Bang The Drum Slowly

Usually, I tend to write about droll things and things that catch my fancy here in my new city.

Today, everything is dim and cold, a wind blows ahead of a storm that is do to drop snow during the night. On every corner in our area you see multiple police officers, all with drawn faces. There is an NYPD car parked on every block, with roadblocks ready to be set up to close off streets. Each and every one looks ready to deal with the aftermath that comes with the shooting of an officer.

Last night, two were killed in Greenwich Village, along with a pizza company employee and the gunman himself.

They weren't even 'real' cops. They were part of that unusual group called auxiliary police, a volunteer group that patrols the streets to help out an understaffed NYPD. Nicholas Pikearo, 28, who was a soon to be published author, and Eugene Marshalik, 19, an NYU student...who moved here from Russia as a child, were both shot. One execution style, one a number of times as they approached the gunman, who doesn't deserve his name to be said again, after he killed Alfredo Romero by shooting him 15 times.

I guess he didn't think once was enough.

He ran up to one officer, shot him six times, then chased down the other officer and shot him once in the back of the head. You see it on the tape, and, as always with these kinds of things, you can't stop watching.

There are the usual experts giving reasons...he was having problems, he'd moved from one place to another, he learned to use guns in the Marines before he was dishonourably discharged. Gee, aren't you supposed to learn to use firearms in the armed forces? Isn't the word 'armed' a hint? Otherwise, they'd call them the slap and tickle forces.

Call it what it is, a fuckwit got mad, had a gun and 100 rounds of ammo, and went after blood. What is left are families and friends in shock and with huge holes left in their lives.

I went through some blogs today, to see what would be said... and prevelant among far too many of the 20 something blogs was nothing more than the me me me shit. I was at a party, I got drunk, there was a shooting but we kept partying.

On our late afternoon walk... we stood next to a Sargent and a few officers waiting for the light to change. The terrier suddenly let go with a huge belch. She'd just had her hot dog, and pretty much had gulped it without chewing. They all looked at me, I pointed to her. The Sargent said, "Good excuse.". I offered my condolences for their loss, and we talked for a moment. I said my uncle had been a highway patrolman and with the National Guard, and how my grandmother had worried when he was guarding James Meredith to get him into the University of Mississippi, and had been beaten up.

I guess it's how you look at the world. At some point, you see that you are part of this place, not that this place is about you.

In New York tonight....and for many days and nights to come, this place will be about these young men.. all three of them, who died because some fuckwit had an issue with life, and decided to play God.

Light a candle for them, say a prayer, and let the smoke carry your prayer to heaven. May they rest in his presence, may their families find some peace...and with that said, as a mother, I cannot imagine how you could find peace with your baby boy's body lying bullet ridden in a casket.

But, party on, kids.... party on. I hope the shots didn't disrupt your shots. From what I read, they didn't.