The script was written by Kafka, but the acting is taking place before our eyes.
I was arrested again last night, by the Portland Police Department at the request of security personnel [the young woman in question told me I had no need to know her name — although she asked for, and was immediately given, my name] in the employ of Fred Meyer, Inc.
The store is rather large, occupying some five blocks or so across the street from my residence.
The issue is, Can corporate officials exclude anyone they like, for a time they do not choose to specify, for reasons, again at their option, unspecified, with never a notification in writing, with no real human being ever being named to me.
Now, as I have said earlier, if it’s a mom-and-pop tobacco shop, Yeah, the owner can say, in my opinion quite within his (or her) rights, Get Out, I Don’t Like You and Never Want to Serve You.
But things are different with an enormous institution occupying much of the entire neighborhood. If these corporate giants get a license to serve the public, then the members of the public, who are imposed upon by the way the glomocorps treat people, have certain rights they retain; ownership of the commons, of the space in which people by actual fact are pretty much forced to treat as their only open space, is not an absolute right and must accommodate reasonable features which inhere to the members of the community.
If a member of the public behaves in a manner disruptive of the vendor’s business, the security people employed by the glomocorp can tell him (or her) to leave, and he ought to comply; at that point, however, there must be a dialogue started, with the aim of explaining what specifically led to the request to leave, and establishing a written agreement between glomocorp and customer, how future relations are to be regulated.
That’s what we do with disruptive students in public school, for one real-life example.
Well, we’ll see, won’t we? I would advise readers of this blog not to hold your breath: the judgement of the District Court is not likely to be in our (I am simply a stand-in for you, Gentle Reader, and all powerless people) favor, and an appeal will take years and may, in general, be held in front of the same judge.
Update: after sunset, Sunday
12 April 2015
2925 N.E. Weidler Street, Portland
I tabled [if it isn’t in your dictionary as a verb, your dictionary is deficient] from three-thirty to five, entirely on the property of the globocorp known in other circles than the ones I travel in as Fred Meyer.
I met a guy with tattoos all over his neck. He told me his name was “De Cheseau”
and when I wrote it down he said add an s to the first part
so I showed him
Des Chez eux
was the three French words, one after the other, for:
at the place of business or domicile of;
so-otvetst-voo-iushchii, as the Russians say in almost every other sentence
which is a test for whether you can stand bad prose with many excess syllables
and if you can
You’re One of Us
Update: 2 May 2014 —
2925 Northeast Weidler 4:00 am, approximately
Portland, Cascadia, North America
Let me focus on a particular moment in last night’s arrest for trespassing, the second in two weeks. As Officer Harrison held open the door for me to exit the back seat of the patrol car with my hands hand-cuffed behind me, I told him I have a weak knee — and whose whole body, let alone weak knee, wouldn’t be stressed to the point of breaking after an hour handcuffed in the back seat of a patrol car? — and started to progress, with a limp, in the direction of the airlock arrangement two stories below ground level in the City Jail that is called the Justice Center by the mass media and the so-called Justice Center by the ironic.
At that moment Officer Harrison said, “You can walk; I saw you walk without difficulty earlier” and he dragged me across the tarmac to the airlock.
Officer Harrison is my height, six feet, and as solid as a fireplug. I went with him at risk of an aggravated injury. Look dear Reader, Chers Lecteurs, at a previous blog entry, somewhere in the beginning of December of the Year Previous, which to the best of my spotty recollection was called 2014 while we were living it.
You will find a Doctor’s Report, discussing the “limited motility” of Mr Meo’s knee.
That is what it means, Folks, that we have no privacy these days. It means we must publish on the Internet, as widely as possible as soon as possible, any document whatever dealing with self. For our own protection. If we are politicians.
Now, where was I?
Ah, yes, I remember, thank you for the prompting, mes très chers lecteurs.
Nous avons voici un record documentaires du brutalité des officiers, un “Harrison” c’est-à-dire H_A_R_R_I_S_O_N en particulier, à un candidat parlementaire du Parti Vert. C’est ça.
One writes the above in French because there’s no point trying to get recompense from the present Byzantine system, designed, according the the United States Department of Justice two-year investigation, to fail.
Now let me turn to Sergeant Willie Halliburton, Numero 24585 for the remainder of my remarks.
You need to go to Officer Harrison and politely suggest to him he find another line of work. As a fellow professional — I was a teacher, as you may recall, Sergeant — I know how loathe we all can be to address employee shall we say maladjustment.
Yet how at the same time it is part and parcel of being a professional in the first place: you have to let the bozos who give the profession a bad, well, give the public a bad imitation of the service they are engaging you to provide.
Okay so we had at let me think Benson, perhaps it was, a teacher who put a student in what was it called then? neck-hold? I forget.
It was supposed to have been in demonstration.
Yeah, right. We are called upon as teachers to put our students into a state of unconsciousness to “demonstrate” something. Yuh. Sure.
So, Sergeant Halliburton, I still speak from the heart here. What you do is go to that fellow officer, and 1) consistently omit any indication of sympathy for the turds coming his or her way from the Admin building; 2) tell the emotional runt that things aren’t gonna get any better.
To expand upon Point Two, you can call upon an example or two from your own personal experience, Sergeant Halliburton; such as, for example, the fact that my leather wallet holds Sergeant Halliburton’s card is due to the fact that he gave it to me when he first met me. You could take this fact in the direction of personalities, Sergeant Halliburton: you can pseudo-rough your voice and say, “What are you doing with my people?” but we both know that would not be taken seriously by Officer Harrison, so don’t bother. No, you can assert with certainty that Officer Harrison KNEW that the business card of one Sergeant Halliburton, whoever in heck that was/is, was found in the course of the initial search of the possessions of the suspect at the point of arrest. He knew the suspect was not criminal in any sense: yet still, when a couple of seconds would have been wasted in the unlikely event of my faking an injury, he physically pushed me across the parking lot.
Sure, it’s a small thing: but Lenin asked the Central Committee of the Bolshevik Party to fire Stalin for his “rudeness”: a small thing, but as in small things, so in large; and Stalin certainly showed how to kill twenty million innocent Russians before ehe was done being “rude”.
Professionals have to deal with maladjusted peers: it’s part of being professional. So you are forced to walk a delicate line of not rewarding an abusive police officer, but appreciating the job is stressful and mistakes plague all of us.
You can say that the sons-o-bitches in the Admin building are going for ever to continue to make his and every other cop’s life hell for minor peccadillos like frog-marching a 70-year-old [well, 68, but you have my permission to round that to seventy when speaking with your fellow Officer Harrison] politician who claims a weak knee across the parking lot floor.
That statement, you can see for yourself, Sergeant Halliburton, constitutes what I was talking about: a polite suggestion to this guy whose service, in a city ready to explode with police-civilian hostility, is perhaps more of a hindrance to public order than a help of any sort.
M. Meo, internal exile
Update 5 May 2015 10:15 pm : I was arrested again today, after two court appearances and before a trial scheduled for tomorrow.
This arrest, short version: I said in a loud voice to the Sergeant Jacob of the Multnomah County Sheriff’s Office [the Many, the Barely-Trained, the Bored] that that police officer across the table, writing out her report, had just arrested me because I made her feel uncomfortable (on this surprising occasion, Your Intrepid Reporter was arrested for trespassing, while standing on his own land), and that he, whoever he was, was going to put me in a holding cell for the same reason.
Sure enough, five minutes later I was isolated in a cell, to remain for about an hour until the next shift came on.
When the next guy spoke to me, it was Sheriff’s Deputy Dixon (I’m fuzzy here; it may be spelled wrong), a much less prepossessing man than Sergeant Jacob: Dixon was overweight where Jacob was trim, Dixon wore a cap, with a bill, definitely not model officer headgear. And he wore a This-Is-Gonna-Be-Good look on his face: Dixon approached the issue with a sense of humor.
I got out of jail at 8 pm instead of the usual 2 am. My separated but friendly wife was kind enough to come pick me up.
Update 10 May 2015 : Today, Sunday, I was arrested, for the fourth time, for trespassing, at the behest of Fred Meyer Corporation. In this case a considerable amount of police manpower went into the arrest. I returned to my house and locked the door behind me, before the police could arrest me for sitting quietly in the public park across the street from my house and drinking a glass of water.
Yes, that’s what I was arrested for: sitting in a public park.
Furthermore, the Fred Meyer Corporation has had me arrested for the last two times for using the west end of a park, the east end of which I use every day. So I am confused how, even if Fred Meyer had absolute control of its five-block chunk of Sullivan’s Gulch neighborhood — a claim which I contest — they are completely schizophrenic in their approach to the claim that I am trespassing. Using the east end of park — check, okay, he does it every day and we have no objection. Using the west end — for unspecified reasons, we are arresting you for trespassing because you sat in a park bench and drank a glass of water.
If that isn’t bizarre enough for you, check out the arresting officer’s behavior.
When asked whether I wanted the arresting officer to lock up my house I did not answer, as is my right according to the Constitution and hallowed tradition.
The arresting officer then shut and locked the door, so I was locked out of my house when I returned home after the usual six hours in city Jail (oh, excuse me, it is officially called the Justice Center. Heh.). When in the course of the conversation I was allowed with my wife before behind driven to jail it became clear that the arresting officer, by locking the door, had locked me out of my house, HE Blamed ME.
That’s casual brutality for you, don’t you think?
Update 11 May 2015 : Your Intrepid Reporter can state at this time 11:40 Pacific Savings Time that I have spent an hour within 25 feet of 3030 Northeast Weidler and the police, as far as I know, weren’t even called.
It would seem to me that the fact adduced above falsify the repeated statement Your Intrepid Reporter hears every day, from every corner,
If you go onto Fred Meyer, you will be arrested.