 |
I am a native of this city. Born in Santa Monica, raised in Los Angeles from the age of two, I’ve spent more than 75 years of my life in the Ol’ Pueblo—save for a brief seven-year stint in Oakhurst and my time serving in the military.
For most of those decades, I felt safe. I didn’t just live here; I invested in my community. I served as an elected Neighborhood Council Board Member, an appointed Business Improvement District Board Member, and a Trails Community Homeowners Association Board Member. I spent years on the sidelines coaching boys' and girls' soccer and track. In 2002, during the Valley Secession movement, I even ran for Valley City Council in a bid to help the San Fernando Valley break away from Los Angeles and form an independent, accountable city.  Then came the turn of the decade. Sometime after 2002, the Ol' Pueblo underwent a dark transformation. Open corruption among politicians grew rampant. Powerful city employee unions expanded their headcount while shrinking actual services to the public. Homelessness and open drug addiction skyrocketed. As crime surged, city officials simply tweaked the math—offering sterile statistics to mask the reality of our filthy, increasingly dangerous streets. Even my once-quiet, rural equestrian community couldn't escape the decline. Muggings, shootings, home invasions, robberies, and property crimes exploded around us. The city cleared the way for all manner of unsupervised "halfway houses" to open in quiet residential neighborhoods—operating without law enforcement oversight or community input. Police helicopters circling overhead, sweeping searchlights across my yard in the dead of night, became routine. Then came yesterday. What should have been a peaceful Sunday afternoon turned into a nightmare for this 83-year-old veteran. It started with a chopper hovering directly above my roof. Outside, sirens blared from the front and back streets surrounding my property, followed by the squeal of tires as a half-dozen squad cars screeched to a halt. My dog began barking frantically. Checking my security cameras, I saw LAPD officers with drawn handguns, shotguns, and rifles fanning out across my front yard. Peeking through my front window, I counted at least a dozen officers flanking the "sober living home"—a convenient euphemism for a commercial drug rehab facility—operating right next door. Most of their weapons were aimed toward the window I was standing behind. |
What followed was a two-hour standoff. Six occupants of the house were detained in handcuffs while officers conducted a search and interrogation.
As an ex-Green Beret, I know how to keep my head in a tense situation, though these days I rely on a walker to get around. I stayed inside until the police moved up my driveway, seeking shade against my garage door to question their suspects out of the hot sun.
I announced my presence in a loud, clear voice and stepped outside. I spoke with a young officer named Cruz, who explained they were responding to a "shots fired" call. He asked if I’d heard anything; I told him I hadn't. As we talked, I asked him how a law-abiding citizen goes about applying for a Concealed Carry Weapon (CCW) permit. Officer Cruz advised me that the fastest route was to visit the LAPD Devonshire Division station to get the paperwork.
First thing this morning, I walked into Devonshire Division. I wasn't greeted with helpful guidance. Instead, I met cold reluctance. I was told to "go online," before an officer shuffled across the room to hand me a scrap of paper that read: Google LAPD CCW.
When I looked into it, I discovered a one-year waiting list just to start the application process. Turning 84 next month, the message felt loud and clear: We hope you die before we have to deal with you.
To top it all off, the evening news just reported that a leading candidate in the L.A. mayoral race plans to involve Democratic Socialists of America (DSA) in her administration—the very organization advocating to disband ICE, dismantle federal borders, defund law enforcement, and empty the prisons.
I’m a native son. I’ve given my life to this place. I don’t want to pack up and move to somewhere strange.
What the hell am I supposed to do?
.jpg)
.jpeg)
