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Anna Nicole Smith, Even in Death, You are still Outrageous!

Posted Sunday, October 25, 2009 (13 days 22 hours ago.) Viewed 41 times.

We are still riding the derailed Anna Nicole Smith train after it came to an abrupt and unscheduled stop in February 2007 with her death at the age of thirty-nine. We expected "it." We expected her carnival of audaciousness to spiral out of control leading to her death. We did not know when, but we knew it was going to end with a loud crash. We did not expect her train wreck to continue plummeting with more railcars filled with dramatic legal issues and sex into our personal lives. Though, with Anna, it is never over; it is like the slow-motion developing of a sad circus clown photo; leaving us all in anguished anxiety, awaiting the next railcar to fall.

Spielberg, Lucas, nor a writer from a soap opera could not have scripted Anna Nicole's afterlife drama any better than the one she precariously penned from her grave. After Anna passed from this world to the next, I firmly believe she penned a climactic Third-Act (or season) of "The Anna Nicole Show" while lounging in Playmate Heaven.

(Anna writes from her tomb): "After my death, we leave the audience wondering who the real father of Dannielynn Birkhead is (Sorry Larry), also let's throw a possible murder into the mix. How will I do this? Oh yeah! Uh, sorry Howie (Howard K. Stern)."

She continues breathlessly, "Maybe if I let the media and the men in blue chase a few loose ends with all the prescription drugs, and throw in a few doctors' names."

Anna continues to ponder, "What were those names? Oh who cares, they will find them. Let's see, Oh yeah! We need SEX! Let them find some sexy photos of me with the same doctors that prescribed my drugs! Yes, that is it! This will no doubt land me a new and renewed season of "The Anna Nicole Show."

Unfortunately, Anna remembers the one detail that will negate all of her creative-scripting; she is dead.

Anna's railroad has finally stopped after delivering her to her final depot; a place where there are not any crashes or dead ends. Her engineer is her Father who safely delivered her into the open arms of her beloved son, Daniel. No doubt Anna finds her new home more luxurious than any five-star hotel or island paradise she knew before.

I am sure Anna would not want any of her close friends or relatives to experience any pain or suffering due to her past mistakes. I'm sure she would like the Anna Nicole media-train to stay derailed while bringing its focus on the engineer; her Father, Our Father.

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From A Ghost to a Bouncer, but always a Gentleman: (Swayze, a retrospective 2009)

Posted Saturday, October 24, 2009 (15 days 5 hours ago.) Viewed 43 times.

"I dream that the word 'cure' will no longer be followed by the words 'it's impossible'" Patrick Swayze speaking at Stand Up to Cancer 2008.

Patrick touched millions of people all over the world with his courage and strength he showed during his recent battle with pancreatic cancer

I knew something was different; I was not the same person that entered the theater ninety-minutes earlier. I had transformed. My life long aspirations and ambitions had changed sometime after "Previews of Coming Attractions" and before Dalton 's last fight. I recognized my change of heart because I was still seated in my gummy movie theater seat watching the credits roll while seated next to my girlfriend. A girlfriend that was feeling extremely neglected while I cataloged every fight scene in "Roadhouse."

I just knew that Dalton (Patrick Swayze's character in Roadhouse) was going to provide another pearl of wisdom while performing roundhouse kicks to the faces of the bad guys. "Be nice," Dalton would state before pummeling his opponent into dust. Swayze was cool as ice and smooth as a razor. His character was the absolute antithesis for a cooler/bouncer. I was transfixed and I just knew I had to become a bouncer!

"Roadhouse" kicked its way into 1980's martial arts resurgence with the likes of Steven Seagall and Chuck Norris. Though, Swayze was different; He was suave and debonair. What really captured my attention was his voice. He possessed a voice that only God bestowed to the elect: Pacino, Eastwood, Brando, and then Swayze. In Dirty Dancing, I remember that his words were few, but powerful. "Nobody puts Baby in the corner" spoken to Jerry Orbach's character as Jennifer Grey grabbed Swayze's arm; simple movie magic.

And if that was not cool enough, we were presented with "Ghost," a movie to define ghost movies. We all transformed into bawling babies when Demi Moore's character was finally able to see Swayze at the very end of the movie before he went to heaven while uttering the unforgettable word, "Ditto."

During the course of a movie career, he struggled with alcoholism after the death of his father in 1982 (by a heart attack), with another blow by his sister, Vicky and her overdose in 1994. He was a licensed pilot and often flew himself to locations.

Patrick was truly a gentleman and a gentle man. He cared deeply about so many things and on so many different levels. He loved his craft - acting - and was so proud too of his wife Lisa whom he respected as a director and fellow artist.

Patrick's body of work was wide and varied as all his fans will know. Through his portrayal of all these characters, he has made us laugh or cry. From the gyrating Johnny Castle of Dirty Dancing to the tear-jerking Sam Wheat of Ghost to the soul searching Max Lowe of City of Joy and of course to the ultimate Southern Gentleman, Orry Main in North and South.

Of all the awards that should be bestowed to Patrick Swayze, he should have an Oscar for his real life performance as a compassionate husband coupled with his empathy for humanity while fighting cancer. In the roadhouse tournament of pancreatic cancer, Swayze earned numerous awards, and will continue to do so.

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Not Quite, C.S.I.

Posted Friday, October 02, 2009 (36 days 19 hours ago.) Viewed 84 times.

Evidence : (from Latin e- 'out' + videre 'to see') is information that helps form a conclusion; proof is factual information that verifies a conclusion.

In 1993, I was twenty-six years "young", and I was a three year veteran police officer. I felt privileged due to the fact I was being trained as a crime scene technician/evidence officer. I accrued valuable training in photography, fingerprints, and investigating/processing "person's crimes" (i.e, homicide, robbery, sexual assault). While my tenure with Criminalistics was not as glamorous as televisions' "C.S.I." and "N.C.I.S.," it was a dream job and quite exciting. My mind literally performed structured cartwheels over developed memories over the course of the year I was assigned to the section. Described below, is a true story (with the names changed, of course) and a picturesque example of what occurs behind the walls (and cubicles) of a mid-sized police department's evidence vault:

"What the hell is this?" Sgt. Jon Hack yelled at no one in particular while staring intently at the Baby Ruth candy bar on his desk. He dangled the piece of candy delicately with his thumb and forefinger while viewing the blue, police-evidence tag innocently attached. Chuckling internally, Sgt. Hack scanned the evidence room for another crime tech to vent his frustration.

I heard Sgt. Hack swearing and snickering while I was in the police darkroom which was adjacent to his office cubicle. I was quietly laughing because I was the culprit who placed the "evidential dung" on Hack's desk.

Sergeant Jon Hack. This is a name evoked fear with many of his "co-workers" at the police department. To put it mildly, Hack was high strung. He ran the Criminalistics Section like a North Korean dictator. I firmly believe that I was the only person he grew to like and appreciate during his twenty-five year stint with the department. At first, I was not sure he would even tolerate me, for I was his polar opposite. I was reserved, slow to anger, etc.Yet, for some strange reason, the stars aligned and he began to enjoy my company. I guess even a tough guy enjoys a joke every once in awhile.

Sgt. Hack and I were both transferred from The Patrol Division into The Criminalistics Unit during the summer of 1993 due to an on-going Texas Rangers investigation. Don't ask. You really don't want to know.

A few days earlier, on a hot and humid July day, Cpl. Joe Roper and I responded to a homicide with orders to preserve and process the evidence at the crime scene. Both of us being veteran officers knew what tasks to complete without Sgt. Hack's micromanaging techniques. When we arrived at the scene, we were met with a myriad of red and blue police/ambulance strobes amongst screaming witnesses and crying neighbors. It evoked imagery of a Christmas nightmare. Well into the early morning hours, Cpl. Roper and I processed all the evidence per standard police procedure.

At this moment in time, I would like to provide a character sketch of Joe: Corporal Joe Roper is an exact carbon-copy of Herman Munster from the t.v. show "The Munsters." He stands almost seven foot tall while possessing Herman Munster 's gregarious and clumsy personality. Joe tops it all off with a heart of gold. More than once, I have seen him plant a twenty dollar bill on a homeless person and send them on their way.

Both of us were often called "Mutt and Jeff." I am only five-foot-ten, and if I do say so myself, I am a bit more "well read" with "street smarts" as compared to Joe. At the time, Joe possessed a degree in Chemistry. I tried to major in Russian Literature. Again, don't ask.

After processing the crime scene and while driving back to the station, Joe cracked one morose joke after another. This is standard procedure for police officers to recite sick jokes to alleviate the tension from their work. With Joe, this was his personality,he did not feel tension... None. Zero. He did not get in a hurry for anyone, and was always light-hearted and giving. So, while it was necessary to relieve my stress, Joe did it just because he was Joe.

One prime example of Joe's humor springs to mind. It also highlights his innocent misunderstanding of social etiquette. One night another evidence officer (let's call him...uh..Cpl. Doug) drove up to the back ramp of the police department with evidence on the floorboard of the Criminalistics van. The evidence was several empty beer cans. At exactly the same time, our Chief of Police was standing and observing that nights shift leaving on patrol. As Cpl. Doug opened the passenger door to the van, the beer cans fell to the ground with a loud echo demanding everyone's attention. The Chief turned and focused all his attention on Doug's lack of dexterity, and Joe just could not pass up the opportunity. Joe shouted to Doug (and for everyone else), "Dammit, can't you control your drinking?" The Chief of Police began laughing and all was suddenly well in the land of blue. Now that I think about it, maybe Joe's understanding of etiquette was more fine-tuned than I thought.

Back to my story: Upon our arrival at the police department, Joe told me to go ahead and sign-out and head to the house. I was actually moved emotionally by Joe's commitment to my slumber. It was late and he told me that he would finish tagging the evidence. I should have listened to my gut-instinct and stayed, but I did not; I had a Serta mattress calling my name. I went home trusting Herman Munster to complete the processing of homicide evidence.

One of the evidential procedures for wet clothing (blood-stained, semen-soaked, dripping with chemicals, etc.) is to hang the clothing out to dry. This is accomplished in a secure room in the basement, which is conveniently located next to the entire police/fire emergency Communications Section. Most of the clothing gathered at any homicide scene is soaked with blood and sometimes with fecal matter. In case you didn't know, when a person expires, they immediately expel the contents of their bowels. (i.e., always wear Depends). This was the case with this victims clothing.

As Joe hung the clothes out to dry, a piece of "dung" fell out of the pants and onto the basement floor. Bringing all of his Munster-like reflexes to bear, Joe quickly swept it underneath a filing cabinet. He even went beyond the call of duty and moved the clothes rack in front of the filing cabinet, as if to hide his non-procedural filing of the evidence. He then completed his paperwork and left a note for Sgt. Hack explaining that he would be to work "a little late," since it was now 6:00 A.M., and he was just heading home.

At precisely 9:15 A.M., I accompanied Sgt. Hack creating an inventory of the evidence while cracking jokes about (then) President Clinton's cigar escapades. As we took the elevator down to the basement, Sgt. Hack began coughing and wheezing. I swore I could hear a piano-wire break before he let loose with a litany of curse words. "Dammit! Dammit! Who screwed with thethe.." And then the elevator doors opened. The odor slammed into our nostrils like a .44 magnum bullet. The smell was horrid, thick, and sickening.

As we braved our way off the elevator and into the land of stank, Sgt. Hack began asking about last nights activities. His words and questions were frequently interrupted with coughs, wheezes and desperate gasps for air. I vowed to hold my breath for as long as possible, so the few questions he managed to ask went unanswered.

As we approached the basement evidence vault, I knew I had a choice; I could either breathe or pass out. I figured that since Sgt. Hack had been breathing the putrid air, his physical well-being had to be in sharp decline. This meant he most likely would not have the energy to drag my unconscious body to safety. And hell, if I passed out, I would end up breathing anyway. So, I exhaled, steeled myself for the incoming blow and inhaled.

The gods of stink had kicked it up a notch. This made the smell outside the elevator seem like an Irish Spring commercial. I could swear the air had a greenish hue. At this point, we were locked in a serious performance of synchronized coughing and wheezing. My eyes were watering in an attempt to protect themselves from the burning air. I had to squint---hard-in order to gain any focus.

Scanning the room, we observed a broom and some brownish markings on the basement floor running towards the file cabinet. We quickly deduced that "someone" used the broom to sweep "something" underneath the cabinet. (Hey, we are highly trained police officers; deductive reasoning is our forte). Sgt. Hack grabbed the broom and swept under the cabinet, forcing the piece of dung from its cozy space. The air did not get cleaner. If he had picked up the feculence and rubbed it in my face, the smell could not have been any worse.

We stood facing each other, watching as the poop rolled to a stop between us. After a few seconds of silence, Sgt. Jon Hack, a twenty-year police veteran, relieved himself (pun intended) of approximately one-hundred expletives. Utilizing all of his command-presence, Sgt. Hack bellowed, "I want you to call that (blankety-blank) I don't give a FRICK if he is asleep!"

Needless to say, after a scant two hours of sleep, Cpl. Joe Roper found himself back at the office disinfecting the entire basement with bleach. Later that morning, Sgt. Hack was enjoying his newly acquired candy bar.

***P.S. 2009. This story actually occurred in 1993. I dusted off the cobwebs and attempted to rework parts of it. BTW, thank you Steve H. for some great wording and editing.

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All Posts by Chris Cole

Living in Obama-Nation

Anna Nicole Smith, Even in Death, You are still Outrageous!

From A Ghost to a Bouncer, but always a Gentleman: (Swayze, a retrospective 2009)

Not Quite, C.S.I.

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