Rookie time, the first five years.

A rookie cop is easy to spot: Everything is shiny and new. His clothes are pressed and neat (and everything still fits). He’s fresh-faced and eager to please: “The sarge wants five tags [summonses] today? Well, by God, I will give him six—I’ll probably make detective this way!” A rookie takes the late jobs, skips meals, and never stays out sick.

For a rookie, everything is new. They are really feeling, for the first time, what it is like to be a cop: The stares when they enter a location and the overt hostility of many people they’ve sworn to protect. Even their own friends sometimes regard them with suspicion, which they couch as lame jokes: “If I (insert semi-illegal behavior here), are you gonna lock me up?”

If, like many cops, a rookie grew up in a middle-class area and gets assigned to a less-than-middle-class area, he’ll experience a side of life that was heretofore hidden from him. Shootings, stabbings, dead bodies, and drunken family disputes… apartments so filthy and vermin-infested, it’ll make you dry heave… crackheads, junkies, whores, the mentally ill, drug dealers, and hustlers of every stripe. Welcome to the NYPD, rookie.

Rookies learn to do things like buy their pants a little bigger and their shirts a little looser so their gun fits in the waistband without too much of a bump. They also learn about the tedious parts of the job, like standing on a foot post at 1 AM on a cold winter’s night, when the only sound you can hear is the click of the traffic lights changing. Rookies go to large details, like New Year’s Eve or parades, and spend 80 percent of their time standing around and the rest getting yelled at by a succession of passing supervisors who feel the need to look useful.

New cops always get the same clichéd mottos thrown at them by older cops: “Hey kid, a good cop is never cold or hungry.” “Hey kid, always have an answer, good or bad.” “Hey kid, we don’t give up other cops.”

Rookies also learn how to speak to people: When to bully, when to cajole, and when it’s time to fight. And rookies definitely get into fights—they are often shocked to discover that lots of folks have no fucking problem with hitting a cop.

Rookies also get to see the rest of the criminal justice system: Judges and assistant district attorneys who are under the assumption that getting punched, kicked, and spit at are just parts of a cop’s job, and top brass who don’t support street cops when they come under fire from the public.

Rookies basically spend 90 percent of their time on the job taking in massive doses of heavy, heavy shit. Not to be a total bummer but the bitterness and the burnout starts here…

Meeting the Public

Several years ago, when I was still a rookie, my partner and I were cruising down the street in a marked car on patrol. All of a sudden, there he was: A guy on the sidewalk, four in the afternoon, pants around his ankles, taking a dump! The turtle was out of the shell, if you know what I mean. He had his back to us, so I told my partner to pull up right behind him. I figured we’d hit the lights and sirens and literally scare the shit out of this guy! So I flick all the switches and… NOTHING. He doesn’t react at all! Now we needed to get out of the car and approach this lunatic. I didn’t want to have to touch him, because he was still in the middle of his business, without a care in the world. Finally, he stops and we walk up. I’m thinking to myself, “What is this genius—deaf?” Well, guess what?

So he is deaf and now I can finally see that he’s also not all there. Gesturing, I tell him to move along. He looks at me and barks out probably the only phrase he could speak: “Fuck you, police!”

Of course, in that deaf accent it comes out, “Fuun yuu, podice!” I look at my partner, he looks at me, and we’re both just blown away. Believe it or not, shitting crazy deaf guys never came up at the academy. The guy walked off and we never saw him again. But even now when I run into my old partner, I greet him with “Fuun yuu, podice!”

Eddie Butler

Strapping on Your Balls

I remember the first DOA I had to deal with. I was a brand-new rookie. The call that every cop comes to know came over the radio—“10-10 foul odor,” and an address.

I showed up a few minutes later, and although the door and windows of the apartment had been opened, I was struck with my first whiff of what I now call the “DOA smell.” It is a putrid sickly sweet reek that pervades every ounce of your being. Somehow it actually stays inside your nostrils for hours afterwards. You’ll be outside, taking a deep breath, and the smell will come flooding back.

This particular gentleman was an elderly black male who died in a circumstance I would come to find out was quite common: Alone and naked. He had been dead for a week or so, and time had taken its toll. A dead body releases lots of gas as it decays. If there’s no open wound, it can blow up like a balloon. This gentleman’s face was swollen to three times its normal size, as were his extremities. What really struck me though, was that his testicles had swollen to—and I am not exaggerating—the size of bowling balls.

The cop I was relieving, who had a few more years on than I did, just laughed at me when I turned my head away. “Come on, kid, show me you have a pair and get in there,” he said. In the NYPD your reputation is made early and follows you forever, and I didn’t want to be the pussy that got scared of a dead guy, so I sucked it up. Little did I know that in a few years I would stand over a dead man in a freezing park, carrying on a conversation with my partner and the sergeant as I twisted rings off the corpse’s hand with my coffee steaming about eight inches from his head.

That first time, in the apartment though, I did what I had to do. I finished the required paperwork and never heard any jokes about my reaction.

James Fitzpatrick

Gross Out!

My first time on a really brutal crime scene was just a few months out of the academy. There had been an elderly woman who lived on the top floor of an apartment building. A younger woman who lived in the apartment downstairs apparently went crazy, climbed up the fire escape, and beat this old lady to death with a cane. It looked just like a movie crime scene. When I walked in, there were handprints on the door from her trying to get out. She had an older apartment. You know how the floors in older places in the city start to slope? Her place sloped towards the front, and she had bled out so much that there was this enormous puddle of blood at the front door.

There was a senior officer there. It was his scene. I was left to help guard it. If you get a DOA that lives alone, you have to find the apartment key, voucher it, and keep the place locked. Well, the only key that she had must have been in the door that she was reaching for. She had pulled it out, and it fell to the floor. It was in this inch-and-a-half deep puddle of blood. This old cop just looked at me and went, ‘All right, rookie, get me that key.’

Now that I’ve had a lot more experience with it, I know that, for the most part, homicide scenes are shootings. There’s a body laying there, a little bit of blood, and that’s the end of it. But this first one I saw was so elaborate.

My second one involved a gay couple. Apparently the guy who got killed had just started dating this new man, and hadn’t let him know his medical history. The new boyfriend, after they had been intimate already, was at the guy’s apartment. He opened up the fridge to get a drink and found all his medication. He was not happy about this.

The victim had been sitting in a chair and got smashed over the head with a vase. The killer then went behind him and sliced his neck from ear to ear with a knife—really opened him up. There was blood speckled all over the wall and the kitchen floor was just caked with it. Crimes of passion are definitely the most brutal ones.

The grossest stuff I ever saw was during those rookie years. The worst was when this older guy passed away in a flophouse and wasn’t found for a while. He had kind of rolled off his bed and landed on the heater. He was lying there cooking. His face was all bloated and black.

He lived in this little 12-by-12 room with his dog. Of course, the dog had been eating the guy—but it still didn’t bother me at that point. I was dealing with it fine.

The dog was just happy to be with people again. We took him in the police car back to the station house. He was running loose around the house, tail wagging all over the place. Our lieutenant goes to pet him, and the dog just shits all over the floor. It was this liquid shit, the foulest smelling shit ever. I mean, you can’t even imagine. So I walk over to it and I think about where we got this dog, and I’m like, “That’s his owner, all decomposed and digested.” I was like, “I got to get the fuck out of here.” It was like witnessing the cycle of life, seeing this guy getting shit out by his own dog.

Mike Pawleweicz

The typical NYPD career takes a well-trod course. You go to school, you get assigned to a random post somewhere in the five boroughs (unless you have friends higher up, in which case you get assigned wherever the hell you want), you do a few years there, then you make detective or take a civil service test and become a sergeant. You do that for a few years, then maybe take another civil service test and make lieutenant. (Some guys choose to not become a detective or a sarge, and they stay a “cop” for the full 22 years of the career.)
Soon after that, you can retire as early as 43 years old and spend the rest of your life on a boat in Florida, or working for a private security firm if you get bored. That’s about it.

Oh, wait—there’s also the endless litany of traumas, frustrations, fights, arrests, dead bodies, vomiting junkies, piles of paperwork, Kafkaesque bureaucratic snags, and tons of laughing your ass off.

Over the next five days, real live NYPD cops are going to walk you through the stages of a New York cop’s life from start to finish. Please pay attention and be nice. They’re just as scared of you as you are of them. (OK, not really. They aren’t scared of you at all.)

Police Academy: Learning to be a cop.

Police academy is sort of like high school, EXCEPT there’s more guns.

NYPD recruits put up with petty indignities, like 50 lockers and ten showers for 100 people in the gym. You run around from class to class, get yelled at by instructors, cram for tests on stuff that you forget the minute you take them, and play pranks on other students. It doesn’t sound like it, but it’s pretty fun.

Academy lasts six to months, and then it’s Gun and Shield Day. They herd the graduating class to the basement, where a bored guy fishes a shield out of a shoe box, hands it to each new cop without looking up, and then calls the next name. After that it’s over to the academy range to receive and load your first NYPD gun. They could do with a little more pomp and circumstance, but whatever—everyone walks off that line thinking to himself, “Holy shit, I’m a cop!”

There are a few weeks of school left after that. The guys with “hooks” already know what precinct they’re going to, and everyone else sits and wonders. The NYPD is divided into eight patrol boroughs. Manhattan, Queens, and Brooklyn are divided into north and south, while the Bronx and Staten Island count as one each. Every patrol borough has its own quirks, and where you go first decides what kind of cop you’ll be.

Police Academy Was a Fucking Blast!

The academy was great. From day one, I was laughing my ass off.

Before I went in, I didn’t really know any cops so I had no idea what to expect. I was 25, so I was a little bit older. I’d been living in my car at one point, because I’d been married once before and got divorced. Times were tough. So I think I appreciated having a job and benefits and everything more than some others.

The general atmosphere was paramilitary. In the hallways, you do what everyone calls “playing the game.” You act super professional. When you get into a classroom and the doors are shut, things get a little more relaxed.

I went through there with a great group of cadets—a real cast of characters, from the most militant Marines to guys that didn’t really give a shit about anything. There was one kid who I never saw again after the academy. His father and grandfather were both cops, but he was kind of a sad sack. He ended up taking the brunt of a lot of jokes.

One time we were at the range doing this excercise where you have your gun at your side, draw fast, and use only one hand. It’s so if you get shot in the arm and can only use one hand, you know how. You get your elbow back, right up against your side. So this kid shoots his weapon and all of a sudden we hear him screaming, “Aaahhh!” We look over and this guy has shot a hole right through his tie. He looked down, saw a hole in it, and thought he’d shot himself. He fucking freaked out. We were all pissing ourselves. How the hell do you manage to blow a hole through your own tie at an indoor range with no wind? And if you do blow a hole through your tie, how the hell do you jump to the conclusion that you’ve shot yourself? Hilarious.

So this poor kid comes up to me one day at the academy and goes, “Hey, I gotta talk to you. You ever had a hemorrhoid?” And I actually had before, so I was like, “Yeah, and if you don’t take care of them properly it isn’t any fun.” I told him to do himself a favor, go to the store, and get some Preparation H. I also told him to be careful, because if it’s really bad, the Prep H will soften everything up and then it will pop and BOOM—hemorrhoid blood everywhere.

So a few days later, we go into gym and he’s taking his pants off to change, and he starts screaming again, just like at the range with the tie. I come running over like, “What’s the matter?” I look down and his underwear is just completely covered in blood. I started dying laughing. I had to take a step back and just consider the entire scene. I’m standing in this disgusting old locker room with mold everywhere. There’s guys walking around all over, there’s cocks everywhere. And I’m standing here, laughing at this guy with bloody underwear. I tell him to relax and that it’ll heal up.

A few days later, the guy comes up to me again and says it won’t stop bleeding. So I tell him to go to the goddamned doctor. He says, “Yeah, I better. My mother packs me extra pairs of underwear. I’m ruining like three pairs a day.” I’m already kind of laughing, but I’m like, “Well, what are you doing, just throwing out the dirty ones?” He goes, “No, I put them in my bag. I don’t want anyone here to find them in the trash.”

So then later we’re in class and I’m sitting behind him and I realize “Wait a minute. This kid has bloody underwear in his bag right now.” I had a brown paper bag that I had kept my lunch in. So I slide my foot over his bag and carefully pull it back to me. I open it up and start shuffling through his bag and there it is—a bloody pair of tighty-whities. I pick them up, put them in this empty lunch bag of mine, and tie it shut.

Next, I grab another guy’s backpack, slide it over, open it up, and stuff this little package of bloody underwear right in there. Luckily, I chose one of my buddies who still lived at home with his mother.
He calls me up that Sunday morning and the first thing he says is, “Are you fucking kidding me?!” I play it innocent: “What?” He tells me that his mother had come running in that morning holding a bloody pair of underwear, screaming, asking him if he needed to go to the hospital. Classic.

Mike Pawleweicz

All About the Boroughs

In the academy, I got to know the different reputations of all the city’s patrol boroughs. It’s like this…

Manhattan South: is called PBMS, which stands for Patrol Borough Manhattan South. The running joke is that PBMS really means, “Please Babysit My Son.” It’s derided as a borough full of “hook” boys, placed there by uncle inspectors and daddy chiefs. It’s a nice post if you want to study for sergeant, but it’s boring as hell if you spent your time in the academy dreaming of car chases and foot pursuits.

Manhattan North: My home borough. It’s considered a good mix—busy enough to be interesting, but not so bad that you’re wallowing in despair.

There’s still plenty of ghetto here, but gentrification and good police work have made this borough a lot safer. We did such a good job that we can no longer afford to live in the neighborhoods we helped to clean up!

Bronx: The Bronx can make a valid argument for being the busiest, most dangerous borough. Brooklyn logs more homicides, but there are precincts in both boroughs that will make cops raise their eyebrows if you tell them you work there. I believe that the best police officers come from the busiest precincts.

Queens: Aside from a handful of tough precincts, Queens is typically derided as soft suburbs. Now, all of my dealings with Queens cops have been positive. I’m just telling you how they’re generally perceived. Ask a Manhattan cop what a “Queens Marine” is. You’re guaranteed to get a laugh. (Just don’t ask a Queens guy!)

Staten Island: Like Queens, the perception is that S.I. cops are soft. Personally, I don’t know one cop from Staten Island. I do know that of the last few cops killed in the line of duty, several were from out there.

Brooklyn South: The one thing I know about Brooklyn South is that it ain’t Brooklyn North.

Brooklyn North: These cops are universally admired. Brooklyn North guys tend to stick together and back each other up, and are not going to be rattled easily.

I mean, come on—these guys had to create a special gun court just for all their gun cases!

Steve Hunter

Microsoft has been quite on Surface RT sales ever since the Windows Surface device first hit the market on October 26, 2012, even maintaining its deathly silence on the subject during its recent fiscal second quarter earnings call. There can be only one explanation for this: Surface RT sales have been low. So low, in fact, that the company is embarrassed even to talk about it.

Surface Windows 8 Pro will join the Surface lineup on February 9, 2013. BUT STARTING PRICE $899??? Yes they have to make money, but they have to get a market share first. I don’t think microsoft filled with stupid people who don’t understand that, but the action draw different picture.

Forget about overpriced touch cover. Forget about microsoft office included in the package. Forget about that kick stand. Who cares when the starting price is that high. People will look towards iPad because it’s already prove that it’s indeed a good device. Microsoft should adapt this market strategy if they were first to sell this device. Indeed they introduced tablets first, but apple start selling them first.

Microsoft should have sell it’s tablet device at lower price point and capitalize on apps infrastructure, otherwise it would fail to sell this great device. Wait, they do fail to move it.

The first reports about the Xbox 720 (or whatever Microsoft’s next-gen console ends up being called) began appearing as early as 2006, even prompting Microsoft EMEA (European, Middle East, and Africa) vice president Chris Lewis to plead for “a chance to catch a breath” when asked about the Xbox 360’s predecessor during an interview in October that year. Now that Microsoft has had more than enough time to do so, people are growing restless. And when that happens, the rumor mill experiences heightened activity.

VGLeaks, which claimed to have the dope on both Microsoft and Sony’s next-generation consoles over the weekend, has published an article detailing what it claims to be Durango’s (codename for Xbox 360’s successor) innards — complete with a block diagram (below) and all.

According to the site, Durango packs an eight-core x64 powerplant with each core clocked at 1.6GHz. Further, the console is said to have 8GB of RAM, an 800MHz GPU with 12 shader cores, 50 GB 6x Blu-ray Disc drive, hard drive, Gigabit Ethernet, Wi-Fi and Wi-Fi direct.

While this is nothing more than a rumor, it is not the most farfetched Xbox-related stuff we have come across recently. That honor belongs to Forbes columnist Adam Hartung’s suggestion that Microsoft’s entertainment division could end up getting “spun off, sold to someone like Sony or possibly Barnes & Noble, or dramatically reduced in size.”

Anyway, VGLeaks is now promising to leak the tech specs of Sony’s eighth-generation console (code-named Orbis) which according to a separate report will hit the market after the Xbox 720.

Seems like the price of new xbox will stay about the same. AMD cheapest 8-core is around $150 for 3.6GHz, which will be a half price for 1.6GHz. Considering that most expensive part of the new xBox is $80, probably even lower. Get your valets ready for the introduction this Christmas time. Last year it was iPad mini and this season xBox.

I know that the NYPD can seem like a big, blue, mustachioed, Orwellian enigma. It is—at least the top brass is. Today we will go in depth of this profession.

The walking-the-beat stuff, the down-on-the-street police work, however, is really pretty cut and dry. I should know—I spend every waking minute of my life up to my neck in it. In fact, I can tell you the whole deal right now…

A is for ARRESTS

This is what we do, and it’s why so many people hate and fear us. If you listen to people in jail, nobody in the history of the world ever deserved his or her arrest. From the biggest drug-dealing, innocent-bystander-killing rapist down to the guy selling bootleg DVDs, it was all some BULLSHIT! “I didn’t kill that guy, and anyway he deserved it.” “Those aren’t my drugs; I borrowed a friend’s jacket and he must have left them in there.” “I was just looking at these DVDs. I ain’t sellin’ ’em; I just happen to have $300 in singles on me.” You wonder why cops get jaded?

B is for BULLSHIT

It’s what people constantly spew at us. I swear that I deal with more bullshit every day than a farmer does in a year. It is our job to sort through all of it, to make order out of the chaos, and to render a decision. We don’t do this in a nice, calm courtroom, but in crowded hallways and busy streets with people screaming at us. If we sometimes seem a little direct and impatient, you’re going to have to forgive us. We are up to our ears in bullshit.

C is for CRAZY

This is a word we no longer use. Nowadays, nuts are referred to as “emotionally disturbed people” (EDPs for short). Whatever terminology you use, these calls—along with family disputes (more on them when you get to F)—are the two things we hate the most. The problem with crazy people is that they are fucking crazy. (emotionally disturbed—sorry.) The rules of normal, rational thought go out the window. They may be nice and calm one moment, then raving and attacking the next. One thing you can be sure of, though: If something goes wrong, the headline won’t be OFFICER defends himself from irrational, rampaging madman WIELDING A KITCHEN KNIFE. It will be cop shoots cuckoo FOR KICKS.

Also, nobody ever wants to tell us how we should deal with these people—they only like to tell us how we should NOT deal with them. “Why did you have to use pepper spray? Why did you have to handcuff him?” Maybe because he was trying to chew my nose off? What should I have done? “I don’t know, just not that.” Oh.

D is for DETECTIVE

There is no member of the NYPD that inspires more interest and awe from the public than a detective. The truth is, yes, we do have the finest investigators in the world, because of both experience (NYC has a little of everything) and the sheer size of our department.

It’s like high school sports: The 2,000-student school tends to have more standout players than the 300-student school. Those are simple odds. So, yes, there are lots of detectives doing lots of good jobs in the NYPD. There is, however, one job that none of them do: Supervise uniformed cops. A detective outranks nobody. That’s right; he (or she) doesn’t outrank me, a lowly police officer.

Detective is the only discretionary rank in the NYPD. That means a detective becomes a detective simply by the Police Commissioner tapping him on the head and saying, “It is so.” A cop can be made a detective (and vice versa, though it is rare) at any time without taking a test or jumping in rank. I know you watch Law and Order and NYPD Blue and detectives order the uniformed officer (who’s invariably portrayed as an idiot) around. It doesn’t happen, people. It’s a TV show. If, in real life, a detective ordered around a cop like that, he would be told to go fuck himself in no uncertain terms. (Wait, actually he would be told in those exact terms.)

E is for ENTERTAINMENT

When I first came on, a wise sergeant told me that if you can just view 80 percent of what you see on the job as sheer entertainment, you can do 20 years no problem. The trouble, of course, is the other 20 percent. I have witnessed things that made me laugh, cry, and everything in between. Still, how can you not piss yourself when you ask a guy if his drunk friend you’re sending to the hospital is a diabetic and he replies: “No, he’s a Baptist.”

D is for FAMILY DISPUTE

As I said, right up there with EDPs on the list of things we hate to deal with. For one thing, you’re in a person’s home. They know where all the pointy things are, and you don’t. We try to avoid the kitchen.
But these are especially dangerous because so many emotions are involved. Plus, the people are often hammered.

You are never quite sure where you stand either. A woman calls you because a guy assaulted her. You go to cuff him and now she turns on you. Suddenly, you’re the problem! “I didn’t want you to arrest him, just scare him a little.” Sorry, lady. We’re the police, not your big brother. If you call us, the guy’s getting collared.

G is for GUN

Like a bad car accident, our guns both attract and repulse people. It’s the symbol of our authority, an acknowledgement of the powers vested in us. It is also what sets us apart from most of the population. But it really is just another tool. The carpenter has his hammer and we have our guns.

I know it seems like a big deal to people that we walk around armed, but after a year or so it just becomes second nature, like putting on your watch in the morning. Sometimes we even kind of forget about our guns until they get caught on something as we’re walking by. “Oh yeah, I have a deadly weapon on my hip.”

H is for HOURS

We work 365 days a year, 24 hours in a row. (Not all of us; we do it in shifts.) Like 7-Eleven, we never close. As you can imagine, this takes a toll on one’s body. I have finished arrests at 6 AM that started on a tour that was supposed to end at 11:30 PM, then had to start all over again at 8 AM. It’s not uncommon to work for 24 hours straight. That’s when the meth comes in handy. Just kidding. They do regular drug testing.

I is for INSIDE PERSON

There are lots of cops that never see the outdoors. They are known as inside people. Some have earned their spot by doing years of work on the street; others just end up stuck behind a desk. Those of us who put on a gun belt and actually do police work tend to look down on these guys.

J is for JOKES

Cop humor is a way of dealing with the things we have to see on a daily basis. We’ll joke with each other about how bad a dead body smells or how the local drug dealer, shot by his rival, can take seven bullets and be back to work in two weeks.

Cops are also big on practical jokes. They lighten the mood. Sure, they can be juvenile, but what are we, the serious police? One classic that goes way back is calling a fellow cop and pretending to be a high-ranking chief. The real payoff is when a chief really calls soon after and your buddy tells him to go fuck himself.

K is for KILLED

This is something that can happen to any of us at any time. We joke about it and minimize talking to our loved ones about it, but it’s the only job around where you have to wear a garment designed to stop bullets. This is why police funerals are so well attended—deep down, we all know that the next one could be for us.

L is for LIE

I know I sort of covered this in BULLSHIT, but seriously—everyone lies to us all the time. Here’s a good rule of thumb for new cops: The first story a perp tells you will be a lie.

Always being lied to takes a toll on your psyche. You have to be careful not to carry it over to the outside when you’re off duty. More than once my wife has accused me of interrogating her. She sometimes has a point, but it’s just that we learn to ask questions that get to the heart of a matter and that try to get people to exclude extraneous information. Sometimes I ask her if she went food-shopping and she starts rambling on about how busy she was and what a day she had. I have to be careful not to say, “Just answer my question Ma’am: Yes or no, DID YOU GO SHOPPING?”

M is for MONEY

This is a sore point for us. I know, I know: Nobody thinks they’re paid what they deserve. But the fact that we are the lowest paid police agency around, and that they just LOWERED the starting salary to $25,000? It’s insane! Actually, it’s worse than insane—it’s $375 a week (after taxes).

N is for NYS BENEFIT CARD

Don’t know what this is? Neither did I before I became a cop. Now, if a perp can’t produce one, I become suspicious. This is a welfare card issued by the state of New York. A guy can be homeless, missing most of his limbs, drunk, and high on crack, but you can be sure that somewhere on him is his benefit card. Your tax dollars at work.

O is for ONE WAY

This expression is unique to the NYPD. It means that someone is selfish, as in: “Johnson is like First Avenue, one fuckin’ way.”

P is for PERP

Yes, we really say this. It wasn’t invented by NYPD Blue. In case you didn’t know, it’s short for perpetrator. When you first become a cop, you feel a little silly saying it. Eventually it just becomes part of your vocabulary. It can also be used as an adjective, as in, “Watch out. This place is perpy.”

Q is for QUEENS

For whatever reason, cops from all other boroughs look down on Queens cops and refer to them as “Queens Marines.” I guess this is because Queens—with a few notable exceptions—is almost a suburb. Supervisors out there will start nitpicking about stuff like how shiny your shoes are or what color socks you have on if there isn’t a lot of crime to fight. I personally have never had anything but good experiences with Queens cops.

R is for RIOT GEAR

OK, this one is a personal pet peeve. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS RIOT GEAR. The only additional piece of equipment you will see at a disturbance is a helmet. That’s it! And guess what—we’re supposed to carry our helmets in the car every day anyway. The baton, the pepper spray, the handcuffs… we ALWAYS have that stuff. Still, anytime there’s any kind of civil unrest (such as the incident in Brooklyn this April with the Hasidim), the media will invariably describe us as “police clad in riot gear.” We aren’t “clad” in anything; we just put on a fucking helmet so that when people throw stuff at us it doesn’t kill us. WE. DON’T. HAVE. RIOT. GEAR.

This is why we tend to distrust the media. If they can’t get something this freakin’ simple right, how can we expect them to accurately report on anything remotely complex?

S is for SHIELD

That piece of tin on our chest with a number on it is a shield, not a badge. Boy Scouts have badges; we wear shields. BTW, I know you think it scares me when you ask for my “badge” number. It doesn’t. I give it out 20 times a day, and besides, it’s right there on my chest. You don’t have to ask, you just have to look down about 14 inches.

T is for TAXES

Your taxes pay my salary! (I wanted to say that first just once.)

U is for UNION

The NYPD union is called the PBA (Patrolmen’s’ Benevolent Association) even though the title “patrolman” was eliminated like 30 years ago. Invariably the media will accuse politicians of “kowtowing to the powerful police unions.” This cracks us up. We are the lowest paid police department around, our facilities are dirty and crumbling, and for the most part we’re miserable. Yeah, that’s some powerful union we got.

V is for VOCAB

As a cop, you develop a unique vocabulary. It’s gradual—you don’t realize you’re talking differently until you use NYPD language in polite (civilian) company. Much of this lexicon was in use around the turn of the century and survives only in the NYPD. No, I’m not going to tell you what all of it means. We have to keep some secrets. Please DO NOT read the accompanying sidebar.

W is for WASTE

Waste waste waste. Wastes of potential, wastes of life, wastes of money. Lives ruined by drug or alcohol abuse. Lives wasted by bullets or knives. Children’s potential wasted by bad parents or no parents. Twenty-five-year-olds who have spent their entire life in some form of institution: Foster care at three, group home at 12, prison at 18. Cops are basically waste management experts.

X is for XEROX

The Job is all about paperwork and, as a result, the NYPD’s ancient Xerox machines have probably caused more deforestation than all the wildfires in California and Oregon put together.

BTW, our copiers aren’t the only outdated equipment we have. We still use typewriters (at least they’re electric), carbon paper, and computers with those green screens where you enter commands like “/:f9.”

Y is for YONKERS

This is just one of the many nearby police departments that pay better than the NYPD does. Their starting salary is $47,507 (according to the woman at Yonkers Civil Service whom I just called).

Z is for ZERO

A cop who does the bare minimum (or less) is referred to as a zero. Thanks to the civil service system, no matter how much work you do, you’re paid the same as everyone else in your rank with your time on the force. The questions thus arises: Are you smart and dedicated if you try harder than these guys, or are you just an idiot for doing more work for the same pay?

* Originally Posted By Officer Leo Fearpini 2006

When I was young I used to hear that there is no car company above Rolls Royce and you couldn’t buy one just because you had money. There are still ‘urban legends’ in our country about one of the richest guy in our country being refused a Rolls Royce because his lineage, or family background and even a few days ago someone argued with me that there are no Rolls Royce in Bangladesh because no one has both the money and the required family background/heritage – or whatever you may call it – required to buy one. Rolls Royce is doing an excellent job worldwide to get rid of that reputation. If I was the CEO of Rolls Royce, I’d rather have burnt down the car than let aftermarket tuners or even rappers buy them.

Jump to the gallery.

Just to refresh your memory Breitling was founded by Louis Breitling in 1884 in St Imier with the specific purpose to develop chronographs and counters for scientific and industrial applications. The late 19th century witnessed a number of unique industrial developments such as the automobile and the aero plane. Breitling recognized that these new machines would need timing instruments and soon became a manufacturer of high quality timing instruments. Rapid expansion led to a move to the Swiss town of La-Chaux-de-Fonds in 1892 to accommodate growth. In 1915 Breitling developed their first wristwatch chronograph and went on to make several significant developments in this area.

In 1923 they were the first watch manufacturer to introduce an independent push piece for the chronograph, enabling the start and return-to-zero function (previously performed by the winding-crown). Then, in 1934 Breitling added a second push piece to the chronograph enabling either cumulative or incremental time recording. These developments made the Breitling watch a favorite amongst pilots. In 1936 Breitling was chosen to supply the Royal Air Force with time keeping equipment. In the 40’s Breitling became the US Air Force official pilots watch whilst also supplying the American armed forces. By the 50’s Breitling had cemented their position in the aviation industry and was supplying cockpit clocks for most of the international airlines.

In 1962, the 24-hour Cosmonaute chronograph was released, and this watch was worn by Scott Carpenter when he flew America’s second ever manned orbital flight in the Aurora 7. Breitling declares their watches to be “instruments for professionals”. With a strong focus on the aviation industry, Breitling have developed a number of watch models that have been highly appreciated by pilots and astronauts throughout the history of aviation and aeronautics. Breitling evokes the spirit, adventure and fashion of the early days of flight, and for those with a love of aviation this is the watch of choice. For those who just appreciate high precision watches with specialized functionality, Breitling is hard to pass by.

Stainless steel case with a black leather strap with contrast stitching. Bidirectional stainless steel bezel. Black dial with luminous hands and index hour markers. Side-rule appears around the outer rim. Dial Type: Analog. Month, day of the week and date display below the 12 o’clock postion. Chronograph – three sub-dials displaying: 12 hours, 30 minutes and 60 seconds. Automatic movement. Scratch resistant sapphire crystal. solid case back. Case diameter: 43 mm. Case thickness: 14.10 mm. Deployment clasp. Water resistant at 30 meters/ 100 feet. Functions: hours, minutes, seconds, calendar, chronograph, navigation computer,. Luxury Sport watch style. Breitling Montbrilliant Datora Black Dial Chronograph Mens Watch A2133012/B993.

Get it from apple store and never look back, move that apple icon far away from your screen.

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