Born Knowing

Last Night at "Beyond Baroque" in Venice, CA
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Running From a Stop and Frisk

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What's Good For America

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A Protected Criminal Class

On February 18, 2014, I was walking home on Martel Avenue in Los Angeles, CA heading north from an acting class at my union at 5757 Wilshire Boulevard at about 10:30 or 11:00 pm, which I’ve been doing for fifteen years. At Santa Monica Boulevard, Martel becomes Plummer Park for a block, and I proceeded. As I entered the park, I noticed there was a Sheriff’s patrol car idling to the right of the path that cut through the park. As I passed the vehicle, the Sheriff nodded to me and I nodded back. Once I passed, the Sheriff started inching towards me on the path. I thought he wanted to move on to the path, which was paved and wide enough for a vehicle. I stopped, stepped off the path, and waved for him to pass.

He didn’t want to pass. He stopped. He didn’t say anything. When I could see that he didn’t want to get on the path, I got back on and started walking again. As far as I could tell, I was proceeding into the park with his permission. He started following me again, exhibiting predatory behavior. What I did not know, and what the Sheriff did not tell me, was that the park closed at ten.

When I started walking again, the Sheriff pulled up next to me and began asking me questions. He did not say why he was asking me questions. The Sheriff didn’t tell me the park was closed because he wanted me in the park to create probable cause to “stop and frisk” me. He was corrupting the law for his own unconstitutional purposes. He had two opportunities to tell me the law, but he didn’t want me to know the law.

 “Where are you going?” He asked.

“Home,” I said.

“Where’s that?”

I told him the name of the street.

Then he asked me another question. I can’t tell you what it was. He was violating my fourth amendment rights. I had stopped listening. He repeated the question. He had not identified any probable cause to question me. This was an unconstitutional “stop and frisk.” I ran.

Why did I run? I hadn’t really done anything, but it’s been my experience, after living in Los Angeles for over twenty years, that innocence or guilt really doesn’t matter.  In Los Angeles, you’re either a policeman or a suspect. Not all, but a lot of the police in Los Angeles are just bullies with badges. West Hollywood Sheriffs start out as county prison guards, and some regard everyone as their prisoners. They do their job if you’re guilty, but they do the same job if you’re innocent, because everyone is their prisoner. To them, the City of West Hollywood is an extension of the county jail.

            I did not have the intent to run. I just found myself running.  It was an involuntary reaction to a perceived danger. I’ve been traumatized by the police in Los Angeles. I did not feel safe. Running was instinctual.

            The Sheriff later told me he profiled me because I had long hair and was wearing a long coat. He was convinced I had drugs. But while he was profiling me, I was profiling him. The last time I got “stopped and frisked” by the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Department, the Sheriff got friskier than a TSA agent.

            During this “stop and frisk,” I was sexually assaulted. It was more of a “stop and molest.” My civil rights weren’t the only thing being violated. During this “stop and frisk,” the Sheriff asked me a series of questions that were similar to the questions the Sheriff in the park was asking. I was wearing a back-pack and he asked to search it. I let him. I was also wearing a penis and he asked to search that, but not in those words. He said, “I’m going to frisk you now.”

            When he put his hand in my left pocket, he went right. He was fondling me long enough to know I didn’t have testicular cancer. The West Hollywood Sheriff’s Department had a new slogan that day: “to protect and service.”

            Once I had escaped the danger in the park and crossed Fountain Street, I stopped running and resumed my path on Martel. As I said, it was a fight or flight panic response. When I felt safe again, I stopped running. It was a flashback to a sexual assault by a West Hollywood Sheriff.

About three quarters of the way down this block of Martel, between Fountain and Sunset, the West Hollywood Sheriff’s patrol car from the park pulled up next to me in a screeching halt. The Sheriff jumped out of his vehicle and seemed extremely emotionally distressed.

I remained still. The Sheriff grabbed my right arm from behind and pushed me towards the back hood of the nearest car. He said, “Move to the car and stand up against it.” He pushed me down on the hood. I broke the fall with my left hand. A second Sheriff had arrived and he told me to spread my legs.

At this point other Sheriffs were arriving. Eventually there would be up to ten Sheriff’s patrol cars swarming the street. They parked across both lanes with their lights flashing and shut down traffic.

While one Sheriff held my right cuffed arm behind my back, the one from the park was on my left side and he had his hand around my wrist. He said, “Put your left hand behind your back.”

I was suffering from a long standing painful injury in my left shoulder. I had already scheduled a doctor’s appointment regarding it for the following Tuesday. I said, “I have a shoulder injury.”

He then emptied half a bottle of pepper spray into my eyes, onto my glasses, my face, my hair, and my clothes. He then repeated his order: “Put your left hand behind your back.”

The fact that he had assaulted me with half a can of pepper spray did not change the fact that my shoulder was in pain. I said, “I have a shoulder injury.”

He emptied the rest of the can into my eyes, on my glasses, my face, my hair, and my clothes.  Then he grabbed my arm and put it behind my back anyway, which he could have done without emptying a can of pepper spray into my face. I never resisted. This was just something he wanted to do. I’m sure if he had more pepper spray, he would have asked me again. This is what bullies do. It’s what thugs and cowards do. It’s what the police in America do to subjugate the population.

For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of being assaulted by your local police, when you are assaulted with pepper spray, you are immediately blinded. Mucus glands are stimulated to try to relieve the body of the alien chemical combination that has attacked their host. My eyes teared up and my nose started to run.

They already had me in cuffs so I said, “Is somebody going to wash these chemicals out of my eyes?”

One of the Sheriffs, I couldn’t tell you which one because I was blinded, said, “The fire department is coming. They’ll wash it out.” This seemed reasonable. The fire department often administered first aid and there was a station a couple of blocks over.

Chemical weapons are frowned on in warfare, but I say kudos to the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Department for not reading the Geneva Convention. They’re still working on the Constitution, particularly Amendments IV and XIII.

            I was thrown into the back seat of the patrol car and the doors and windows were closed. Not even a window was cracked, which a civilized person wouldn’t do to a dog, although they might do it to a squirrel in the park after ten.

            The thing you should know about pepper spray in an enclosed space is that it recirculates and intensifies. It does not dissipate. The Sheriffs knew this. They were deliberately torturing me, which is a violation of the eighth amendment.

To further exemplify this violation of my eighth amendment rights, the back seat door on the driver’s side opened up, and one of the Sheriffs sat next to me, I assume it was the punk from the park, although, through his amazing grace, I was blind and could not see. He proceeded to ask me a series of questions culminating with, “Were you in the park?” He was essentially questioning me under torture to get me to say I was in the park after ten.

I answered his first couple of questions, which I do not recall---either the questions or the answers. My senses were still reeling from the shock and awe of the police swarm and the gas attack. It’s very much like what happens to the memory in an accident. The purpose of shock and awe is to stun and traumatize. I told him, “I cannot make a statement in this condition.”

At no time during my incarceration was I read my Miranda rights.  They just kept saying over and over again that I was a drug dealer. “Where are the drugs? People who look like you usually have drugs!”

I said, “I’m just a citizen,” which became my mantra throughout the booking process. “I’m just a citizen!”

Profiling is not probable cause. Any spider can catch a fly if it spins a web.

The longer I remained in the car, the more torturous the recirculating gas became. We must have remained in that area for over an hour. As I said, the Sheriffs swarmed. They were probably canvassing the area for the stash they thought I had dropped. They were stupid, but they were honestly stupid. They couldn’t fathom why anyone would run from a “stop and frisk.” ‘Don’t you like to be molested?’

At one point two Sheriffs got in the front seat, I couldn’t say who because I was still blind, and they taunted me for being handcuffed in the confines of the back seat of the patrol car with recirculating gas. “Gee I’d hate to be in here. It smells like pepper in here. I’d hate to be in here.” They were like a couple of giggling stupid high school jock bullies.

So being the only adult in the car, I said, “That’s real nice guys. Mock me. That’s very professional.”

This flustered them. After all, I’m a fifty-two year old man and these were children---punks with guns, tazers and pepper spray. They acted like punks, punks who had been caught. They tried to act like they were talking about something else: “Ooh, this pepper candy is hot.”

“Yea, pepper candy.” They jumped out of the car.

At some point another Sheriff opened up the front door and stuck his head in and I repeated my request to have my eyes washed out. “A medic is coming,” he said. No medic was coming.

At another point I wanted to kick out one of the windows, but that would not have helped my situation.  All I could do was scream and that is what I did. It wasn’t a scream to accomplish anything. It was not a call for help, it was a venting.

The screaming didn’t do anything, so I decided to pretend I was having a seizure. If I pretended to have a seizure, they’d have to open the doors and let in some fresh air. I pretended to have a seizure. They didn’t open the back door or crack the windows. At one point, a Sheriff stuck her head in the front door and said, “Are you all right?” I didn’t respond. Nobody opened the back door or rolled down a window.

After a short interval, I pretended to have a second seizure with similar results.

I asked for a third time for someone to wash the pepper spray out of my eyes. I was still blind, so I couldn’t tell you who said, “You can wash it out when you get to the station.”

I said, “That’s great. You bring the disease, but you don’t bring the cure. That’s very professional.” This became my second mantra.

After being tortured in the back seat for an hour or more, the Sheriff got in the car and took me to the West Hollywood Sheriff’s jail for processing. I asked to wash the pepper spray off, but they told me I could wash it off when I was put in a cell.

I got put in a holding area while the arresting officer interviewed me from behind a glass barrier. He said I was lucky it wasn’t before the Rodney King beating because then they would have beaten me. The Sheriff who processed my release gave me a similar warning that I was lucky I wasn’t beaten---typical bully behavior.

They put me in a cell and I tried to wash off the pepper spray with no success. There was a tiny push button cold water sink that was set up to be more of a drinking fountain. Trying to wash off the chemical just reactivated it. They would not let me take a shower until the next afternoon, shortly before they released me. I had to sleep on my back. If I slept on my face or side, I would just be inhaling the pepper spray. It was freezing in the unheated cell and I couldn’t use my coat because it had been doused in the chemical.

I grew up in a different America. I doubt if Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, James Madison or Benjamin Franklin ever envisioned a country where the state regularly molests citizens, whether in “stop and frisks” or the TSA. This is what occupying armies do. This is how you terrorize a population into submission. Maybe we should amend the third amendment to include “no officer of the law shall molest the citizens.”

Perhaps my interpretation of the constitution is out of fashion, but if it doesn’t come back, this country will not last long. I acted like a citizen with constitutional rights. The West Hollywood Sheriff’s Department acted like I was a prisoner in their county jail. I’m a citizen, not a suspect, or a prisoner. I am a free man. My rights are unalienable and not granted by the state.

The West Hollywood Sheriffs are a protected criminal class of prison guard thugs. They have no regard for the constitution or civil rights. They are the Hells Angels at Altamont. I was assaulted, mugged, tortured and kidnapped and my property was destroyed. I now have a record and my fingerprints are on file because I was walking home through a public park.

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Live Tweets from the State of the Union

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 3:08 pm PST

will live tweet the #StateoftheUnion.

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 5:27 pm PST

wants a higher #minimumwage for #tweeting. #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28 2014, 5:59 pm PST

thinks the #redcarpet at the #StateoftheUnion is boring. #HarryReid's gown is off-the-rack.

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 6:02 pm PST

#FirstLady gets applause for walking down stairs. This is an easy crowd. #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 6:04 pm PST

"If you like the #stateoftheunion, you can keep it!" #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 6:13 pm PST

hopes #POTUS has hand sanitizer. #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 6:16 pm PST

wonders if #POTUS is making these stories up. #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 6:18 pm PST

"This chamber speaks with one voice," if the voice belongs to #Sybil. #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 6: 19 pm PST

when governing, size matters. #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 6:21 pm PST

suddenly feels under a great deal of pressure to have hopes and aspirations. #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 6:23 pm PST

"The wages of sin are not enough, so I'm organizing a #union." #SOTU #livingwage #minimumwage

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 6: 27 pm PST

has never been in-sourced from a broad. #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 6:31 pm PST

#POTUS had me at "patent litigation." #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 6:35 pm PST

"Yes, we did." #POTUS must be running for ex-President. #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, pm PST

has a feeling #Congress will build a wall around #ImmigrationReform. #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 6:39 pm PST

predicts #Congress will extend #unemployment benefits or they will collect them after the #midterms. #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 6:47 pm PST

would also like a day off. #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 6:51 pm PST

will raise a glass to a raise. #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 6:54 pm PST

#MYIRA will be represented by #SinnFéin. #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 7:07 pm PST

"The privacy of ordinary people is not being compromised." --#POTUS What if you're extraordinary? #SOTU

James Tripp ‏@thejamestripp January 28, 2014, 7:21 pm PST

thinks his #wages feel more minimum already. #SOTU

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Trippitorial - Privacy and the N.S.A.

I started following the N.S.A. on Twitter. Now they’re following me! I’m glad the N.S.A. is spying on everyone…just in case I lose my car keys, maybe they’ll know where to find them. If it wasn't for the N.S.A., no one would be reading my blog.

Privacy is for the guilty. It’s for the instigators. If you’ve got nothing to hide, you won’t mind the government feeling up your girlfriend. And your girlfriend won’t mind the government feeling her up. By the way, has anybody checked your balls lately?

This is America. Love it---and when you do, use a rubber, because it has a disease. If America were to be psychoanalyzed, I think you’d find it has a military industrial complex, caused by too much love for the mother, and a hatred for the father.

I don’t need privacy. I need a hi-def camera for the next time I jerk off! Privacy is for privates. You want to be an enlisted man?

I love the N.S.A. I just think they ought to pay my internet bill.

Privacy is for the old. I’m young. Young people don’t care about privacy. Young people are sexting each other pictures of their private parts! A lot of parts aren’t even private anymore! Some parts get favorited. Some parts get retweeted. Some parts get their own web series.

Nobody wants privacy. They want followers! Everybody has a website. Everybody’s on twitter and facebook and linked in and vine and instagram and pinterest and YouTube and up my ass! You don’t need the N.S.A. to take away your privacy. You’re taking it away yourself! I’m being poked by grown men on facebook, and I’m not too sure what that means, but I don’t like it.

I’m leaving an internet trail that Hansel and Gretel could follow home, especially if they did a search on Google. Every time I look at a website, Google has an ad for it on the next website. They know where I’ve been. I can’t wait until they know where I’m going, because I don’t.

 Privacy is for the weak. I got nothing to hide, and I hope nobody finds out!

I’m just glad this is being recorded right now. It saves the government the trouble.

You’re better off without privacy. There’s less bullshit. Most people spend their lives trying to cover up all the fucked up things about themselves. They’ll be a lot better off when there’s nothing covered that hasn’t been uncovered by a government agency!

I’m James Tripp, and that’s what you can do with your privacy!

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Trippitorial - The Pope's Confession

Now that the Pope has been paroled, I am ready to hear his confession, especially if his sin involves his red Prada shoes. I bet Jesus would have looked great in red Prada shoes---“What the well dressed messiahs are wearing…”

It makes you wonder what the crucifix would have looked like if Gucci had designed that little loin cloth that they always depict Jesus wearing.

Anyway, the fun part about hearing a confession is assigning penance, and I don’t think Emeritus is going to like his.

The first time I went to confession, I was about six years old. You’re not supposed to have your first confession until you’re seven years old, but I was visiting an aunt who figured, “If I’m going to confession, you’re going too.” She must have spotted the darkness in my soul.

So I went into the confession booth, and I didn’t know the routine, and the priest yelled at me because I told him I hadn’t committed any sins. “You didn’t commit any sins?” He said I was wasting his time. “Don’t come back until you’ve sinned!”

If I’d known I was going to confession, I would have prepared better. Maybe I could have stolen some candy or told one of my teachers to fuck off. Maybe I should have told the priest to fuck off so I’d have a good sin to confess for my “official” first confession.

Anyway, he gave me a penance, even though I hadn’t done anything. “Say four Hail Marys and two Our Fathers.” Yea, I’ll rattle those right off, Padre.

When I was a kid, the sin I usually came up with when I went to confession was that I was disobedient to my parents. Not really a sin in my book, but it kept the priest happy. They loved this one. It was one of the Commandments.

The Ten Commandments came in handy if you couldn’t think of anything to say in confession. “Yea, this week I was coveting my neighbor’s wife and his daughter.” That second part always confused the priest, because technically, it really wasn’t part of the Commandment. But I think it’s implied. Because I think the Commandments assume you’re married and you shouldn’t be looking at anybody---unless your wife is a hundred years old and you want a kid; then you can have sex with your maid.

You have to read the Ten Commandments in context. “Obey thy father and mother.” Who wrote that? A father. Nice try.

Moses was like the David Letterman of his day: “From the home office on Mount Sinai, I am now holding in my hand the top ten list of things though shalt not do. Ladies and gentlemen, these are things though shall not do.”

What is a sin? Somebody else’s idea of what you shouldn’t do? Is it just a way to try to implement institutional control? Like comedy, sin is subjective, especially if you’re the Pope. “Well, it’s not a sin if I do it.” This is why I’d make a good Pope. Sin involves judgment, and isn’t that a sin? Stupid Pope. Stupid Catholic Church.

Now that the Pope is no longer Pope, that means he’s no longer infallible, which leaves only me. Don’t forget to vote for James Tripp for Pope. And hey, if I win---Pope Party!
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Trippitorial - James Tripp for Pope!

Hello, I’m James Tripp, and I want to be your next Pope.

You know, my parents tried to make me Catholic, so I know what a stupid religion it is. Who better to lead it?

Now, it’s true I haven’t been to church in years. The last time I was in church, a priest tried to beat a confession out of me. That’s no reason why I shouldn’t be your leader.

I guess what I’m saying is: Give up everything you have and follow me. If you don’t have anything, then follow somebody else.

I’d make a great Pope. Why, some of my best friends think they’re Jesus.

I was born again. Now my mother really hates me. She thought it was painful the first time.

My philosophy is a variation of the Christian ideal. I believe that if a man slaps you on your cheek, you should place a revolver at the base of his skull and a blow a hole the size of a grapefruit through his cheek.

My philosophy is a synthesis of Muslim fundamentalism and Ricky Ricardoism. I believe in an eye for an aye-yi-yi-yi-yi!

I never understood why the Catholic Church was against abortion. The whole premise of the religion is a God killing his own kid. Whether God kills his only son in utero or when he’s 33 is just splitting hairs, or sons, or the hair on his son. Either way, if you’re the son of this God, you’re not gonna be buying any Father’s Day presents.

This God got his start abusing children. A guy named Abraham was about to kill his son, Isaac. He had the knife over the kid’s head. Then he regained his composure and he didn’t kill him. But it turned out that his wife, Sarah, had seen him and she asked, "What were you doing with a knife over our son’s head?"

And thinking fast, Abraham said, "God told me to do it."

And she said, "God told you to do it?"

And then he said, "But then God told me not to do it."

And she said, "Praise the Lord!" and a God was born, the God of three major religions, all of which hate each other.

What would a Tripp “Popacy” mean? I pledge to make the rich do their fair share of penance! When the top one percent are doing most of the sinning, why shouldn’t they do a little more penance?

What does that mean for the average sinner? When you go to confession, you won’t have to do as many “Hail Marys” and “Our Fathers,” or pretend that’s what you’re doing. I’ll be honest with you. I never did the penance when I went to confession. I just acted like I was praying. That way, I had something for the next time I went to confession.

Under the current “Popacy,” you might get ten “Hail Marys”, three “Our Fathers,” and a rosary. Under a Tripp “Popacy,” you’ll get, maybe, three “Hail Marys,” one “Our Father,” and what’s a rosary?

Also I will bring back indulgences, with a special deal for bankers and their politicians. You will be able to pay for these indulgences over time with reasonable adjustable rates.

What price would you put on your soul? Twenty-eight-fifty.

Sinners will be able to pay either the principal amount or a minimum monthly balance.

Also, if I’m Pope, no more church on Sunday. Why do you go to church? To listen to somebody like you tell you what to do with your life? What does a priest know that you don’t know? Grow up.

Also, I’m gonna start selling some church real estate. And I think it’s kind of weird that the church has its own country, and the Swiss Guard are protecting it. I don’t remember much about this Jesus character’s spiel, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t about an earthly kingdom.

I guess what I’m saying is if you put me in charge of this church, I will dismantle it, and isn’t that really what we should want in the next Pope?

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