Crime Beat: Ypsilanti tea Party

 

3 arrested after restaurant scuffle

Three Ypsilanti women were arrested early Saturday morning after a scuffle between two groups of women in which the participants threw dinner ware and utensils at each other in an Ypsilanti restaurant, police said.

Police arrived at Abe’s Coney Island at 402 W. Michigan Ave. Around 3 a.m., and found the women throwing plates, butter knives and forks at each other, said Ypsilanti Police Sgt. Tom Eberts.

When police arrived, one woman had lifted a chair overhead, but fled outside once she saw the officers.

The women had been at a nearby nightclub before coming to the restaurant.

 

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Crime Beat: One For The Road

 

Mom charged with fatal DUI visits bar after son’s funeral

 

ERIE, Pa. — An Erie County woman charged in the drunk-driving death of her son went to a bar after his funeral instead of reporting back to jail, state police said.

A judge had given Erin Howard, 26, of Corry, permission to leave the Erie County Prison for 24 hours to attend her son’s funeral in Ohio, with orders to return to the lockup by 3 p.m. Saturday.

Instead, Howard went to a bar called Tailgaters in Hamilton, Ohio, about a mile from the church where the funeral for 6-year-old Samuel Carpenter was held, police said.

Ms. Howard had been in prison in lieu of $75,000 bail on charges that she was driving drunk when she crashed into a creek bank near Corry, killing Samuel on June 14 — her 26th birthday.

Trooper Mark Van Horn said in a criminal complaint that he was notified at 8 p.m. Saturday that Ms. Howard had not returned to prison.

State police in Erie found out Sunday morning that Ms. Howard had been arrested in Hamilton after her son’s father tipped Ohio authorities to her whereabouts. She was being held in Ohio awaiting extradition to Erie.

Ms. Howard has now been charged with escape in addition to involuntary manslaughter, drunken driving, child endangerment and other charges related to the crash.

Ms. Howard told investigators she was celebrating her 26th birthday and had smoked marijuana and drunk liquor mixed with root beer in the hours before the accident, police said. Her son was sitting in the front seat and not wearing a seat belt.

"Who would have thought that someone who was extended the courtesy of attending a dead child’s funeral would not comply with the terms and conditions of the furlough," Erie County District Attorney Brad Foulk told the Erie Times-News.

"It is absolutely beyond my comprehension."

 

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Two Gross Stories

 

Two Gross Stories

A couple of customers, a man and a woman, strangers to each other if not to me, stood by the desk, the three of us talking. In the course of the story two extremely gross stories emerged.

For some reason we’d gotten onto the subject of how extremely infectious cat bites and scratches are. The woman said that a year or so ago, she’d been plagued by frequent and painful mouth sores of a mysterious origin. One day at work they were so bad and so frankly offensive to her coworkers that she decided to just go home early. There she discovered her cat sitting on the bathroom counter chewing on her toothbrush.

The man, a lawyer, related in his turn that recently he’d been sitting at his secretary’s desk, using her phone, absentmindedly chewing, as is his wont, on a pencil that she’d left lying there. As he talked he gradually became aware of an unpleasant taste. Looking down at the pencil eraser he noticed it was covered with ear wax.

 

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Crime Beat: Partially Clothed Screaming Woman

 

This is the first Crime Beat item I’ve ever personally witnessed, and let me tell you it was not as interesting as it sounds…

 

 

Police called to aid screaming woman

 

Ann Arbor Police were called to the corner of Russell Street and Redeemer Avenue at 3 a.m. today to aid a partially clothed screaming woman.

 

 

Hey Kate Kehoe of Chicaloo Photography and more, let’s see how good your google alert is….

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Waiting For Heather — Part 5

Dag, it looks like I poked the hornet’s nest again. But nothing gets rid of varmits faster than a little shot of the Hypnagogic Journal! It’s been a long time since Part 4 of Waiting For Heather, but the world can finally rest easy.
 

There’s a line in Poe where the narrator says that he can’t remember how, when or precisely where he first became acquainted with the Lady Ligeia. That’s one problem I never had with Heather, even though, like the guy in the story, I sometimes feel like my memory has become "feeble through much suffering." Still I know exactly how, when and where our relationship began and can even recall the one word that started it all.

It was fall, and even though school had just started, already cold enough for coats. We were both walking in front of Memorial Hall, me on my way to the library and Heather headed in the opposite direction. And so, inevitably, as we had so many times before, we passed each other.

Only this time Heather said hi.

I stopped dead in my tracks, thunderstruck. I can only think of my experience at that moment as a kind of enlightenment – not an enlightenment in the traditional sense of suddenly becoming aware of my past lives, but, rather, of in some way being able to see my future, to understand that if I didn’t do something, if I didn’t immediately take advantage of the situation, I’d regret it until the day I died.

Wait! I hurried after her. Heather, wait.

She turned to face me, her great grey eyes playing over me from under her floppy hat, the brim pinned up with a silk flower. What?

Why?

I stood there, hands at my sides, palms out, trying to look as open and unthreatening as possible. I mean, I just wanted to ask you why.

Why what?

She shifted from foot to foot warily, and rightly so, as my reputation for rudeness and sarcasm was, then as now, richly deserved.

Why’d you say hi? I mean, you never did before.

Why? I don’t know…

She crossed her arms, clutching her books to her chest.

No, really, I’m not mad or putting you on or anything, I’m just really glad you did, no kidding. Whatever had just happened to me had filled me with a irresistible imperative, had freed me for a decisive moment from the usual overwhelming teenage terror of being embarrassed. I know it sounds weird and everything, but what if we make a deal right now to always be friends, to always say hi to each other, no matter what.

A slight smile flickered on her lips. Are you serious?

Totally. Totally serious.

It’s just that when you said hi back there it really hit me that here we are, we have this chance to cut through the bull and just be friends, to go ahead and trust each other, right here and now and I, for whatever reason, I feel like if it doesn’t happen I’m going to go crazy or something… I could feel the maniacal burst of energy waning already and self doubt creeping in, picturing the legendary freak out this would no doubt become in school lore. Which is not to say, of course, that I’m not already crazy, probably…

But she laughed, visibly relaxing, amused if nothing else. Plenty of guys had tried plenty of lines on Heather, but certainly nothing like this. Well, to tell you the truth, Harry said you were an alright guy and that maybe I should give you a chance.

Harry. That explained it. Harry was the secret and not so secret genius of our school, the first kid I’d ever met who I had to admit was incontestably smarter than me. He was no nerd however, but had used his great cunning to figure out every social angle, pulling strings and unearthing secrets until he was everybody’s pal, the invisible emperor. He was especially diligent about becoming the confidante every beautiful girl on campus, but, like some Greek Cassandra curse, or maybe because of his diminutive, almost dwarfish appearance, they uniformly refused to take him seriously as anything other than a friend, and he had to live his romantic life vicariously, setting couples up and sometimes tearing them down.

A little bit creepy, yes, but at the moment I didn’t mind being his beneficiary at all.

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Apres Le Deluge

 

Shhhh – wait — I think we’re alone now. Seems like THEY aren’t watching anymore.

Whew, well I guess THAT storm blew over. One of my little billet doux (now removed) caused quite a ruckus, a lot more hits than I’m used to and some unfriendly communications. It wasn’t that I was intimidated or took the threats seriously, it more like there was suddenly a swarm of gnats knocking on my windshield and it made it hard to concentrate on where I was going, so I removed the bug light.

Here’s what I’ve learned – if I’m going to write something critical about a local and/or obscure writer I should NEVER use their real name. These guys don’t really care about anything I have to say, unless it’s about THEM. My subject e-mailed me to say that he wanted to "talk to me." Funny, but a while ago when we sat at the same table with a famous author he showed no desire to communicate with me whatsoever, and as a matter of fact seemed to have a great deal of difficulty recognizing my existence at all. Ah, but when the subject is to be himself and his "work" – well, that’s a compelling topic no matter who you’re talking to. But I’ve already expressed myself on the subject and have no interest in further fruitless debate.

It’s given rise to a new saying of Confucius – He who Googles his own name shouldn’t whine about what he finds.

I decided to forbear arguing or even replying to these people, not even when a certain self-important someone said he’d never again shop in my store. Considering this person has only bought one book in fifteen years, didn’t deign to address me by name last time he was in and confined his remarks to loftily informing me the open sign wasn’t displayed, I can’t say many tears are being shed on that account.

It doesn’t even bother me when someone like that calls me a coward. Yes, RADIOFREEUBU doesn’t have my name plastered all over it, but don’t you think if I wanted to be truly anonymous I could? The certain someone accused me of hiding behind a mask and then (typically) patted himself on the back for ferreting out my identity in five minutes. Sorry, dude, but the average time for local people who don’t already know is two minutes, and my dear Stella pulled it off in 45 seconds. Since I mentioned an event at my store AND my wife’s name in the previous post I don’t think that the certain someone should buy a deerstalker hat quite yet.

The real reason I don’t promote myself is that I’m an old school WASP who believes that fool’s names and fool’s faces often appear in public places. I realize it’s completely contrary to the drift of society since the Reagan days, but to me my words and artwork are what are important, not my mug, moniker or public image.

I have to admit that, along with the negative, the hullabaloo has attracted a lot of support. I don’t think the tastemakers at that smug bastion of elevated taste east of Division are quite as popular as their press clippings would indicate. Maybe the University should invest some tax dollars in a symposium about that conundrum, or maybe even endow a chair. A certain piece I wrote about that certain person a while ago is proving quite popular, and, despite the hard feelings, I’m keeping it up because, let’s face it, it’s hilarious.

My support came, as usual, from the punks and weirdos, which really brought me back to my roots, because that’s what I am, a sneering, snotty little punk – and one who, like Iggy, is going to keep on making a righteous, rude racket no matter what you say.

 

YR PAL,

UBU

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Quote Bag: Over Cooked?

 

O.K., I admit it, I can’t stop reading Thomas H. Cook and writing down the choice bits of prose I come across. Like these lines from one of his best books Breakheart Hill:

I thought of her all the way home that evening, though I can’t remember in what way I thought of her, and because of that I can only surmise that I had begun to feel her around me in a way that was not only sensuous and full of yearning, but shadowy and mysterious as well, and that this mysteriousness was also oddly seductive.

In a car alone, watching her home for those few seconds before I pulled out of the driveway, I felt the exquisite agony both of her nearness and her distance, and I can say now, after the passage of three decades, that it was the most delicious torment I have ever felt, the single, searing instant when, in all my life, I was most fully alive.

For the first time I felt my physical yearning as something separate from myself, a creature strapped within my skin, pent up and explosive, barely within the grip of my control.

I saw Kelli hovering over me in the airless darkness of my room, her eyes pupilless and unlighted, her hair a dark tangle of vine and forest bramble, an object of romantic dream that had become romantic nightmare.

I could not stand her voice, or even the sight of her in the hallway, and yet, at the same time, I yearned for every glimpse of her.

And here’s a passage from A Separate Peace by John Knowles that seems to fit right in:

Everyone has a moment in history which belongs particularly to him. It is the moment when his emotions achieve the most powerful sway over him, and afterward when you say to this person "the world today" or "life" or "reality" he will assume you mean this moment, even if it is fifty years past. The world, through his unleashed emotions, imprinted itself upon him, and he carries the stamp of that passing moment forever.

Finally, here’s a few riffs from Look Back on Happiness by my all time favorite, Mr. Sunshine, Knut Hamsun:

In that case I must have concealed well in these pages that I never think of her except as an object, as a theme; turn back the pages and you will see! At my age, one does not fall in love without becoming grotesque, without making even the Pharaohs laugh.

One needs solitude and darkness because of their quality of loftiness and religion, not because one flees the company of others and can endure only one’s own. Strange how all things pass distantly, yet all is near; we sit in an omnipresence. It must be God. It must be ourselves as a part of all things.

Was it not the poisonous mushroom that drove men berserker? But in the dawn of our own day, we die of a hair in the throat.

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Crime Beat: Six Feet Under

Police mystified as 6th severed foot discovered

             ASSOCIATED PRESS

                 ___________

VANCOUVER, British Columbia – Another human foot was found Wednesday on a British Columbia shoreline, the second this week and the sixth within a year in a mystery that has confounded police.

Like most of the others, it was a right foot in a running shoe, police Sgt. Mike Tresoor said. He says a citizen spotted it on a beach and no other remains were found.

The latest find and most of the others were recovered within a few miles of each other along island shorelines in the Strait of Georgia, to the south and west of Vancouver.

Authorities say they haven’t reached any conclusions about the origin of the feet but are trying to determine if there are links to any other partial remains found in the province.

"The object will ultimately be examined by a forensic pathologist in attempts to determine the source of the foot and if it is related to other feet recently found," Tresoor said in a statement.

The Royal Canadian Mounted Police have said there isn’t any evidence the feet were severed or removed from the victims’ legs by force.

Terry Smith, the chief coroner of British Columbia, said this week that DNA profiles from the first three feet haven’t helped to determine identities because they didn’t match any existing samples.

But wait! After extensive and intensive forensic examination, uh, well, never mind….

VANCOUVER, BRITISH COLOMBIA

Sixth foot called a hoax

British Columbia’s Coroner’s Service said Tuesday that a sixth human foot, found Wednesday along a Pacific Ocean beach was a hoax – an animal paw inserted into an Adidas running shoe along with some seaweed.

Authorities said they still haven’t reached any conclusions about the origin of five human feet found in the water over the last 10 months.

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Our Mission Statement

 
lay off
Feeble puffing is not my forte. It will do these fellows good to hear the truth, and stimulate them to worthier efforts.
 
— E. A. Poe
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The Thomas Cook Affair

When the chips are down and Robin and I ask each other why we got into this vexing business we always say "the authors." To have an opportunity to talk with and get to know a writer whose works you admire is priceless (and actually most of the writers whose books I don’t like are also worth meeting). Last night’s event with Thomas H. Cook was one of those peak experiences. I’ve been gaga over his work ever since I picked up Breakheart Hill and I’ve read all his efforts since them. In the flesh he’s completely charming, extremely intelligent, courtly and possessed of a becoming sense of humor. We had a crowd that did the store great honor and Tom delivered one of the great talks and question and answer sessions we’ve ever hosted. We even got to go out afterward and were treated to some inside stuff and Tom’s puckish personality as he sipped his vodka gimlet.

Which makes today, setting the store back up and returning to the humdrum a bit of a comedown, as Tom heads on to Dayton and later to an establishment in Blytheville, Arkansas imaginatively known as That Bookstore in Blytheville. At least we’re left with his books, many of which I’m rereading, as well as a couple of short stories I didn’t know were out there.

Here’s a few passages from his latest The Master of the Delta, which I’ve read twice in as many months, mostly about its fatal beauty, one Sheila Longstreet:

 

Sheila Longstreet, the universally acknowledged school beauty, lifted her delicately fashioned arm

Sheila said something, tossed her hair in that flirtatious way of hers, and to my surprise, reached out and touched Eddie’s arm, a gesture so bold and explicit I knew it must have sent a current through him, such a beautiful girl, and so close: desire’s electric charge.

It was just an instant of suspension, one of those unforeseeable folds in time that opens to or closes upon a wholly different life.

She saw me in the bleachers, waved softly, then surprised me by walking over. In the bright sun of that afternoon, her long black hair gleamed almost as mysteriously as her equally dark eyes. Her skin was milk white and seemed to radiate a glow all its own.

Time and loneliness and the long drip of disappointment had weathered her into a raggedly composed middle-aged woman.

I thought of all that gathered round us in this life, the passion of our striving, the sting of our regret, how mighty it is and huge with feeling, our little book of days, even when, especially when, it is touched by darkness.

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