
He held me up against the door frame as people shuffled out… you know, like making an example of me.
I commend, he did it all by himself, people cleared out. I asked the his name he said "officer McLaren." I was worried about him, and asked if I could get witnesses from inside as to my arrest. He said that was fine. I called out Syam and his roommate. They were both really nice. I just asked them to be witness to the fact . Again, I asked the officer, this time in their presence, what I was being arrested for. Officer McLaren repeated in their presence,
"Noise Disturbance, disturbing the peace."
He told them I was going to Douglass County Jail. I told Syam to write down the time, name of arresting officer and the charge I was being arrested for.
Syam gave the officer his number so I could call him to bail me out.
In the tight metal confines, circulation seized to be present in my numb, trembling, cuff-virgin hands. I asked him to loosen them. He said,
"Nope, my finger can fit through, its not too tight."
His finger could not fit in the cuff.
On the way out to the car he nodded at an approaching officer and said,
"I got it." Telling him he had things wrapped up, under control.
Upon putting me in the car, he noticed the blue hands dangling behind me, and said,
"Oh, you twisted your hands. That’s why they are tight. It's your fault."
He then took his time readjusting the handcuffs on the intersection, across from the fraternity. 11th and Indiana. I was thrown into the car.
THE CAR RIDE:
In the car he told me:
Your friends were fine, but you had to open your mouth and now you're the one being arrested.
I told him:
I was just trying to protect all of our rights.
He told me:
You should have kept your mouth shut.
I told him:
It was really shitty of you to make an example of me like that in front of everyone, just to bust up the party.
And then I think I called him Douche Bag or something, and he shut the window thing-it was like a taxi window.
We approached a really desolate area outside of the Lawrence I knew, and towards a big empty building that reminded me of Frankenstein's castle.
IN THE JAILHOUSE:
I was frisked, and searched on a blue gymnastics mat by a young guy who looked embarrassed to do his job.
The culture of that prison was so cruel, that the only thing that comforted me was the unprofessionality of it all. The desk cops/deputies were watching some cop movie-looked like The Terminator or something. On screen, cops were shooting minority gang members wearing bandanas. The Douglass county cops watched it really animatedly. The whole situation was totally surreal and kind of humorous in its utter irony. It seemed like a movie in itself.
I answered questions at the desk and then sat. Grown men and drunks were crying all about, afraid of losing their jobs, families, or freedom. I sat.
Officer McLaren brought in some pop-punk dude and was totally hitting on him and getting really close. After him, an African-American girl. She told him,
"I ain't answering no questions."
"what's your name ma'am," an officer adjacent to McLaren asked.
"I told you I ain't answering no questions."
McLaren laughed with delight and looked to his smirking counterpart. Then roughly escorted the women to the back with a smirk of satisfaction on his face.
I got my fingerprints and mug shot taken, and joked with the deputy taking my fingerprints-there was no ink. It was done on a scanner. They had nothing to hold me on. It was a City/Municipal charge and I bailed myself out via MasterCard. You have to call some credit card bailout service at the desk. And I did. The MasterCard bailout lady laughed when I told her I was being held for a City/Municipal charge. It's like the equivalent of a parking ticket, and DOES NOT GO ON MY PERMANENT RECORD!! The credit card operator's laughter and the pleasant treatment resulted because, a City/Municipal charge SHOULD NOT warrant a trip to the jail… they all knew how ridiculous it was.
On my ticket I saw the charges were "Disturbing The Peace" AND "Interference With Duties." I'm glad Syam and his roommates were witnesses-cop tried to pin more on me.
The deputy at the desk said if I go to my court date, everything should be fine, and my fine should be less than my bail (if any) which was $200, plus $20 for that stupid credit card bailout service. I signed so many papers, the place really looked like a scene out of Brazil: all these uniforms and cameras and stamps and papers and lines and waiting.
The deputy called a cab to take me back to town around 3:30am, and gave me a stamped ticket for a free ride. I waited in the visitors lobby that refrigerated unfriendliness. The cab pulled up.
THE VAN RIDE:
The ride home was with Midwest Transportation. I stepped inside and recognized the bearded figure driving the van-cab. He was the same cabby that dropped off Anni Rossi from the airport, a few weeks prior. She said he tried to blab on the whole ride, and she was just too tired for it. I decided to give him the satisfaction, and told him my story. He said,
"most of those guys (police officers), would be criminals if they weren't cops. those are the the guys who go into that field."
This from the guy who makes a living in transport from the jail and airport.
CONCLUSION:
My parents are totally going to kill me. But, in some weird fucked up way I value the experience. I always wanted to know what jail was like. I have such a fascination and disgust for authority, and now maybe I can really write about it, or at least understand the experience a bit more. There was something so amazing about it, like a voyeuristic rush.
And
For the parents: although I had good intentions (that got me arrested) I might need to wean my efforts in a more constructive way, or at least have better foresight; In the end, even though I learned a lot, I lost and the Po-Po won ( I guess the court date will determine that). The really fucked up thing about it is that I didn't even break the law. But, most people know the police are not just, and the law is not self-abiding.
MY COURT DATE IS SET FOR OCTOBER 12, and I think a bunch of people from the party are coming to be witnesses. To testify against that McLaren, to show support, and to protect our rights in the future from unjust cops like him. Thanks!
PROLOUGE IN POST: EARLIER ON SATURDAY... The Gypsy Came Before The Police ( Skip this section)
We filmed at Baerbel's house, Kat, Theresa our actors. After filming, Baerbel busted out her Tarot Cards. She is an intelligent 29-year-old film student who moved here from Germany last year. She is also a Gypsy (from a Gypsy heritage), and the card reader of her family. Reading cards is like religion to them (as far as I understand), and I put in it about as much merit as any other religion-If people believe in it so strongly, there might be something to it-even if it IS bullshit. After Baerbel Goebel's great-aunt died, she was selected to be the families next card reader, and taught the skill. Her family lines up and she reads the cards for them. She is not the run-of-the-mill expired-hippie, turned fortuneteller, who operates one of those sleazy crystal ball/palm reading/Tarot joints, that hang a $10 neon sign and have a wizard holding a crystal ball in the window. Rather, a well dressed, versed, educated and intriguing personage who practices a tradition with a stigma, and a tradition that has been adopted (and adapted) by the Borg-like New Age culture (Tarot Card reading). Like an atheist agreeing to a blessing a rabbi, I decided to let her do a reading- but, before she did, Austin, a superstitious Psychology major vacated the premises. Her reading was truly accurate, non-general, informative and beneficial, like an amazing therapy session. I wouldn't brand it as a mystical experience, rather as input from a clairvoyant person, using tools I don't quite understand-it was like a breakthrough session with a psychoanalyst of thirty years. It was like talking with my mom (she's a psychotherapist, clinical hypnotist, and cognitive psychologist). My mom got an education constructed over many years by rich, white, elite (a University Doctorate), and Baerbel Goebel received an education developed by poor nomadic women over many years (a Gypsy card reader); yet the two would refute one another's validity (at least my mom would of Tarot). Regardless, the reading was intense like an unexpected hand touching your shoulder. or like realizing yourself in a dying relative's words, or like burning mental nets or like reigniting embers of self-knowledge with a match that was stuck so far down your tear ducts that only a good cry could get out.
Gypsy Truths (postscript)
Baerbel (the fortune teller filmmaker) was once caught on a burning rollercoaster in Germany, but is fine now. My life has been up and down like a rollercoaster, and the burning extremes, although make me feel dizzy at times, drives my internal artistic motor. I just have to make sure I don't derail.
UPDATE:
Excerpt from a reply email from my mom:
The $220 doesn't bother me, neither does your provocative (even if within the law) challenge of that poor Kansan officer.
What I do care about is your wellbeing and ability to discern real important fights from those which might just deplete you for very questionable gain and usually for a more probable loss.
I like it that you stand for justice, common sense and human rights. I do too. What's also important is to be effective. That has to do with what's practical, what reality is like, reviewing your vulnerabilities and limitations.
In a nut shell: go with the head first. Once you bang it--take a different direction and DO NOT repeat the same behavior.
This is not empty advice: I have been struggling with similar issues all my life.
So do you.