Chicago Employee Pension Literature Proves ManPower Shortage, not "Systemic Racism, or Code of Silence" Behind ChiRaq's Crime Rates

 

Police Blogger, The Second City Cop (SCC), fought fake news from the Chicago media for decades; in fact, Sneed, Frank Main and Fran Spielman often pluck SSC's low-handing fruits of fact to shore up their propaganda efforts on behalf of the 5th Floor.


Along with left-leaning, but always fair-minded and honest Beachwood Reporter, Second City Cop opens my eyes to a new day, long before they labor over the ink spilled by any Chicago daily.

Today, using a brochure for City of Chicago Pensioners, SCC clearly addresses the decades long manpower shortage that burdens hard working Chicago peace officers. Pointing to a graph featuring annual employee contributions, SCC illustrates the lie told by Chicago media at the behest of Mayors Daley and Emanuel.

That is the manpower paying into the pension for the CPD, from 2006 thru 2015. And it shows, beyond any doubt, that manpower dwindled from 13,749 to 12,061 - a reduction of 1,688 officers. If you don't think that has a lot to do with the current rising crime trends, well, we can't help you. The Second City Cop

I get my news from many sources.  SCC is one of the most reliable.

Trampas or the Virginian: Trump and The Spooks and the Supine Media

 

Sworn Donald Trump enemy John McCain admitted Wednesday that he passed the dossier of claims of a Russian blackmail plot against the president-elect.
The Arizona senator issued a public statement amid mounting questions of his exact role in the affair - and how a document riddled with errors and unverifiable claims came to be published.
'Late last year, I received sensitive information that has since been made public,' he said.
'Upon examination of the contents, and unable to make a judgment about their accuracy, I delivered the information to the Director of the FBI.
'That has been the extent of my contact with the FBI or any other government agency regarding this issue.' The Daily Mail

“the document was prepared for political opponents of Trump by a person who is understood to be a former British intelligence agent.” Ben Smith Buzzfeed

Super. Pretty wet out there with all the leaks, Golden Showers, Sobbing spooks and CNN unabe to fathom the fact that the Electoral College worked the way it was supposed to work.

So yesterday the media and the clubby spooks got a nose bleed.

I immediately thought of Owen Wister's great novel - The Virginian.  This is a novel more about the constructive and community forming application of words, than it is about the single show-down and gun play.

The character known as the Virginian is opposed to the glib, cowardly and shameless Trampas.  The Virginian will allow a friend, a person with whom he has shared danger, laughs and a few drinks, to call him an S.O.B. any minute of the day.  He will not tolerate, however, any malicious tag to sit in his aura for a second.

Five or six players sat over in the corner at a round table where counters were piled. Their eyes were close upon their cards, and one seemed to be dealing a card at a time to each, with pauses and betting between. Steve was there and the Virginian; the others were new faces.

“No place for amatures,” repeated the voice; and now I saw that it was the dealer’s. There was in his countenance the same ugliness that his words conveyed.
“Who’s that talkin’?” said one of the men near me, in a low voice.
“Trampas.”
“What’s he?”
“Cow-puncher, bronco-buster, tin-horn, most anything.”
“Who’s he talkin’ at?”
“Think it’s the black-headed guy he’s talking at.”
“That ain’t supposed to be safe, is it?”
“Guess we’re all goin’ to find out in a few minutes.”
“Been trouble between ‘em?”
“They’ve not met before. Trampas don’t enjoy losin’ to a stranger.”
“Fello’s from Arizona, yu’ say?”
“No. Virginia. He’s recently back from havin’ a look at Arizona. Went down there last year for a change. Works for the Sunk Creek outfit.” And then the dealer lowered his voice still further and said something in the other man’s ear, causing him to grin. After which both of them looked at me.
There had been silence over in the corner; but now the man Trampas spoke again.
“AND ten,” said he, sliding out some chips from before him. Very strange it was to hear him, how he contrived to make those words a personal taunt. The Virginian was looking at his cards. He might have been deaf.
“AND twenty,” said the next player, easily.
The next threw his cards down.
It was now the Virginian’s turn to bet, or leave the game, and he did not speak at once.
Therefore Trampas spoke. “Your bet, you son-of-a—.”
The Virginian’s pistol came out, and his hand lay on the table, holding it unaimed. And with a voice as gentle as ever, the voice that sounded almost like a caress, but drawling a very little more than usual, so that there was almost a space between each word, he issued his orders to the man Trampas: “When you call me that, SMILE.” And he looked at Trampas across the table.
Yes, the voice was gentle. But in my ears it seemed as if somewhere the bell of death was ringing; and silence, like a stroke, fell on the large room. All men present, as if by some magnetic current, had become aware of this crisis. In my ignorance, and the total stoppage of my thoughts, I stood stock-still, and noticed various people crouching, or shifting their positions.
“Sit quiet,” said the dealer, scornfully to the man near me. “Can’t you see he don’t want to push trouble? He has handed Trampas the choice to back down or draw his steel.”
Then, with equal suddenness and ease, the room came out of its strangeness. Voices and cards, the click of chips, the puff of tobacco, glasses lifted to drink,—this level of smooth relaxation hinted no more plainly of what lay beneath than does the surface tell the depth of the sea.
For Trampas had made his choice. And that choice was not to “draw his steel.” If it was knowledge that he sought, he had found it, and no mistake! We heard no further reference to what he had been pleased to style “amatures.” In no company would the black-headed man who had visited Arizona be rated a novice at the cool art of self-preservation.
One doubt remained: what kind of a man was Trampas? A public back-down is an unfinished thing,—for some natures at least. I looked at his face, and thought it sullen, but tricky rather than courageous.
Something had been added to my knowledge also. Once again I had heard applied to the Virginian that epithet which Steve so freely used. The same words, identical to the letter. But this time they had produced a pistol. “When you call me that, SMILE!” So I perceived a new example of the old truth, that the letter means nothing until the spirit gives it life. The Virginian Owen Wister (emphases my own)

The Media makes me want to shower.  The spooks ?  Who knows from spooks?

Bruce Dold Tribune Fake News Pillories Woman for A Month - Here Is How to Handle Offensive People

When Black Friday comes

I'm gonna dig myself a hole

Gonna lay down in it 'til

    I satisfy my soul -   SteelyDan

 . . . decades before Shakespeare wrote Macbeth in the early 1600s“dudgeon” was being used to mean a feeling of anger or resentment. OED

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Woman berates Michaels workers in Chicago in rant caught on video

BREAKING NEWS Novemeber 29, 2016
Woman berates Michaels workers in Chicago in rant caught on video
Jessie Grady walked into a Michaels store last week in Chicago to buy a Santa hat for her young daughter. She ended up witnessing — and filming — another customer's "unprovoked attack" in which the woman unloaded on black Michaels employees, claiming she was being discriminated against and declaring...

Bruce Dold's Chicago Tribune December 9, 2016

One woman is menacing Chicago.  She is not an Alpha Female, ripped, tattooed androgynous Marvel Comics paragon with bad wiring.  She is small and seems rather timid, until our $15 an hour barristas, or checkout person makes the mistake of punching that invisible button which causes unfiltered, mean-spirited words and tones to gush from her modest frame.

Citizen Journalists have made life hell for a person who has caused only a checkout person to be showered with GoFundMe largesse.  The woman, whom I will not name, because other citizen journalists with hyper- elevated levels of High Dudgeon* and room temperature I.Q.s have cyber-bullied the young woman enough. There are much worse and more dangerous people out there, racist or not. Many are repeat offenders. High Dudgeon works for NPR types and other comfortable afflictors and they never get enough.

Enough is not a feast!  Bruce Dold gorges away High Dudgeon and he is  editor of a great daily metropolitan newspaper.

The Chicago Tribune's website has taken down stories of rapists, killers, gunmen, grifters and frauds with exacting efficiency in the name of journalism, once the news has passed a few days.  Like the Laquan McDonald shooting at the time it happened, or when Rev. Jesse Jackson threatened to cut the nuts off of President Obama.

Not so the Michael's Menace Maid. 

DNAinfo, The Daily Mail, IGBTNation, Root, Heavy, Facebook and The Chicago Tribune of Bruce Dold  introduced the Menace on November 29th as a Trump Supporter.

A few weeks before an admitted Trump Supporter was beaten and car-jacked on the West Side,  High Dudgeon began to boil in need of a proper response to the heartbreak of Trump and all that it means to Bruce Dold and others.

Black Friday arrived and allowed pent of High Dudgeon to flow like river!

It is weeks since the poor woman went viral on the cashier, but the Chicago Tribune of Bruce Dold maintains the pillory so it stays fresh in the vapid minds of people who need a good jolt of artificial outrage and High Dundgeon.

In the normal world, populated by people of all races, creeds and colors who are far too busy taking care of life, a person's public bad manners gets confronted in a manner that sets things right.

Years ago, 1993 I believe, my wife and I drove up from Kankakee to have dinner at the original Maple Tree Inn owned and managed by the late Charlie Orr.  Maple Tree Inn was one of the very first Cajun restaurants in Chicago and home to the great jazz stylings of the King Fleming Trio.

Charlie hired great wait staff.  He hired a young Irish immigrant girl and on her first day, serviced a table full of Chicago Reader foodies.  The Reader has always been a hipster, in-crowd source for all knowledge.  This table of Yuppies, as the era-tagged them, were loud and needy.  The Irish girl served them with speed and cheerful efficiency.  Mary and I were seated a few feet from their table. One smarmy creep ate like he was going to the chair, talking at the top of his voice and his maw full of catfish, and beefed about how 'inauthentic' his blackened catfish tasted.  He began to abuse the waitress, to the delight of all an sundry in this happy circle of jerks.

The girl asked if she could get him something else.  "What? and wait another twenty minutes?  Are all of you this stupid?  Who is cooking in there? He is no Cajun."

The girl burst into tears.

The table laughed, like the Chicago Tribune editorial board must have, when Ald. O'Reilly demanded that Bully Trump signs get taken down.

Charlie Orr burst onto the scene.  He had been meeting with King Fleming in the Cavern-like basement bar and Kevin the Chef from Louisiana had sent word of the table of shit-heels.

" Charlie had a great Walrus like mustache and smiled like the Beatific Vision itself.  He greeted Mary and me warmly and asked us to stick around for the jazz and a few Steinlagers. He excused himself and warmed the offending table with his Ward Bond of a grin.

" Hello, I am the owner.  Did you like the food?"

Silence.

" My chef served on an Oil Rig as cook and worked under Paul Prudhomme for six years.  I buy fish at Fulton market every morning.  This little girl started this evening and you made her cry.  Now, ( very pregnant pause) Leave what is on your plates and GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY PLACE!"

The Maple Tree Inn was packed and roared with applause and shouts of 'Here! Here!'

The pack of shit heels skulked out.

Today, people record, lawyer up and team up with the News Media - detested by normal people everywhere.

Citizen journalists are becoming as big a set of creeps as Real Journalists, Editors and other merchants of High Dudgeon.

If you are really offended say something and be willing to take a punch in the chops.  Chances are you will not need to accept a blow, because abusive people are generally cowards, or damaged people. You can say something on the spot - Or you can use your phone camera , record and skulk away like a shit-heel.