A sad end to one of the greatest pipe bands ever.

The Strathclyde Police Pipe Band is folding. This is quite a hit to the pipe band world, even more so than when the Victoria Police Pipe Band was deactivated a few years ago. The Strathclyde Police is essentially the state police for the area in Scotland that includes Glasgow, where the band is headquartered. I have always been a big fan of this band, and I actually visited their practice room at the main HQ in Glasgow back in 2003 when I was at the World Pipe Band Championships that year. I hoisted a few pints with them after their win that year at the Station Pub, which is right around the corner from the main HQ and where I used to stay at Caledonian University. I actually have a Charleston Police patch up on the wall there, where generations of Strathclyde Police pipers have celebrated their many World Championships.

The article about the demise of the band is in Pipes|Drums. Read it here.

Needless to say, this is the result of apathetic chief constables and the current economy probably doesn't help. Pipes|Drums had a few asinine quotes from the Strathclyde leadership, my favorite one was from Anne McGuire, the commander of the division that includes the band:

"Well, once you have learned your songs, why do you need to practice?"

I think a public flogging might be in order. Once this news sinks in in Glasgow, there might well be. If I had a nickel for every time I heard that question from a police commander in Charleston I would have retired years ago. It provides a peek into why pipe bands suffer and die at the hands of non-pipers. Lack of understanding.

It would be funny if it wasn't so prophetic.

A friend sent me a joke today. It goes like this:

How the stimulus plan will work:

Three contractors are bidding to fix a broken fence at the White House. One is from Chicago, another is from Tennessee, and the third is from Minnesota. All three go with a White House official to examine the fence. The Minnesota contractor takes out a tape measure and does some measuring, then works some figures with a pencil. "Well," he says, "I figure the job will run about $900: $400 for materials, $400 for my crew and $100 profit for me." 

The Tennessee contractor also does some measuring and figuring, then says, "I can do this job for $700: $300 for materials, $300 for my crew and $100 profit for me." 

The Chicago contractor doesn't measure or figure, but leans over to the White House official and whispers, "$2,700." The official, incredulous, says, "You didn't even measure like the other guys! How did you come up with such a high figure?" The Chicago contractor whispers back, "$1000 for me, $1000 for you, and we hire the guy from Tennessee to fix the fence."

"Done!" replies the government official.

And that, my friends, is how the new stimulus plan will work.

Some intellectual honesty from HuffPo!

I don't read HuffPo. The gratuitous beatdown of GWB over the past several years soured me on them, as well as the Kozzers and the rest. However, I am glad that Tigerhawk monitors HuffPo, because he uncovered a real gem of a letter to the editor here. (Blue language alert!)

The author is a self-admitted Marxist and no fan of the right. That being said, he has spent quite a bit of time in Anbar, and knows the political and social dynamic there. It just goes to show that you can be a raging leftist and still be objective about what is going on in Iraq right now. It also shows that even if you disagreed with our reasons for going there, no good purpose is served by trying to promote a defeatist attitude based simply on a dislike for those who support our presence in Iraq.

I'll give anyone some dap for journalistic objectivity no matter what their politics are. This guy gets it.

The Last Shift

My last shift was yesterday.

I started my career back in 1992 as a reserve officer with CPD, and went full time in 1993. I was assigned to Team Three, which covers the James Island and Johns Island areas. It was a sleepy patrol team back then, and convetional wisdom had it that it was not the best place to get one's feet wet as a cop. I was lucky in that I had a hard charging FTO (field training officer) who took me into the busier areas when time and staffing allowed. In the seventeen years since those days, I spent time in every patrol team in the department.

A few weeks ago, before I was given the offer by the State Department, I was transferred back to Team Three from what had been a seven year stint in our department's toughest district (Team One downtown). I suppose there is something about things coming full circle. I only spent about two weeks in Team Three before I dropped my resignation papers. I hardly had time to get to know the new squad I was commanding.

Having been used to very busy shifts for several years, it was somehow numbing to spend my last day on patrol with very few calls. I suppose that was a good thing. I really don't need to be subpoenaed back to Charleston while I am trying to do my training in DC. I still have a few cases that have not been disposed of yet, but there are other police witnesses in those cases which will likely allow them to go forward without me.

It was a lucky day for a most of the people I came into contact with in the official sense. All traffic stops ended with a warning ticket, all investigative detentions ended with a release. I looked for aggressive panhandlers out near Secessionville Road. I dispersed some of the local dope peddlers around Ferguson Village. I had lunch with one of my patrolmen who I have known for some time. I made my way around the main headquarters saying goodbyes. I signed off on a couple bank fraud and B&E auto reports. Ditto for a couple of traffic accident reports.

At the end of the day, around 1700, the evening shift checked in service. It was time to take the car to the barn for the last time. I decided to take in a couple places along the way, so I drove past where Ricky Love bled out years ago. I took in the cemetery on James Island where Brian McEvers is buried. I drove downtown past the corner where Dennis LaPage was murdered in cold blood. I then pointed the old car towards headquarters, passing the police memorial in Brittlebank Park where all of our line of duty deaths are remembered. I turned into the parking lot and found a spot close to the building. It was time to get on the radio for the last time, to record officially on the dispatch tape that I was no longer in service. Not just for today, but forever. I sat in the car for what must have been ten minutes, looking at the citizens and officers walking around, going about their business. I sat there with the mike in my hand. Perhaps somebody was out there listening, waiting to hear the Sarge check out of service for the last time, for good or ill. I should consider myself lucky. Some guys' last acts on this job have been to stop breathing, and a bugler marked their passing. I wish I could still hear them on the radio today.

I replaced the mike on its hook without saying anything, got out of the car, and walked away.

Caswell Airpark

The official blog of the Caswell County Historical Society recently put up a post about the airstrip on the family farm back home. It is an interesting read, and includes a picture of the underground hangar that my grandfather built there. 

He was always burrowing.

Stranded

Another gratuitous picture of the Tater:

Last week, Mrs. Warpiper took her eyes off the Tater for approximately 5 seconds. Tater managed to get stuck on the sink, giggling and laughing at her predicament. Laughing in the face of adversity isn't a trait I would have expected from a 16-month old, but I'll take it.

Alone

It is like an itch I can't scratch. 

Mrs. Warpiper and Tater went to Philly for the week to see old Bucknell friends. I have reverted to my younger days and have actually played the sax out on the town for two nights straight now. Maybe I am just trying to take my mind off the fact that I miss them. 

Speaking of playing the sax, I really have no idea how I played in various rock bands for so many years. After playing at a club with an old band member last night, I woke this morning (morning is a misnomer in this case) with a raging headache and what had to have been about twenty cotton balls in my mouth. Stinky cotton balls, at that. I don't know what happened to my stamina, but I used to do this about four nights a week, on average. Right now I think that if I did it one more night I would need supplemental oxygen or something. 

Today, after I managed to get over the worst of the day-after blahs, I managed to clean out a portion of my storage unit in preparation for the big move in a couple weeks. I was amazed at how easily I was able to sever the bond with so many old possessions. Then again, I think I cut the cord with about 50% of my stuff when I left for Iraq back in 2004. 

I hope that one day many years from now I don't find myself wishing I still had my old 7th grade report cards.

Gross Tater

Adorable kid, yes? That's a ruse. This child has a dark side. Among her other tricks, Tater has learned an especially adorable little one that she displayed for us today. Tater likes to stuff entirely too many graham crackers in her mouth. In the past, she would just chew and chew until she got them to go down. Today she learned that she can spit graham cracker mush into her hand and then feed it to the waiting and ever grateful dog. Mmmmmmgood!

Also, Mrs. Warpiper has informed me that it is customary to credit photographers when displaying their art. 

The above photo was taken by Mrs. Warpiper.