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Rash of leaf blower thefts reported

Investigators arrested a man they believe is responsible for a rash of leaf blower thefts in this normally crime-free neighborhood of Paw Paw, Michigan.

Reports of the thefts first emerged a couple weeks ago when homeowners went to undertake the annual ritual of removing fallen leaves from their lawns only to discover that the leaf blowers were missing from their garages.

After weeks of investigation, detectives zeroed in on a man who had been making a number of disparaging comments about leaf blowers in neighborhood Facebook groups.

Joseph Brickman, age 62 of Paw Paw, wrote in one thread that the sound of leaf blowers “wheezing throughout the neighborhood” was driving him crazy and that he intended “to do something about it.” However, no one paid any attention to Mr. Brickman because no one ever paid any attention to Mr. Brickman.

Brickman commented that the near constant noise of 2-stroke engines revving was like “living next to a go-kart track.” He also compared the sound to a moose call and complained that he worked nights and couldn’t get any sleep during the day as a “cacophony of lonely moose” made it impossible for him to get any peace.

Investigators became even more suspicious of Brickman when they observed him silently using a rake to gather his leaves into piles. After questioning Brickman, he allowed them to search his garage where they discovered dozens of leaf blowers stashed under a tarp. Brickman explained that he’d acquired the devices over the years, but they all “broke down because they’re pieces of junk.”

Eventually, authorities were able to trace the leaf blowers back to their owners and now the decibel level in the neighborhood has returned to normal.

Halloween undergoes months of intense whiteboarding

On the eve of Halloween, a group of youngsters in Munster feel they are finally ready for the festivities to get underway after months of intense whiteboarding and strategizing.

Topics of concern for the myriad whiteboard sessions included costume selection and preparation, neighborhood selection and route scouting, a comprehensive review of previous trick or treat experiences, and development of a candy rating system designed to maximize accumulation of the most desirable treats.

“We really whiteboarded the shit out this Halloween,” said ten-year-old Preston Metcalfe. “Halloween only comes once a year, so our approach has been that we cannot afford to leave a single stone unturned when it comes to raking in a candy harvest that is second to none. I mean, I need this Halloween booty to get me through until Christmas.”

Metcalfe explained that in the past too much time has been wasted in neighborhoods where there is low participation and trick or treaters are forced to cover too much distance between participating households. So Metcalfe and his team identified five “hotzones” in town where they feel the candy is most plentiful and accessible.

Additionally, the team’s rating system has prioritized houses that have traditionally handed out the biggest and tastiest treats while downgrading dwellings that put an emphasis on healthy or eco-friendly snacks.

“We spent months poring over data to come up with our map. Additionally, we’ve already walked the route several times, identifying areas of concern and making appropriate adjustments. If all goes well, this will be the most bountiful Halloween ever,” Metcalfe said.

Washed up NFL QBs deployed to streets of American cities

In an effort to combat the chaos brewing in America’s largest cities, federal officials are considering deploying former NFL quarterbacks and intoxicated sports announcers to the nation’s streets to quell disorder.

“We just want to get them out there and try to turn down the temperature a little bit,” one official noted.

Over the weekend, former Jets quarterback Mark Sanchez was out patrolling the streets of Indianapolis, Indiana, hunting for ne’er-do-wells, when he encountered an individual he thought was attempting to steal used cooking oil from a downtown hotel.

Sanchez confronted the man and body slammed the 69-year-old in an alley behind the hotel. It turns out the man was a legitimate grease truck driver who was authorized to remove the grease from the hotel.

“Mr. Sanchez trusted his instincts on this one and turned out to be wrong, but you got to like his spunk and desire to sniff out the bad guys,” the official said.

Police noted that prior to his encounter with the grease truck driver, Mr. Sanchez had altercations with two sanitation workers and a document shredder, who all abandoned their suspicious activity when confronted by Sanchez.

As Sanchez lay in bed this morning feeling like he’d been sacked by a Mack Truck, he remarked to reporters that he wished he was better at avoiding trouble than he was at evading defenses.

Euros Back in a New York Groove

Much of the hype leading up to this year’s Ryder Cup at Bethpage Black Golf Course revolved around the challenge the visiting Euros faced playing in front of a hostile New York crowd. While the New York fans did their best to get inside the heads of the Euros by heaping abuse on the players and their families, it did not produce the outcome they were looking for. It did, however, produce a somewhat predictable outcome. All of the rudeness, taunting, heckling and vulgarity did zero to throw the European players off their game and instead elicited some of the most inspired and exceptional play ever seen at a Ryder Cup event.

As an Indiana Pacers fan, I’ve witnessed this phenomenon many times before. Whether we’re talking about the Reggie Miller era or the Tyrese Haliburton era, there’s no greater feeling than watching the New York faithful choke on their jeers and insults as their championship hopes go up in flames. Even though the Pacers have yet to win it all, beating the Knicks and their fanbase year after year is a pretty awesome consolation prize.

The point is, all of the boorish and abusive behavior does nothing to throw a great player off his game. Great players feed off it and get inspired by it. They lock into states of concentration and focus seldom achieved under normal circumstances. Say what you will about Justin Rose, but on Saturday the dude was dialed into Matrix level mental and physical performance, willing the improbable into certainty time and time again. So, by the way, were his teammates, Tommy Fleetwood, John Rahm, Rory McIlroy and Shane Lowry.

This weekend, the European Ryder Cup team not only won the Ryder Cup but reaped the added bonus of sticking a golf cleat in the mouth of the vaunted New York fanbase. To his credit, Shane Lowry didn’t give the “choke” sign to the abusive fans after sinking the winning putt, but rather reveled in the victory. It was nice to see the pure joy of the moment pour out of Lowry and Euros. They could have taunted the crowd, but instead opted for class and dignity. Perhaps, in the future, some of the worst clowns in the gallery will do the same.

Parallel Parking Crisis

Among the many things we as a society should be concerned about regarding the younger generation is their inability to parallel park. Student loan debt, AI, social isolation, mental health and a lack of affordable housing are all things young people are going to struggle with going forward. But the chief indicator that these kids are not ready for the future is their inability to parallel park.

As I sat on my front porch the other day, I witnessed the neighbor kid spend 20 minutes trying to parallel park his car. I’m not sure who was more lame in this situation – the guy who struggled to park his car, or the old timer who had nothing better to do than watch the whole wretched scene unfold. I fought mightily against the urge to run to his aid and impart my four decades of experience and wisdom. No doubt, he would have welcomed the neighbor standing on the sidewalk, making hand signals and shouting instructions. But this felt like a lesson he had to learn on his own. In the end, he succeeded in getting the little Toyota in the space with only two wheels up on the sidewalk.

Helpful hint: If you hit the curb with your rear wheel before you get a chance to cut the front end into the space, you’re fucked. Pull out and start again. You’re not going to succeed in forwarding and reversing into the space. Unless your idea of success is parking halfway onto the sidewalk. You have to start cutting the front end into the space when you still have at least six inches of space between the rear wheel and the curb. Today’s back up cameras make this maneuver a little easier, but I’m old school, so I just use The Force.

Sometimes when you’ve cut the front end halfway into the space and you feel like your rear wheel could hit the curb, you can make some midstream adjustments. But this is some next level parallel parking and should only be attempted once you get the basics down.

I’m aware that a bad parallel parker has options. Self-parking cars are already a thing, and I’ve even heard there’s an app that, for a small fee, sends out a distress signal to master level parallel parkers who will come park your car for you. Most of these guys are Uber drivers and off-duty valets. So, don’t despair, impress that special someone and learn how to parallel park.

Broadway Butterfly Beatrice Fay Perkins

In the early morning hours of Monday, March 9, 1925, Mrs. Beatrice Fay Perkins returned to her Manhattan apartment at 168 W. 58th St., in the company of her escort, Milton Abbott, a cotton broker and family friend. The two had been to Reuben’s, 622 Madison Ave., where late night revellers often concluded the night’s gayety with coffee and cold beef sandwiches. There Mrs. Perkins became ill and asked Abbott to escort her home. The pair arrived at the apartment around 3 a.m.

A short time later, a group of masked bandits, using a crowbar and other tools, “chopped and hacked their way into the luxurious studio apartment.” Taking the pair by surprise, the gang of thugs first bound and gagged Mr. Abbott before setting upon Mrs. Perkins. As Mrs. Perkins screamed, one of the robbers punched her in the mouth and grabbed her by the throat. Another bandit grabbed her arm and twisted it as he tore a diamond bracelet and a diamond-studded watch from her wrist. He grabbed one of her rings and tore the flesh as he ripped it from her finger. Then her necklace was taken, and when one of her rings proved too stubborn to remove by conventional means, one of the bandits nearly bit her finger off trying to remove the ring with his teeth. Not satisfied with the jewels they’d ripped from her body, they cursed and punched Mrs. Perkins as they demanded more loot.

“Where’s the rest of your jewelry, quick, or we’ll kill you,” one of the bandits threatened.

“For God’s sake, don’t do any more,” Mrs. Perkins moaned. “It’s on the dressing table. There, in that casket.”

As she lay in a broken heap on the floor, one of the men gave her a final kick while another grabbed the jewels from the dressing table. Before they fled, the trio of bandits brutally beat Mrs. Perkins unconscious and choked her with a pillow to prevent her from crying out while they fled the scene. Then, without so much as disturbing a hair on Mr. Abbott’s head, they warned him not to move for ten minutes after they left, or they would kill him.

Once the attackers had left the apartment, it only took Abbott a few moments to slip his bonds. Once free, Abbott showed little compassion and rendered little aid as he merely clipped Mrs. Perkins’ wrist restraints with a pair of scissors. Then Abbott did a very curious thing. As Mrs. Perkins lay semi-conscious on the floor, bleeding from the severe beating she had just endured, Abbott did not call for an ambulance. He did not run to the neighbors for help. Nor did he call the police or summon a doctor. No, Milton Abbott, cotton broker, neglected to undertake any action the emergency situation required and, instead, ran straight to the office of Arnold Rothstein.

Estranged from her husband, Benjamin F. Perkins, wealthy proprietor of the Colannade Club, Beatrice Fay Perkins was described as a beautiful young woman and a frequenter of popular cabarets. “Young, slim and beautiful, clothed in the finest Parisian creations,” Perkins earned the nickname ‘The Sleeping Beauty,’ because she wore her jewelry in bed during a hospital stay only a few weeks earlier.

Badly beaten and abandoned by her companion, Mrs. Perkins left “a trail of blood behind her on the carpet” when she “dragged herself to the telephone” and called for help. Meanwhile, Abbott ran the few blocks to the office of Arnold Rothstein, 45-47 W. 57th Street where he was unable to locate Rothstein at that late hour. The following day, Mrs. Perkins told detectives, “Arnold Rothstein was the man who insured my jewels for me. That’s why we wanted to see if he could think of any way to trace them.”

Three o’clock in the morning seems like a rather strange hour to be contacting your insurance man about stolen jewelry. But Arnold Rothstein wasn’t just an insurance broker. He was a leading figure in the Manhattan criminal underworld with interests in gambling, bootlegging, narcotics and stolen jewelry. And Beatrice Fay Perkins wasn’t the first Broadway Butterfly to be severely beaten and robbed in her home. At least two women had already lost their lives to a gang of “Butterfly Guerillas.” However, this robbery, more than any of the others, appears to indicate that these attacks weren’t just random, unconnected events by unrelated gangs of thugs. But rather, one individual may have been the leading figure behind all of these brutal crimes.

Sources:

Brooklyn Daily Times

Brooklyn Eagle

Brooklyn Citizen

Shadow of the Bridge cuts through the true crime clutter

As a true crime consumer, it is easy sometimes to get so wrapped up in an ongoing case that you can lose your way in a maze of possible suspects or avenues of investigation that often lead nowhere. Then, of course, there are the crackpot conspiracy theories that, if indulged, can draw your ass into a wilderness of mirrors from which you may never find your way back to the known facts and circumstances of the case. The longer the case goes on and the more information accumulates, it can be difficult to separate relevant facts from useless distractions, until your mind becomes like the house of a hoarder, hanging onto every little scrap in case you need it at some point.

One great thing about Aine Cain and Kevin Greenlee’s new book, Shadow of the Bridge: The Delphi Murders and the Dark Side of the American Heartland, is the way it removes the accumulated clutter of eight years, takes you back to a time before the nightmare started and tells the story based only on what is true, verifiable and relevant.

The authors do an exceptional job opening the book in the Delphi that existed before it became the focus of so much media and public attention. They offer a description of the Monon High Bridge and its place in the community before it became part of a crime scene and a symbol of terror and dread. Cain and Greenlee then turn their focus to Abigail, Liberty and their families, skillfully and respectfully portraying their lives as they existed before tragedy struck. It is a credit to the authors that the reader experiences a sense of what these families and communities lost when these two young girls were taken from them. As you’re drawn into the lives of Abigail and Liberty, it is impossible not to feel heartbroken for them, knowing the horror that awaits these two innocent children of Delphi.

All this is to say, for anyone who has followed this case closely, it is extremely useful, instructive and a little therapeutic to permit the authors to clean the slate or remove whatever true crime or conspiracy corkboard you may have mounted in your brain and let them lay out the relevant testimony and facts. Their presentation is clear, methodical and precise, focused squarely on people and events surrounding the crime, investigation and trial.

Everyone who cares about this case should read this book. Then if you’re inclined to return to your internet beefs, creator rivalries, left-field theories and true crime cat fights, you’re free to do so, and the rest of us will know that’s all you ever really cared about.

Morning of unrest at the doughnut shop

Serious grumblings nearly escalated into violence at the doughnut shop this morning over excruciating wait times to get served. Witnesses report customers began to grow hostile after a series of large doughnut orders frustrated and enraged patrons waiting in line.

Tempers flared as yet another customer ordered enough doughnuts to feed a biker rally.

“Okay, I’m going to need eight dozen. Give me two chocolate frosted, one with sprinkles. I’ll take a cinnamon glazed, two double chocolate, one apple spice, two long johns…”

“With or without cream filling?” the doughnut lady asked.

“One with, one without. Okay, where are we at?”

“Nine down, only 87 more to go.”

Patrons let out audible groans as they glanced at their watches, mindful of the time left before the start of work. The next customer in line stepped up to the counter.

“How many please?” the attendant asked.

“I’m going to need an even dozen dozen.”

A chorus of protestations and curses went up from the waiting throng.

“For the love of God, man. Are you trying to feed every police and fire station in the county?” someone shouted.

Trying to be helpful, a man at the back of the line calmly asked the doughnut lady if they might open an express lane for people ordering 12 doughnuts or less. The request fell of deaf ears.

“Please, sir. Please think of my children,” a mother implored the gentleman ordering 144 doughnuts. “Their energy level is quite diminished and they need a chocolate frosted with sprinkles before they go to school. Could you please find it in your heart to stand aside for a moment and let them be served?”

“Fat chance!” the man grumbled.

After several more gargantuan orders, it became apparent that the stacks of trays that once contained a seemingly limitless number of doughnuts, rolls, and fluffy pastry now appeared mostly sparse. Panic set in as the realization hit that the day’s supply of doughnuts was close to running out. A number of patrons raced for the door, desperate to get to the next doughnut shop. Others pushed to the front of the line shouting out their last orders.

“Please, I just need a twister!”

Then the doughnut lady, who had been toiling since 2:00 in the morning, thanked her customers and closed up shop having sold all her doughnuts before 9:00 a.m.

Dean Jobb continues to promote a false true crime narrative

In a recent interview with the Crime Writers of Canada podcast, Dean Jobb, author of A Gentleman and a Thief, doubles down on his contention that jazz-age jewel thief, Arthur Barry, crashed a Long Island cocktail party in 1924, befriended the Prince of Wales, and whisked his new royal pal off on a secret tour of Broadway speakeasies.

The claim strains credulity, but Jobb provides the following defense:

“I lead off with him (Arthur Barry) meeting the Prince of Wales, the future Edward the VIII, who was visiting Long Island in the twenties. Barry crashes a party, because there were a whole bunch of Long Island parties for the prince and his entourage, and ends up meeting the prince, takes him on a clandestine tour of the bright lights of Broadway and the speakeasies.

“I mean, a writer has to go, really? Did this really happen? Well, start digging into reporters. I find memoirs or memories of reporters who covered the story, who vouch for it, who did their homework. The coverage makes it clear that the prince disappeared right at the time Barry says he was doing this. So, it’s a matter of digging as deeply as you need to in the record to verify for your own peace of mind. But you owe it to the reader, and if you’re not sure, you tell the reader that.”

As I’ve shown in previous blog posts, all the contemporary newspaper accounts of the party Jobb describes have the Prince of Wales dancing at the Cosden estate until dawn and returning to the Burden estate that morning. None mention Wales slipping away from the party to experience the nightlife of Broadway.

Rather than belabor that point here, I’ll address the following contention: “The coverage makes it clear that the prince disappeared right at the time Barry says he was doing this.” The “coverage” Jobb refers to involves an episode that occurred the night following the Cosden party. The “small but jolly” Cosden gathering described in Jobb’s book began late in the evening of Wednesday, September 3, 1924 and continued through the early morning hours of Thursday, September 4. The period of time when Wales went missing began in the afternoon or early evening of Thursday, September 4 and continued until the next morning, Friday, September 5.

Here is the passage Jobb quotes from to show “that the prince disappeared right at the time Barry says he was doing this.” The article was penned Thursday night, September 4, one night later than the night of the Cosden party, and appeared in the following morning’s Buffalo Courier.

“The whereabouts of the Prince of Wales were shrouded in mystery tonight. At midnight he had not returned to the Burden estate where he is stopping.

“He had dinner at the home of J.S. Cosden…It was reported that he left the Cosden home shortly after dinner, but since that time he has been playing a game of hide and seek with those who sought to check his movements.

“Some believe he went for a boat ride up Long Island Sound, others say he attended an all-night dance party at some nearby home, but others believe he went in disguise to one of the white light jazz palaces on Broadway.”

Not only does this passage describe a different night from that of the late-night Cosden party, it describes a completely different set of events. Wales had dinner at the Cosden home and he left, possibly by boat, and either went to a party or to check out the white light jazz palaces of Broadway. He’s not fleeing a late night party, he’s leaving after having dinner. How does Jobb not recognize that these are not only separate dates but separate events as well?

While the order of events may seem a little confusing to someone unfamiliar with the Prince’s 1924 visit, it isn’t to someone who has casually researched the topic, and it shouldn’t be confusing to someone who has researched and written a work of nonfiction where an alleged encounter between Arthur Barry and the Prince of Wales plays a central role.

The prince’s movements over the 24 hours in question go something like this: Wales attends a late night party at the Cosden estate and dances until dawn. He then returns to the Burden estate and sleeps until around noon. Then he goes to the polo fields for the afternoon. Sometime in the late afternoon, he returns to the Cosden estate where he either plays golf or takes a stroll around the Cosden’s nine hole golf course. Then he eats dinner, hops in a motorboat, and disappears off into the Long Island Sound. From there his whereabouts are unknown for the next 12-24 hours.

These events are widely covered by the newspapers of the day. Here’s a question the New York Daily News posed regarding the prince’s missing hours:

“What the folk down Long Island way wanted to know was where the prince passed the time from 2 p.m. Thursday until his reappearance yesterday.”

Does that sound like Wales stole away from a late night party with a stranger he just met, or does it make more sense that he went missing the following afternoon? How does Jobb miss that unless he’s intentionally taken the route of ignoring the truth and printing the legend?

Bookstore (No Books)

Recently the fam and I spent the weekend back in my old college town. Despite the fact that my wife and kids love it when dad shows them his old haunts and regales them with stories of his college days, I found myself alone again while the family unit was off making candles.

With football season right around the corner, and me still rocking fashion from a previous millennium, it felt like I was due for an update to my university athletic apparel. Pretty much every retailer close to campus sells it, but I thought in order to get the real goods maybe I should visit the campus bookstore for the officially licensed merch. Despite having three floors of t-shirts, hats, hoodies, sweats, jerseys, golf apparel, banners and bedding, nothing really stood out as a must have, so I decided to stick with my crummy old outdated shirts and sweat stained ball caps and left the bookstore empty handed.

However, after walking for about ten minutes, reflecting on how much the bookstore had changed in the last thirty years, it dawned on me that the university bookstore didn’t contain any books. In the olden days, the lowest level was entirely devoted to stocking texts for the current semester, while the upper levels featured merch and apparel. Now, the whole place was a massive gift shop superstore, yet they still called it a bookstore.

So where the hell do students get their books these days if not the campus bookstore? Do they even use books? When was the last time I saw a kid with a book in his hands? After all, that would necessitate prying the smartphone from fingers palsied by a constant and unrelenting grip on a smart device. “From my cold dead hands,” is the response I got last time I attempted to extract a smartphone from a young person.

Clearly, they have no need for books. They probably just sit down in class and the professor says, “Okay, class, open the internet to page blah, blah, blah,” and they go from there. Of course these days even looking stuff up on the internet has become so much of an imposition that we now have several versions of artificial impersonators that will do the research for us, summarize findings, and even produce scholarly works.

I know, there he goes again, the old man yelling at technology. Fact is, they probably download class materials onto tablets and computers, and it undoubtedly costs them a small fortune, as it always has.

Anyway, I could get to the bottom of this Bookstore (No Books) situation simply by asking a powerful computer brain for help, but I’d rather just ask a student when I get a chance. As for the brainiacs down there at the University of Science Bookstore, you probably ought to think about changing the name to Gift Shop.