Four Slashed Tires And Much More

First and foremost, there will be no backing down...

This morning between 2 a.m. and 7 a.m., when my neighbor Peter Teachout noticed the damage, all four of the tires on my crappy white 1988 Chevy Celebrity got slashed.

Oddly enough, the very worst tire of the lot (front passenger side) still had air in it. I thought what the heck? Why did they leave me ONE TIRE? Furthermore, why was it the WORST tire of the bunch, the one I always had to air up? Did they figure the best way to really mess me over was to NOT slash that tire, since it was due to give out on its own practically any minute?

Rim Drivin' Country

My little brother jokes about "rim driving country." Once he threw an emergency patch on a car tire and drove us home after a blow-out on I-94. The tire on the car was actually bubbling out on the side and looked like a pretzel. And yet the tire somehow held air.

(Actually, that was the same crappy car I'm driving now, it was just has car at the time. Though technically registered in his wife's name. Though it was my mom's car before that, hence the name "Vernie Mobile," but it's still technically my sister-in-law's car, though I have unlimited use of it. We are a share-and-share alike kind of family, though so much of what we eagerly share is what other folks would throw away)

Anyway, when we were driving on that bad tire (which one of the children nicknamed "Bubbly) and we reached the top of the spectacular hill just about two miles from my brother's rural farm near Glenwood, Minnesota, my brother said if the tire blew he was just going to drive home on the rim.

He had plenty of rims, he said. It was more cost-effective to sacrifice the rim and just get the vehicle home. Besides, you can go quite a ways on a steel rim without much damage, if you're going slow enough. Don't try it with an aluminum rim, though.

After that, we began to refer to the top of the hill as "rim drivin' country." We began to use it as a known geographic location, as in, "I'm about a mile north of rim drivin' country."

One day my brother and I were on top of the hill and he said, "Look at that! Ain't it beautiful? RIM DRIVIN' COUNTRY AS FAR AS THE EYE CAN SEE!"

Things are simple and pure out in the country. A cop sees you driving on your rims, and he probably won't even bother you, as long as you're on the side of the road and out of the main traffic. Actually, if a cop pulls my brother over in Pope County, odds are it will be the guy he graduated from high school with.

The Johnny Northside Automotive Discount

I thought about having the car towed, but then I made my "rim drivin' country" calculations like a bona fide member of the Hoff Family and figured I could make it the mere three blocks to Highland Tires and Auto Service. The tires were too old and crappy to patch, anyway, so their best use at this point would be to protect the rims from damage, even if I had to shred them.

With one tire still holding air, the car kept "pulling right." It was kind of like driving a bobsled, with all that drift. I put on my hazard lights like a good citizen...as good as I could be under the circumstances, driving on three flat tires.

A black guy in his late 20s was sitting on the steps of the Apartment Complex of Anarchy, (3101 6th Street North, which apparently has no rental license) keeping me and my car under observation. I saw him doing it. Nobody had ever sat on the steps like that before. He kept his head down, but I could see him watching as I made my telephone calls.

It was unhappy-making time with 311. I just had to be a good, honest citizen and make clear the fact my sister-in-law was officially the owner of the car. There was really no point explaining our communal family law of Share The Wealth Even If The Only Wealth Happens To Be Crap. So I ended up having to call my brother to find out my sister-in-law's birthday.

Huh. Her birthday is right around the corner. I really should get her a present. She's had six children and I've known her since the mid-1990s. I really should buy her a birthday present one of these days.

I was, however, rather peeved at one point. I'm all, like, "I'm standing in my own yard looking at three slashed tires, and you're telling me that because I don't know MY SISTER-IN-LAW'S BIRTHDAY that you can't take a report?"

Technically, it was four slashed tires. That detail came out when the mechanical was doing his criminal science investigation...which, really, was the only on-the-scene law enforcement I was going to get. Four slashed tires. Though the fourth one was only POKED HARD and had a slow leak. It was time to replace that one, anyway, so he did.

Last Sunday at Mall of America in Bloomington I saw a cop go into Subway Sandwiches with a customer who was upset over some dispute about the "five dollar foot long" and angry the clerk wouldn't give his name. But can I get a cop on the North Side for my slashed tires, obviously direct retaliation for calling 911 on drug and prostitution activity? None of this will make it into MP 08-080525. I'm sure the city regards it as random vandalism. It won't even make the crime stats.

OK, enough with the moral outrage. As fate would have it, these criminals actually did me something of a favor. As I drove by 3101 6th Street, at least six of them came out on the porch to watch me go by.

Drive 'Em Until They Explode

I might sometimes be too cheap for my own good. I tend to get tires replaced when I'm in the shop getting something else fixed, and the mechanic gives me a stern verbal warning about how much tread I've got left. OK, I'll admit it...I've had a tire explode before. Though that was for lack of a realignment. Hey, it just doesn't make sense to pay more for a realignment than you paid for the whole vehicle.

Buy 'em cheap, drive 'em to death, then sell 'em for scrap metal. That's how we roll in the Hoff family. Check out my OTHER blog, www.towingutopia.

I'm not like Patrick Swayze in Roadhouse. There is no luxury automobile hidden away somewhere while fury is vented on the crappy automobile by upset criminal types.

I think I got some kind of "Johnny Northside Discount." Four tires for $130. And the owner of the shop gave me a taste of his lunch.

"What kind of meat is this?" I asked.

"Cow," he answered. Not beef. Cow.

I think this must have been an allusion to that joke of a few days before about making lunch out of the pit bull puppy. Little does he know how disappointed I am to find out what I'm being served is some kind of mundane meat. I've already made arrangements with "the camera crew" to feast on pig testes on camera, as they continue their documentary-or-whatever.

Anyway, this was a fantastic deal on tires. Good heavens, I should have replaced that bubblegum I was driving on ages ago. Better my tires than somebody in the neighborhood with NICE tires, which would be...well, all the other cars, just about.

Back On Patrol

I can't believe how quickly they got all those tires fixed. They were like a PIT CREW! I told them, "I need to get back out there as soon as possible to show I won't back down." I didn't expect them to actually hurry their butts off. They did, though.

I asked the younger mechanic (not the one who was in the army during the Vietnam War) if there were crime problems with their cars in the parking lot. He said there used to be, but not since the apartment complex across the street closed.

He pointed, and a large apartment complex materialized before my eyes. I'd never noticed it before. It was vacant. I swear, my immediate neighborhood is like that movie "I Am Legend," sometimes.

It's an empty world, except for dangerous beings who come out in the dark.

Peter Teachout came by while my tires were getting fixed. I think he anticipated where I would be. There's your social capital, right there. My neighbor knows me well enough to predict where to find me. He was able to report seeing the tires deflated at 7 a.m.

So that nailed the time down to between 3 a.m. and 7 a.m., not closer to 11 a.m. when I actually came by and found this. Peter told me to be careful.

"We don't want to lose you!" he said. We talked a bit about the impending sale of my house to assist in the vision for ecological block development. I assured him there were (to the best of my knowledge) no boarding or vacancy fees slapped on that thing since March 31, and apparently we had until October before that was an issue. He told me about some other things, too, stuff I have to keep under my hat but sooner or later it will all hit the blog.

I told Peter I was going back out on patrol immediately, so I would be seen doing it, and there would be no gloating, no victory dance, no indication I would stop incessantly dialing 911 on blatant whoring and drug-dealing.

In the meantime, 5 or 6 guys in almost knee-length t-shirts had taken over the yard of 3010 6th Street N., within feet of my driveway, like they were staking it out as their turf. I saw them hail a passing car to try to make a drug deal, it appeared. I went around to 4th Street and called it in to 911. I also called the owner of that property, Phil Kleindl, about the fact they were using the yard of his house as their new base of operations.

Kleindl promised to send "Joe" over there to deal with it. I informed Kleindl about the four slashed tires.

I don't know who "Joe" is. Kleindl has more workmen, relatives and apparent co-owners of properties than I can keep track of. I should sit down some time and figure out what percentage of the block he actually owns.

A Crack House Wide Open Where Little Children Live

I checked the house near 4th and Lowry. Still wide open to trespass. I checked the house on Aldrich Avenue, the "House That (Almost) Made Me Hurl." You guessed it. I really should come up with a snappy expression I can type faster than "still wide open to trespass."

How about Crack House Open For Business?

This one was more galling than the one on Lowry, because of the little children living across the street. I called 311. I asked what was up. I was told the owners of the property had received a letter (dramatic music!) and had until May 11 to remove combustibles and secure the place or pay a $200 fine. If that didn't work, well, another fine would be forthcoming.

"A $200 fine?!" I asked. I admit, I was stressed over the recent tire-slashing. "What about the little children living across the street from a CRACK HOUSE?!"

Nothing the operator could do about that. Sorry. Did I want to talk to the housing inspectors? She gave me the name of the guy I could call. I know him. He's already on my speed dial.

I said, "Give me permission to secure this building and I will do it RIGHT NOW."

No can do.

I meekly called the housing inspector. I left him a message. I was sorry to bother him about it, I said, but...LITTLE CHILDREN LIVE ACROSS THE STREET.

Pictures are coming of this house. It is still serving as an example of why our public officials need to embrace the legal doctrine of necessity and give North Minneapolis citizens the permission to do what must be done to secure their neighborhoods from roving packs of crack heads.

Kicked-In Door And A Hot Electric Saw

I proceeded to a house near Farview Park (one of a number of lovely North Side parks) which I had seen Connie Nempolis showing to the ubiquitous camera crew a few days before. Poor Connie thinks it was some kind of conspiracy I ran into her while she was with the camera crew, but I really was just driving by.

Hey, I'm often driving by. Well, except when all my tires get slashed.

The door was open, and swinging in the breeze. A guy was sitting on the steps of a house nearby, smoking. Two little children were on the steps. I could see one was wearing an overloaded diaper and needed to be changed. A young woman stood nearby, wearing a tank top. Stunning. Her eyes were amazing. She looked like a jewel in a pile of refuse. I had to tear my eyes off her to deal with the unsecured door.

I first called Connie Nempolis, since I figured she was in touch with the seller. I told her about the situation with the door. She didn't tell me to call 311 but I told her, you know what? I'm gonna. I asked if she could give me permission to go inside. For one thing, I told her, I was seriously interested in buying this one if the other property I was looking at purchasing--closer to the block--fell through. Let me look, I begged.

Connie couldn't give me permission to enter the house. Knowing it would tie up police resources to call about the unsecured door, and having first gotten word to the seller about the unsecured door through my own uncompensated efforts, I entered the house with my hammer under the legal doctrine of necessity. I checked for trespassers. I found none.

Upon further close inspection, I discovered the door--although kicked in--was capable of being locked if I just turned the lock button and pulled the deformed door REALLY HARD. I managed to get it secured. I updated Connie.

Before I left, the stunning female in the tank top ran up and tried to sell me a DeWalt electric saw for $40, cash money on the street.

"I have the charger, too," she said. She fired up the power saw to show me how well it worked.

I apologized and said I didn't have any cash.

"Otherwise," I said, "It's a great deal, and for sure I'd try to get it from you by seeing if I could talk you down to $30."

When I got in my car and drove about a block, I kicked myself.

I should have said something like, "Hey, that little one needs her diaper changed."