July 3rd, 2006


I am never going back to sleep ever again.

Well, now I can say I know what it's like to wake up to the police bursting into your room at 1:30 in the morning with flashlights in your face and hollering and shit. And I know it wasn't a dream because I just cleaned wooden splinters and paint chips up off the kitchen floor. My blood pressure probably won't go down until October or so.

So there I am, peacefully slumbering away, been asleep since 8:30 or so, already deep in the REM sleep and having a good time of it presumably. All I remember first are loud voices. Very very loud voices, coming from right outside my bedroom door.

"POLICE! HANDS UP!" Just like that, too. Just like in COPS. Two flashlights, now three, in my room, standing by the computer. Holy fucking shit. Holy fucking shit! I bolt upright in bed and have both arms in the air. I'm also not wearing anything. Somehow it doesn't matter.

"WHAT'S YOUR NAME?" I stated my name, age, rank, serial number, place of birth, Mom's maiden name, previous job history, ATM code, no-- just name. With flashlights in face, they asked me about the other people living here. And where "that door" off my bedroom leads. I think I said "the cat's food and litter are there" and I may have also used the word "antechamber" in describing it, but hey, you tend to run your mouth when you've got adrenalin just streaking through you. (Still hasn't worn off yet.) At some point I grabbed the blanket and put it over my, uh, self. Apparently they didn't mind that my hands were down anymore.

After naming my other housemates I said that I honestly didn't know if anyone else was home, since I'd been asleep since 8:30.

"Do you know a Liam Somebodyorother?" one of them asks. "Some-other-guy's-name? Thirdguywossname?"

"No sir, I do not," I reply. I was next questioned about my "home phone" and I replied I just have a cellphone, and that nobody in this house has a landline. I was very polite to the nice policemen, I answered all of their questions with a "Yes sir" or "No sir" and eventually they decided I was not, in fact, the gentleman with a gun that they were looking for. Just some scared-looking dude who just woke up to cops in his face.

They wandered out into the hallway and I took the opportunity to put some clothes on. Once I came out behind them they asked if "a female" lived here. I said yes, one does, and that's when Jude came out of her bedroom. She woke up to hear the smashing and tromping, so she thought we'd been Broken Into, and hid in her closet and called 911. I got to hear the cops talk with the 911 dispatcher on that one to clear it up.

Turns out they received a call tonight from a suicidal/homicidal man who claimed he had a gun and was gonna kill ... people? In his house? I'm not sure on those details, but still, dangerous shit there, buddy. They did a trace on the phone number and Verizon records had it listed as a landline connected to our address. The last landline we had was discontinued last August, and even then it was RCN, not Verizon. That's seriously fucked up. THANKS, VERIZON.

Jude and I both asserted we had never heard of any of the names the cops just rattled off at us, and once they realized they'd gotten the wrong house and actually woken two fine upstanding citizens up, they calmed down and ... were downright friendly. As friendly as brusque police officers who've just kicked in your kitchen door and raided your bedroom can be.

The police took the time to explain what they did prior to the whole Brazil-like bursting in incident. They rang the doorbell (which often doesn't work and it's not clearly labelled) and they banged on the front door (I'm up on the 3rd floor with two flights and a closed bedroom door between me and the front door, and was out like a light anyway. Only thing that wakes me up in that case is the cat.) With no response and phone company-backed certainty that Crimes Were Being Committed As We Speak, they actually gained entry to the house through an open window on the first floor, came up through the basement, and proceeded to smash down our second-story kitchen door.

"We've got it all on record down at the station," the cop said, as Jude and I surveyed what once was our kitchen door, now shattered and in need of serious replacement. "Everything we did to gain entry was reported on a recorded line." I think some vague mention of reimbursement is made with regards to the door, but then again we've got a realty company in charge of the property so I'm pretty sure they will do the talking with the city to replace the door.

"Is there anything else I can do to help?" I asked, weakly and reflexively.

"Not unless you know a guy with a gun," one of the cops said. And just like that, they're gone. I don't think any of em ever actually used a word like "sorry" either. But then again, they're cops, they don't have to say that.

Still shaken up by the whole thing. Still racing pulse. Still in that hyper-alert Go Mode. Probably won't be able to go back to sleep tonight.


(Oh, and the cat is fine too. He hid under the bed initially but has been seen since, stretched out on the bedroom floor as if it ain't no thang.)

bad wolf memo

Dear Self:
Upon returning home from work this evening, kindly re-watch the Doctor Who episode Fear Her with greater scrutiny and make note if anybody says "would" immediately after someone else says "torch."

Because even though it wasn't written by Russell T. Davies, I wouldn't have put it past him to sneakily sneak his pet reference in there, since a torch was constantly being referred to during the course of the episode. I mean, the temptation's just too much.

PS: Be sure and re-watch Army of Ghosts as well because you dozed off during the last 20 minutes, but that's your fault for taking the melatonin too soon.