The Rundown

By Allen David

Posted February 28, 2013 in News


Our latest communal WhatTheFuck is over, and in the aftermath of the Christopher Dorner Experience we become individuals again, sorting through and straightening out the mess that’s been made of our heads, each of us asking “What the fuck?” in our own way. And then, each in our own way, moving on … because … well … those tax returns aren’t going to do themselves.


Just when you thought it was safe to go back into your life, photos of Christopher Dorner’s charred remains are being shopped around. Celebrity news outlet TMZ says someone is attempting to sell them the photos. TMZ says it’s not buying them. Meanwhile, how the hell would somebody get photos like this? Not from us, says the San Bernardino County Sherriff’s Department, although the wordings of the denials are curious. “We do not believe those are Sheriff’s Department photos,” says spokeswoman Jodi Miller.  Sheriff’s Capt. Kevin Lacy, who oversees operations at the San Bernardino County Coroner’s Office, says “… I can tell you those photos were not taken by coroner personnel.” In other words, these were not taken in an official capacity or with sheriff’s department equipment. But remember Dorner’s manifesto? Remember the part about cops taking gruesome photos of dead victims on their cell phones and later comparing them to see who had the worst? Just sayin’.


Somebody passing through a San Jacinto neighborhood near Evans Street and Katrina Lane hears gunfire, and deduces that it’s the sound of a man shooting his wife with an Uzi.  As one might expect, the passerby is more than slightly freaked about this, and on his behalf I have to assert that if there isn’t some proverb about what bad luck it is for somebody to hear a man shooting his wife with an Uzi as he passes through a neighborhood … well … then … there ought to be some kind of proverb about that lack. Meanwhile, old passin’-through dude hears voices—or thinks he does—and figures the guy with the Uzi has taken hostages. So he punches 9-1-1—although for future reference, I believe the proper code is 5-1-5-0—and pretty soon neighbors see police cars, a Riverside County sheriff’s helicopter, fire engines and an ambulance converging on the area. The mini-army surrounds the house and orders the inhabitants to come out. Nothing. And it goes that way for a while, until an older dude comes out, sees the gathering assault and explains that his sons are inside playing a video game with realistic sound, at which point everybody leaves—although, personally, that’s the point at which I would order an all-out attack.


We don’t find closure—closure finds us … and it’s a persistent little bastard. This time it has tracked me down at a birthday party I’m attending at a loft in downtown Los Angeles, where it bumps me into the Christopher Dorner Thing. Actually, it’s Arrissia Owen, a long-ago colleague but always-there-for-me, pick-up-where-we-left-off friend, whose gift this time is being my closest personal contact to the Christopher Dorner Strange-And-Sadness. Arrissia moved to Big Bear longer ago than I can figure out and she and her man and kids ended up—for the purposes of this story, anyway—living at the edge of civilization, in a peaceful, unbelievably serene alpine neighborhood that backs up to Forest Service Road 2N10—in the closest home to where Dorner’s burned-out truck was found. What happened? Arrissia tells all about it in a blog entry in OC Weekly. But among other things, she snapped a picture of a S.W.A.T. guy and his automatic weapon through her front window. And then there’s this:

“We hunkered down and watched the news nonstop, trying to get some sort of clue as to what the heck to do. It became clear I was not going home soon. I canceled my phone interview with the Irish punk band, Flogging Molly—the old ‘manhunt in the mountains’ excuse.”


Girlfriend and I just last week finished seeing all the Best Picture nominees so as to be celluloidly literate for the Academy Awards broadcast, only to be ambushed by a late invitation to my aunt and uncle’s 60th wedding anniversary. After I made a lot of noise about not going, she said we were, and we are. It figures we’re not the only ones worried about missing the Academy Awards, that somebody at a party this big—like, at least 100 people—will have turned on the TV by the time we arrive. See, but here’s the thing: nothing figures, anymore. Not a damn thing.


Reactions from in front of the DVR: Seth McFarland’s “We Saw Your Boobs.” Funny… Ben Affleck is Keanu Reeves with a better beard… Can’t believe I haven’t yet seen a bakery called “Life of Pie” … Best acting I saw last year was by Joaquin Phoenix in The Master.


Note to self: Cancel the skydiving lesson.


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