A few facts about the area to which I am assigned: white folks fled most of the neighborhoods in the ’50s and ’60s, which became predominantly Hispanic in the ’70s. It was a rough place to be from then on. A lot of blood has been shed on these streets.

Things are changing, though. It’s not as rough as it used to be. Abandoned buildings are being replaced by new condos and apartments. And slowly but surely, white people are coming back. Most of them are hipsters.

Hipsters say the darnedest things. Here are just a few things I’ve heard in my travels through Area 22.

1. “That’s police harassment, buddy.” This from a hipster who struck up a conversation with a fat gangster we had just stopped and ticketed for a minor infraction. The gangster in question is a member of the biggest gang operating in Area 22. He’s currently on probation.

Go ahead and call it “harassment,” dumb fuck. I call it proactive policing.

2. “Do I need to be concerned? I live right over there.” Question from a hipster chick after an officer shot a mentally disturbed gangster five times with a bean bag shotgun before the asshole finally gave up.

Really? You didn’t notice all these tattooed freaks roaming the street before you moved into this place?

3. “Is it standard procedure to park your police car like that when you pull someone over?” This was meant to be a rhetorical question, posed by some smug hipster who didn’t like the fact that our police vehicle was offset about 50-percent to the left, behind the violator’s car. He felt this was unsafe for passing motorists, who could have crashed into our rather large Crown Vic.

Well, that’s the whole point, asshole. If some idiot’s got his head so far up his ass that he can’t slow down and go around, our  police vehicle is positioned to provide me some protection while I’m talking to the driver we just stopped. Besides, what makes you feel so entitled that you had to interrupt my traffic stop? Google that shit next time, you smug prick.

I’m sure I haven’t heard the last from these hipsters. Stay tuned for more.

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I’m back. In uniform, that is. And it’s nice to be back. Working a plainclothes assignment is a lot of fun. But there’s something nice about being in uniform.

For one, everyone knows you’re the police. Most suspects think twice about fighting uniformed cops. Secondly, you know where all of your equipment is placed. No more reaching for your gun and clutching air. And thirdly, your radio is with you at all times. No more using cell phones and text messages for communications.

My posting has been sporadic lately, and I apologize. Blogging is not what it’s cracked up to be. I guess I’m just not as verbose as I used to be, back in my more youthful days.

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Imagine you’re at home. Three assholes break in and help themselves to your stuff. One of them is on his way out with your shotgun and some ammo. You arm yourself and take the motherfucker out. Lights out, shitbird. Adios.

This is what happened last week in Moncks Corner, SC:

Authorities say 21-year-old Bobby Gadsden was shot to death after breaking into a home in Moncks Corner. Police say Gadsden and 20-year-old Clifford Ramsey, both of Moncks Corner, likely entered through the garage door, which had been left slightly open. Police say the homeowner, a 50-year-old man [Cecil Barwick], was there when the men broke in… the homeowner grabbed his handgun…

“A shot was fired. As a result the suspect was killed. Then the homeowner left the home to call 911,” Berkeley County Coroner Bill Salisbury said.

Taking a life is a horrible thing. But hey, the scumbag was inside your home, uninvited, stealing from you. You did what you had to do. Justice served. One less asshole in the world. If you were Mr. Barwick, you’d probably want to forget the whole thing and go on with your life.

But Mr. Barwick can’t go on with his life. The dead burglar’s family and supporters are trying to turn this into a race issue. They think it was okay for Little Bobby and his homeboys to be committing felony crimes in the wee hours of the morning. And Mr. Barwick is a racist for shooting a black burlgar. They’ve set up a Facebook page–”Justice for Bobby L. Gadsen.”

It’s yet another race card being dealt from the bottom of the deck.

Justice for Bobby L. Gadsen? Yea, the fucker already got justice. Now bury the asshole and shut the fuck up.

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The Patong Club: a seedy little joint dressed up like a beach bar in Thailand. We’re investigating an anonymous tip. The source? Maybe a competitor. All of these places dime each other out. They’re all dirty.

My partners tonight are Joe, Mike and John. We’re undercover as old college buddies looking for cheap thrills.

Inside, semi-private booths surround the main bar, where a row of bored bar girls sit and wait. Most of them are Asian. Some are Hispanic.

The bar matron finds us a booth and directs four girls to sit with us. I end up with a Mexican girl named Amora. She smells like cheap lotion.

We order drinks and talk. Then order another round. By round three Amora tells me that the girls work on commission. They get a cut of whatever overpriced drinks customers buy for them. But the Asian girls get a bigger cut.

“That’s some racist shit,” I tell Amora. “But don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you.”

It’s time for another round. Amora orders the most expensive drink on the menu–a $20 glass of wine poured straight from a box. “Is that okay?” she asks.

“Sure.” It ain’t my money.

“Thank you, sweetie,” says Amora as she runs her hand up my thigh. “Wine makes me so hot.”

“Does that mean we’re gonna fuck?”

Amora puts her hand over her mouth, faux giggles. “We shouldn’t talk about that right now. Maybe if you come back a couple of times, I’ll know you ain’t the police. Besides, I’m on my period.”

That cheap lotion smell is getting on my nerves. But the show must go on. “Do I look like the police?” I ask.

Amora sizes me up, bites her index finger, and smiles. “I don’t think so, but you never know.”

Joe dismisses his girl and demands another. Moments later, a new girl shows up. Joe moves to another booth with her.

Kyle, our vice sergeant, texts me: “u guys ok in there?” I excuse myself and go to the restroom. I text back: “yea, stand by. trying to get a hoe violation.”

Joe walks in. I give him a rundown of how the bar works. We have enough for a liquor beef. “You got a hoe violation yet?” he asks.

“Im close. I need more time.”

Joe grins. “Cool. Let’s stay awhile.” We bump fists and get back to work.

Back at the booth, John’s getting a lap dance from his girl. Amora cheers. She grabs my arm, slips something into my pocket. “That’s my number,” she slurs. “Call me tomorrow after five. My son will be with his grandma, and I’ll be done with my period.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred. You can fuck me all you want. I’ll even let you come in my mouth.”

“What about your face?”

“As long as you don’t get it in my eyes.” She giggles, covers her eyes. “I got an eye infection like that before.”

This is good stuff for the report. But making a deal for tomorrow is not good enough for tonight. “What about now?” I ask.

“But I’m having my period, baby.”

“I know. But you can still suck my dick, right?”

Amora grins and licks her lips. “Okay, baby. Let’s go find another booth.”

“How much?” I ask.

“Whatever you want to pay me is okay.” She smiles, faking shyness.

“How about fifty?”

Amora agrees. I excuse myself and go to the bathroom again. On my way, I find Joe and tell him I’ve got the violation, then I text Kyle.

In a minute or two, the takedown team will be here. Sorry, Amora, you’re about to get pinched. I’m a cop after all. You should find a better way to feed your kid. Hoeing at the Patong Club just doesn’t pay.

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Nothing makes my blood boil more than stories like this one out of New York City. Sure, the headline is inflammatory, but I think it sums it all up very nicely: City Snatches Body Of Hero 9/11 NYPD Officer After Wake, Infuriating Grieving Family.

NYPD Officer George Wong pitched in after the World Trade Center attacks by directing traffic at Ground Zero in the days after Sept. 11. Wong eventually got sick, and developed gastric cancer.

Last week, he died and his doctor blames toxic exposure from 9/11 and put that on his death certificate.

But right before Wong’s wake, the City called the funeral home to ask if they could take Wong’s body away to study it.

The family refused, but then allowed the city to cart away the 48-year-old retired police officer’s body after the wake. This delayed Wong’s cremation and memorial service, and infuriated Wong’s family.

Howard Wong, George’s brother, calls it “disrespectful.”

Neither the mayor, nor the commissioner, could be bothered to attend Officer Wong’s funeral. Instead, the mayor went on the defensive:

Mayor Bloomberg said the city was simply following the law when workers snatched the cancer victim’s body from a Manhattan funeral home Monday, causing Wong’s funeral to be postponed a day.

“When there is a death that the death certificate says is not of natural causes, the medical examiner is required by law to go and to perform whatever they think is appropriate,” Bloomberg said.

Perhaps. But I agree with Michael Daly when he wrote:

That explains, but does not excuse…

“I’m sorry that anybody felt upset about it,” the mayor said.

People felt more than upset. And it would have cost the mayor nothing to walk down to Mulberry St. and stand with the three dozen cops who saluted as the honor guard Wong so rightly deserved bore the coffin to the hearse.

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