Life here in the sleepy little “Home to the Homeless” has gotten downright ugly — the disgusting behavior of our homeless population, the willful ignorance of any realistic solutions by the city attorney and City Council, and a misguided police department that has been handcuffed and is fast becoming mere window dressing.
Good lord, it sounds like I hate the place. But in reality, I love this city. I love the people, I just hate the bureaucratic bungling, the ineffectiveness of the city government to foster quality of life for those of us who live south of Wilshire Boulevard. I hate the way the city is driving good people out of Santa Monica as our representatives welcome with open arms the scum of the earth and proudly declare their “humanity.”
I’d like to see less “humanity” and a bit more responsibility. Our politicians need to take a stand for law and order, and make this a community where you can live safely and securely. Enough with the tolerance of bad behavior and illegal activity. To speak metaphorically, our government needs to grow up and act like a man, and get the job of governing done.
In the last 12 months my car has been broken into twice, my office has been burglarized and my apartment has been burglarized.
The chief of police says crime is down. Not if you ask me, and not if you ask my neighbors. For in the previous seven years of my residency in this lovely city, I had my car broken into four times. So that adds up to eight incidents in eight years. An annual breaking into my home, office or car is a horrible track record for a city like ours. My neighbor’s car has had the window smashed and her property stolen at least twice in the eight years I’ve lived here.
Earlier this month my apartment was burglarized. The criminal was clearly, to my mind at least, a drug addict since he or she only took items that were easily pawned. The laptop computer I usually write this column on, my cell phone, a Sony Walkman, my watch collection, some jewelry my late mother had given me, and my nickels, dimes and quarters, along with two gym bags to carry it all in. Nice that I can provide the criminal with the tools of his trade.
When I called in the report, the police were exceedingly polite as only a department that is extremely experienced in dealing with this type of crime can be. They informed me that an officer would be out to take a report sometime that day. Thanks.
Luckily for me, when I walked outside there were two police units in front of a local business at the end of my street. How convenient, I thought. Of course, the only reason they were there is because the business had a car that was broken into and the police were taking the report.
The officers then dealt with me. They were quite nice and informed me that one person had already been caught and some property was recovered. Putting me in their car, they took me to the suspect and showed me a phone and a Walkman they had recovered. I recognized the “suspect” as one of the local reprobate drug addicts, and even though I was desperate to see my property and incredibly inclined to say anything to implicate this scumbag in the heat of my anger, it wasn’t mine and I said so. Luckily someone else identified the property as theirs, so the scumbag will hopefully be convicted and receive his 90 days or so in county jail, where he’ll get three square meals and a hot shower on our taxes.
About two weeks after this, a pleasant detective called me to follow up. No, he hadn’t found anything, and frankly I won’t be seeing the ring my mother gave me ever again. However, he did tell me that, “You might get the computer back if you know the serial number.” Yeah, I’ll get right on that one.
In the course of our conversation, he said that he did remember me. You see, he was the same detective who handled a case where a homeless loser was walking the streets entering open offices and stealing whatever was on the desk that was closest to the door. From me he stole a tumbler full of quarters and dimes I had for the parking meters. Our front door is now kept locked.
This is petty crime. No one is likely to get killed over it. The reality is that if I lose a computer, I can get another one. I can’t get another ring my mom gave me, and she can’t give me another one because she’s dead.
In Othello, Act 3, Scene 3 the character of Iago says, “Good name in man and woman, dear my Lord, is the immediate jewel of their souls, who steals my purse steals trash; ‘tis something, nothing, ‘twas mine, ‘tis his, and has been slave to thousands. But he that filches from me my good name robs me of that which not enriches him. And makes me poor indeed.”
The same could be said of the mementos that poor bugger stole from me. The computer is nothing, the watches are mass produced, a phone is easily replaced. But the ring is like my name. Not that it was exceedingly valuable, but it had memories and love attached to it. I’ll miss it, but I’ll survive.
But my love of this city is diminished each time a piece of my life is stolen. And for that, there is no amount of insurance, no amount of “gee, we’re really sorry, but there’s nothing we can do’s” that the City Council or the police or the city attorney can say, that will give me back what has been stolen from me. (David Pisarra is a partner in the law firm of Pisarra & Grist, he (310) 664-9969 or by e-mail at He welcomes your comments and questions).
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on March 30, 2004. Read the original PDF.