The Second-best Cocker Spaniel I ever had.

The story you are about to hear is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (from lawsuits).

The other day, my partner told me he wanted to eat at a restaurant that at the time he only saw fit to describe as, "this Vietnamese joint I know." He told me the place was located just outside China Town, deep in the heart of Downtown LA. He was driving the black and white that day, and before I knew it, we were parked in front of a building that at first glance could have easily passed for an abandoned veterinary clinic. There was a strange and eerie chain-mesh security door at the front entrance, which became only more troubling as the not-so-distant sounds of multiple dogs barking grew increasingly louder from behind the building.

I am not making this up.



Then my partner said the three words that have haunted me since; "Here we are." I quickly looked around, scanning the street for any possible signs of alternative destinations, but there were no other restaurants in sight. I looked back at the building in question while my partner approached it. Almost all of the establishment's signage was in Vietnamese except for a small, hand made sign that read "Pho 11's" (I later confirmed that it's pronounced "Foh eleven's" kind of like an urban way of saying "four eleven's" but with a PH to give it that extra touch of Vietnamese).

I was still not convinced that we were entering an actual restaurant until I noticed the all-too-telling "B" rating posted on the door by the California Department of Environmental Health. Ordinarily, a "B" rating isn't necessarily enough to dissuade me from eating at a restaurant, however, things change when you're in a police uniform. This may come as a shock to some of my more sheltered or home-schooled readers but there are a lot of people out there that hate the police, and wouldn't think twice about adding any number of cleaning products or bodily fluids to give a cop's food that extra zing. You can never tell if your cook or waiter recently received a traffic citation or possibly had a relative arrested. We literally take a substantial risk anytime we go out to eat in uniform. Off duty, I have no problem eating at "B" rated restaurants, after all, one of the biggest and most heavily-trafficked restaurants in Valencia boasted a B for years.

When I'm in uniform, however, I'm a little more reluctant to eat at a B-rated restaurant especially when said B rating is the only thing that identifies the establishment as a restaurant. But on this day, I decided to back my partner up and bravely follow him into almost certain peril.



Just inside the front door, Pho 11's lucky customers are greeted by a defective koi pond with a filthy, above-water filter, proudly displaying all the fun and exciting substances that one finds in a broken koi pond. Hmmm, my mouth was watering already. As my partner found us a table, I looked around in silence while still attempting to remain polite. The walls of the restaurant were white, or at least they had been at one time. The tables of the restaurant were all centered around a single, 18-inch TV screen that sat on the edge of the aforementioned koi pond. After all, what better place to put an electrical appliance than on the cusp of a 300-gallon container of water. The TV had seen better days, evident by the multiple wires running from it's ancient and ineffective ariel antenna system. Apparently Pho 11's is a popular place to go eat mystery beef and watch scrambled Dodger games, America's pastime indeed. I felt dirty just sitting there.

My partner must have noticed my uneasy demeanor because he looked up at me and said with the utmost sincerity "Don't worry dude, this place is way cleaner than it looks." I sat quietly and pondered the flaws in his statement. I mean really, that's like saying, "That girl over there is way prettier than she looks." Still, my partner continued his attempts at winning me over by giving me the rundown on Pho 11 procedure. "Okay partner" he said, "they're going to bring us a couple glasses of water. Don't drink it. Just order a soda. It'll come in a bottle so you'll be good to go."

Now I wanted to punch him in the face. If a restaurant can't be trusted to get water right, why would you want to eat a full meal there?



My partner then handed me a greasy menu which was written entirely in Vietnamese. "Okay, lemme see" he said while rubbing his chin, "we want... um... this one. Yeah, this one." He pointed to a picture of a beef bowl that looked identical to every other picture on the grease stained menu. I was suddenly reminded that my partner is about as Vietnamese as I am. Needless to say, I had a sneaky suspicion that we were not going to be served what we wanted, although at that moment, all I really wanted was any kind of emergency that would require us to leave the building immediately. Just as I was devising a plan to activate the emergency help button on my radio without my partner seeing, our waiter came by and took our order.

I sat quietly and did my best to ignore the unmistakable and alarmingly nearby sound of dogs barking which had intensified since we sat down and then became frighteningly quiet seconds after we placed our order. "There must be a dog kennel near here" my idiot partner said. I sat quietly and reflected deeply on my life and the various paths it had taken that ultimately lead me to Pho 11's.



For the record, I'm not saying that I think the nearby pack of dogs were in any way connected to the restaurant or it's owners. And I certainly hope our ordering food was in no way connected to their sudden and unexplained silence. After all, this is America, and I really don't think that anyone could get away with something like that. And if Pho 11's is guilty of what I believe to be the most horrid of crimes, I think they'd surely make some kind of attempt to cover it up. They certainly wouldn't keep live dogs locked up out back, just an ear shot away from their customers. Also, if my initial suspicions were correct, the California Department of Environmental Health would not have issued Pho 11's a "B". They would have gotten at least a "C-" and the owners would have been prosecuted to the fullest degree. I quietly reassured myself with this logic as our beef bowls arrived. Upon seeing my dinner, I immediately broke out into a cold sweat and sat motionless while my entire life flashed before my eyes. My partner didn't hesitate for a second; he dove right in and was immediately singing the praises of Pho 11's and their questionable beef.



I was now faced with a moral dilemma: Do I eat the mystery beef, and possibly risk violating the unspoken promise that all dog owners subconsciously make with their pets about never turning to them for nourishment even if stranded on the most deserted of islands? Or do I refuse the food, and insult my partner, Pho 11's and their customers and (worst of all) disgrace my fathers legacy?

I made the decision and I stand by it to this day; I ate the beef.

It didn't taste like beef. I think the less said about this the better. Do yourself and your conscience a favor; don't go to Pho 11's, ever.

Bring out your dead.

As a cop, I work closely with several types of people that the general population never has the opportunity to meet. Whenever I respond to a crime scene or conduct a substantial investigation, I work alongside a wide array of individuals with very interesting professions. At first glance, they might seem unremarkable, but I've found that they tend to be very interesting once you get to know them.

Night watch doctors are very interesting because they never act how you might expect. On TV, doctors are always good looking, poignant, intelligent, and above all, good at what they do. In real life, the doctors I meet often seem to be only slightly more medicinally qualified than me.



Last week, I was at a small local hospital (which will remain nameless) guarding a gang member who had been shot multiple times and later proved to be mortally wounded from his injuries. The gangster was being attended to by four scared nurses and one crusty old doctor who had apparently just woken up. He had a good three-days beard growth on his face and the hair on the back of his head was matted down, indicating that he had just finished a delightful nap in an unused examination room. Had I been doing a traffic stop on the good doctor, a Breathalyzer test would have been in order.

The doctor spotted me while he was working on the soon-to-be-dead gangster. He suddenly abandoned his post and walked over to inform me of the situation. Removing his bloody gloves, he said in an alarmingly calm voice, "Ya know, it doesn't look very promising." Had I been thinking, I would have asked to see his credentials to make sure he wasn't just some guy who was staying at the local Holiday Inn Express. Minutes later, I saw my partner in the hospital lobby. I told him, "Dude, if I get shot standing right here, I want you to throw me in the black & white and drive me to another hospital."

Of all the people I come into contact with, coroners are by far the most colorful. Not only do they have the best stories, but they also tend to have the best sense of humor. Any coroner will tell you, the worst calls we get are when we have to respond to a senior care facility. Those are the worst because there will usually be a room full of old people lying in beds (think Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory) but only one of them is dead. Upon arrival, our job is to examine and make sure said dead person is in fact dead and that there is no evidence of foul play.



If I happen to arrive during scheduled nap time it's even more complicated, because everyone in the room is asleep or dead, and I'm supposed to know which is which. There's nothing quite like walking over to what you expect to be a lifeless body when, without warning, said body sits up and asks you to turn up the volume on Matlock. I've decided the best thing to do from now on is to, upon entering the room, hit my baton against the door frame of the room as hard as I can and look to see who flinches and who doesn't.

One day, I responded to the scene of a suicide. The deceased lived in small, multiple level home, not uncommon in the San Fernando Valley. By the time I was done with my investigation, the family of the departed had gathered outside of her home. Part of my job is to assist the coroners with a swift removal of the body before the family gets too grief stricken and needs to be physically restrained. The coroner who responded was so small and weak, I could tell that I would be doing most of the heavy lifting to get the body out of the house and down the stairs.

The coroner and I wrapped the body discretely into a body bag. We put it onto a gurney and made our way out the front door. As we neared the top of the complex flight of stairs in front of the house, the experienced coroner stopped and looked around to assess the situation. She told me: "Listen, the whole family is standing around watching us. I'm not gonna lie, there's a good chance that you and me are going to drop this body." I was shocked at her complete lack of confidence. Then she said, "If it starts to fall, let it fall. Trust me, I've been doing this for years, it's much better to drop the body and pick it back up than to play hot potato with it on the stairs in front of the family." Fortunately, we made it down the stairs and into the County van without incident.

This is why you don't run from the Cops...

Warning: This is messed up. Very, very messed up. If you're a homeschool mom or are the type of person that is often confused with homeschool moms, don't follow this link. For everyone else, check this out.

Tales from the Academy. volume 1

In order to pass the self-defense portion of our training, one of the tests recruit officers have to endure in the academy is called the fist suit. A fist suit, also known as a redman suit, is a set of full-body protective gear that keeps one's sparring partner from getting injured. Basically, after weeks of training us, our self defense instructors put on the fist suit and fought each recuit officer for three minutes to see what we'd learned.



All I can say is that the suits provide for a much fuller range of motion than one would first suspect. That, mixed with the fact that our instructors are some of the best fighters in the entire department, we pretty much got the skubalon beaten out of us for three minutes.



The point of this training experience was to test our proficiancy with a baton. While the instructors had head-to-toe body armor, we had a mouth piece, a cup, and a foam baton that achieves roughly the same effect in a fight as a soggy churro. Now, you may be wondering, if the instructors have full body protection, why were we armed only with foam batons? I wondered the same thing.



It's okay, I blocked his punch with my head.

Hate is a strong word but I really, really, really don't like the Dodgers.

I'm always amazed at how many people who apparently don't like baseball show up at baseball games. How else can you explain the wave, beach balls, or "DAY-O"? I live In Los Angeles; home of the non-fan fan. We've all heard the stereotypes about LA fans being bandwagoners that only cheer for the winning team....

Well, it's all true. Every bit of it.




It's a well documented fact that in LA, Dodger fans don't file into the stadium until the top of the third. If I miss batting practice I feel late. Nevertheless, Dodger fans wander into the park forty-five minutes late, and usually leave within an hour, depending on which team is winning. If you've never been to Dodger Stadium and witnessed this behavior first hand, you are probably thinking that this sort of thing happens everywhere, and you're right. But what sets LA apart is the sheer quantity of people doing this. I challenge you to go to a Dodger game, and at the bottom of the fifth, if the Dodgers are losing, look out into the crowd the way you'd look at one of those 3D posters that were cool in the mid 90's. You will see mobs of people stand up in unison and file out of the stadium like sheep. It happens every game; you can set your clock to it. In fact, the best way to avoid traffic at Dodger Stadium is to get there on time and leave when the game's over.



Growing up in LA has probably been the greatest contributor to my fierce hatred for the Dodgers. It's not a bad stadium; It's actually a pretty nice stadium... when it's empty. Dodger fans are hands down the worst fans in Major League Baseball.

As a Los Angeles Police Officer, I come across criminals and gangsters everyday. There are few places that make me feel more unsafe that the outfield bleachers at Dodger Stadium. Every game is like an 18th Street gang reunion for all the homies and their little bambinõs. I would venture to guess that there is more gang activity in the Dodger stadium bleachers than in the entire City of San Fernando. And somehow they call that the family section.

A few weeks ago, while at a Dodger game, I sat in front of your typical Dodger fan. It didn't take me long to figure out that this guy was the prototype for all other Dodger fans to follow. My first and second clues were when he showed up in the third inning spilling his beer down the backs of myself and everyone else I was with. Throughout the next four innings, (he actually stayed longer than usual) I had to sit through this man's inane rambling about absolutely nothing. It started with his spouting of inaccurate statistics of the Dodger's line up, then onto how he felt the team should be managed. After exhausting his ability to recite what he had clearly heard on ESPN, the conversation shifted to another topic he knew nothing about; women.



It's a verifiable fact that Dodger fans boo louder when a 9 year old drops a foul ball than for a home run from the apposing team. This guy was no exception. Even worse, everytime a fly ball was hit, our hero would cheer right until the ball fell into the glove... of the short stop. Apparently, nacho cheese and beer drastically affects one's depth perception.

As much as I hate the Dodgers - and I do, if I could change one thing about the MLB, it would be seating. Tickets for assigned seats should only be good until the game begins. That way, when I'm stuck in the nose-bleeds, I get to automatically upgrade my seats as a reward for punctuality. Once the first pitch is thrown, it should be my right as a loyal fan to relocate to any vacant seat of my choosing while the tardy, non-fans get banished to the upper deck for showing up late.

That's baseball the American way.

Yevereverillo

So, my readers have asked me, begged really, to post again.

To celebrate my recent graduation, my two closest friends, my brothers and my sister-in-law took me to a pirate themed dinner show restaurant aptly named A Pirate's Dinner Adventure.

It was weird.

The restaurant is a blatant Medieval Times rip-off, a fact that is accentuated even more so due to it's location literally next door to Medieval Times.

Basically, you sit and eat in a big room with a pirate ship in the center. There are five different sections - ours was yellow - with a corresponding pirate - ours was Antonio, the self proclaimed master swordsman.



At the start of the show, all the pirates are shipmates under one Captain, a fact that prompts this rugged crew of scallywags to (what else?) sing and dance. All is happy and joyous on the seas until the pirates encounter two young wenches and decide to bring them aboard. One was the daughter of a wealthy statesman and the other was a young gypsy girl. Soon, our heroes are singing and dance-fighting for the attention of their new shipmates. The fighting would have been much more deadly had it not been for the giant trampoline that just happened to be located in the middle of the ship. As the poorly choreographed fighting continued, the gypsy girl attempted an ill-conceived rope climb/trapeze act/escape set to (what else?) the love theme from the Man from Snowy River.



As the fighting continued, the pirates died off one by one. Antonio was the first to go; apparently his skills with the blade could not withstand devastating mule kicks from the the dastardly Sebastian the Black. Soon, all but two of the pirates were in Davy Jones' Locker, leaving the Statesman's daughter and the gypsy girl with their own rightful suitors. The two couples live happily ever after... until the 8:20 show.



I would suggest A Pirate's Dinner Adventure to anyone who likes pirates, enjoys over choreographed dance-fighting, and has literally nothing better to do.

Pecadillo's top 5 album covers

I was cleaning out the family attic this week, and I came across a few records that I feel should be made public as a cautionary tail of what happens when you mix extra cash and poor judgment.



This particular album is very close to my heart for two reasons; 1. I'm almost certain that England Dan changed my brake pads last month and 2. John Ford Coley has lived in a pup tent behind the local Burger King since I was a kid.

I find it odd that someone who's clearly never stepped foot out of the Ozarks could have "England" as a first name. I can only assume that England's namesake was the result of a bad combination of the Dan family's moonshine and a Roger Miller record or two. You have to respect a guy like England Dan though; despite his own obvious issues and social deficiencies, even he is uncomfortable around Big John Ford.



I can't decide what's worse; being in a band with your parents, or being the only fourteen year old with a comb-over.



I'll be honest, everything about this cover troubles me. Is "Country Church" the name of this band and this is their self-titled debut? Is that barn in the background their country church as well as their home? I need more information; these people fascinate me.

I always find it interesting when I see people dress alike on purpose, and this is no exception. Typically, only factory workers or a pair of six year old twins can get away with it... and again, this is no exception. I'm trying to imagine what was going through the minds of these guys while this picture was taken.

"Hey Cletus, I know that there un-E-form don't exactly fit but if you try to stand behind Maude, maybe people won't notice that you look like David Crosby in plaid midget clothes."

Yeah, that's probably how it went.



I don't know about you, but I want to see this family band in a cage match with the Country Church band. They're almost identical; both bands have matching uniforms; both opted to have their pictures taken in open, vacant fields. And they both have their own awkward, poorly kempt, powerhouse bass players in ill-fitting clothes from the children's department at Sears.

My money's on Al Davis here. Just look at that power stance.




One and only indeed. There is something very sad about a guy who thinks a leather jacket and a magnet ear-ring earns street cred. In his mind he's thinking, 'Fonzie' but in reality, this is the 'one and only' guy that got kicked out of Hansen for being too girly.

At first glance, it's easy to dismiss Hawkes as a 90 lbs, Clay Aiken knock off with a fake mole, but believe you me, you do not want to cross him or his Vespa gang.

Pecadillo: the triumphant return

Please rise for our National Anthem.

Coming Soon

Starting June 24th, the day after I graduate from the Los Angeles Police Academy, I Drank What? will return to the blogosphere with exciting new posts, products, and slightly more activity.

Be there!

---

Note: Any and all of my 4 readers are invited to attend the graduation ceremony to be held on June 23rd at 9:00 am (next to Dodger Stadium) on the eve of my return.

Los Angeles Police Academy
1880 North Academy Drive, Elysian Park
Los Angeles, California 90012

Update from the Academy

While I'm in the Academy, there are many restrictions on what I can and cannot discuss on the internet. The following will be very brief and remarkably vague, only the names have been changed to protect the innocent...

I've just completed week 13, leaving only 19 more weeks until graduation. To date, I've lost 26 pounds, earning me the nickname "anorexic" from my fellow classmates. Don't worry; I'm not really on the "Karen Carpenter diet", my weight loss is due to the intense physical training and sudden change in my diet. Believe it or not; Pop-tarts and Count Chocula are not part of a well balanced breakfast if you run five miles a day. Go figure.

Before

After

In the academy, it's tradition to name your gun. Most of the guys go with the standard "Lucille" or "Eleanor". My primary sidearm is "Mary-Kate" and my back up is "Ashley". Together they're a full house.

Blog Attire.

Well it came in the mail today.
What? you ask. Did I receive my income-tax refund?

No.

Did I win millions from Ed MacMahon?

Not yet. (But I may already be a winner.)

Did I receive my acceptance into the LAPD?

Well, yes actually, but that's not what I'm talking about.



I am speaking, of course, about my Frank Turk T-shirt from his very own "Shopping Cart a Basket of Goodies." That's right folks, for just $19.99, you too can be a walking, talking, advertisement for Centuri0n's world-famous blog.

"Why", you ask, "would I want to wear Frank's likeness?"

I have no idea. I'm not the only one, though. Frank's shirts seem to be a big hit with the some of the locals.



I don't even think the stat-man himself knows who's reading his blog.