I hate to admit this, but there isn’t a whole lot I care about
anymore. My family. My friends. My paycheck, uh, I mean my career.
My car starting up in the morning. The Weather Channel. Dreaming
about catching a trophy fish (instead of fantasizing about
hot-looking mermaids like the good old days).
I hate to admit this, but there isn’t a whole lot I care about anymore. My family. My friends. My paycheck, uh, I mean my career. My car starting up in the morning. The Weather Channel. Dreaming about catching a trophy fish (instead of fantasizing about hot-looking mermaids like the good old days).
This is directly related to advanced age. In fact, I can’t even remember what else I care about right now.
And I’m having trouble recalling what today’s column topic is about.
Oh yeah. It’s “Gangs and why they’re making me even crabbier than usual every single day, even in a pleasant town like Hollister.”
Here’s why. When I leave my carport at daybreak I see gang graffiti on the wall and on a nearby tree.
Approximately six minutes later, or five minutes if I’m exceeding the speed limit, I see gang graffiti on the newspaper wall in the alley.
Then when I leave after a long and grueling work day (I’m already scheming for a raise), I again see the gang graffiti on the newspaper wall and on the carport wall and the tree.
The tagging of the tree is especially alarming, although I have to admit it does show a hint of creativity, being neatly framed in the hole where a dead limb used to be. But doesn’t that break some federal tree protection law as well as a municipal code?
I better thoroughly research that on the Internet this afternoon at work, along with analyzing this season’s Chicago Bears opponents (there goes the raise).
Back to the gangs. I was in a street gang as a youth growing up in Chicago. We were called the Groundsmen. Right down the street were our pesky rivals the Vandals.
Fortunately, the serious and extremely dangerous gangs – the Blackstone Rangers and the Disciples – were several neighborhoods over and we were out of stray gunfire range.
You know what really stands out as a major difference between the gangs of modern Hollister and Chicago yesteryear?
Penmanship. Whatever happened to neat handwriting? Remember how you had to write in cursive between the lines or stay after school and write neatly on the blackboard over and over?
In Chicago you could clearly read DISCIPLES. On my apartment wall, the tree and the newspaper building it reads XCVOZY, or something like that. And yes I factored in that my new glasses make everything look fuzzy.
I better quickly insert some racial stuff here.
Yes, the gang I was in was comprised of mostly up-and-coming young Caucasian felons. The Rangers and Disciples were African-Americans and the local lads with the spray-paint appear to be Hispanic, although you never know with kids these days.
So, for the record, I like all three ethnic groups.
In fact, on most days here in California I would rank them: 1. Hispanics, 2. African-Americans and 3. Caucasians.
Why? Because it’s mostly Caucasians who call up and complain that their newspaper landed in their roses and I like to shoot pool at the bar next to the cannery. In other words, good old common sense.
Now, when I was hanging out in South Florida, it was usually: 1. African-Americans, 2. Caucasians and 3. Hispanics.
When I recently lived in Utah, the order was: 1. Caucasians, 2. Hispanics and 3. African-Americans.
So don’t dare accuse me of being prejudiced or I’ll get my white, black and Mexican friends after you.
Where was I before foolishly broaching the always-touchy race issue? Oh yeah. Gang graffiti.
Whatever language you are reading this in, please stop spraying gang stuff where I live and work. I’m already old and grouchy, just ask the staff members here, and you’re making it worse.
In fact, if you promise to sneak over in the middle of the night to either location with a rag and some paint thinner and erase any of it, I’ll buy you a three-month subscription to the Hollister Free Lance, your daily hometown newspaper.
Or if you don’t want the paper, I’ll waive my usual fee and be a guest speaker at your next gang gathering. You don’t have to pay me in guns, drugs or with a stolen Visa card. A new White Sox ballcap would sure be nice, though, or maybe a bulletproof vest for when I go back home to visit my mom.
Anyway, I can tell some awesome Chicago gang stories, even a few modernized versions from my cop and criminal friends there. Or I would be glad to moderate a lively question-and-answer session.
My areas of expertise range from “How to not look guilty in traffic when a squad car is next to you” to “Where to hide your tire jack and still have ample accessibility.”
Speaking of jacks, I thought about maybe threatening to bust your little gangbanger head if I caught you spray-painting my home or workplace. But sadly I can assure you that will not happen.
Why? I’m much too old. My reflexes are bad and my eyesight isn’t good enough to be sure one of your pals isn’t ready to jump out of the shrubs, especially at night when I assume the majority of your tagging assignments are completed and notarized.
Now, if I had a snootful and was walking home late at night … nah. Even if I successfully bounced a brick off your head I would probably wrench my back and be in traction for several weeks, while your younger and healthier skull would heal up nicely in a matter of days.
And throwing a rock at you from a distance is fraught with all kinds of potential problems, especially right after closing time when my aim is severely impaired.
On the other hand, if I did bean you from across the street I could anonymously brag about it in Citizens Voice in the next issue of the Hollister Free Lance, your daily hometown newspaper.
But I won’t hesitate to summon one of Hollister’s muscular uniformed lads who gets to legally carry and use all kinds of neat things like a nightstick, pepper spray and a pistol.
That’s assuming, of course, that I can read the 9-1-1 on my cellphone in the dark.
Ah, the heck with it. Just don’t rob me when I’m getting my drinking and gambling money out of the ATM machine on a Friday or Saturday night and we’ll call it even.
And I’ll throw in the free speaking engagement as well.
Now let me get back to searching the Internet for whatever it was.
Wonder what’s on the Weather Channel?
Mike Fitzgerald is Associate Publisher/Executive Editor of the Hollister Free Lance. He can be reached at 637-5566 ext. 337 or at [email protected]. His commentary appears in every weekend edition.
