ACLU publishes government snoops' "Suspicious Activity Reports"

boing
21

Yeah, but on the other side, Disqus. :frowning:

2 Likes
22

Those are Real AmericansTM. They’re not the target of the security apparatus, no matter how many terrorist acts they perpetrate because Real AmericansTM are the only ones who buy into the bullshit reasons for the security apparatus to exist in the first place.

2 Likes
23

A sergeant from the Elk Grove Police Department reported “on a suspicious individual in his neighborhood”; the sergeant had “long been concerned about a residence in his neighborhood occupied by a Middle Eastern male adult physician who is very unfriendly”

Reads like an Orwellian novel.

1 Like
24

All they think about is the Spies, and the war, of course. D’you know
what that little girl of mine did last Saturday, when her troop was on
a hike out Berkhamsted way? She got two other girls to go with her,
slipped off from the hike, and spent the whole afternoon following a
strange man. They kept on his tail for two hours, right through the
woods, and then, when they got into Amersham, handed him over to the
patrols.’

‘What did they do that for?’ said Winston, somewhat taken aback.
Parsons went on triumphantly:

‘My kid made sure he was some kind of enemy agent–might have been
dropped by parachute, for instance. But here’s the point, old boy.
What do you think put her on to him in the first place? She spotted he
was wearing a funny kind of shoes–said she’d never seen anyone
wearing shoes like that before. So the chances were he was a
foreigner. Pretty smart for a nipper of seven, eh?’

‘What happened to the man?’ said Winston.

‘Ah, that I couldn’t say, of course. But I wouldn’t be altogether
surprised if----’ Parsons made the motion of aiming a rifle, and
clicked his tongue for the explosion.

‘Good,’ said Syme abstractedly, without looking up from his strip of
paper.

‘Of course we can’t afford to take chances,’ agreed Winston dutifully.

‘What I mean to say, there is a war on,’ said Parsons.

-George Orwell, 1984

4 Likes
25

Reads more like an Orwellian parody to me.

1 Like
26

Yeah, now that you say that, I guess it leans more towards Dr. Strangelove.

1 Like
27

The volume of comments isn’t much different.

28

Geez, every time I stare at that dude he stares right back. I don’t like it one bit.

2 Likes
29

Dangerous to be introverted or shy and have a melanin-rich skin and a foreign accent.

2 Likes
30

We were out feeding cats ( yup ) one night and the patrol car pulled up and the driver said, “What are you doing way down here?” We actually did not know what he meant. We were two blocks from our absurdly expensive condo in the former industrial area near DTLA. We weren’t way down anywhere I could see. We told him what we were doing, that we had been doing it for years, and that we lived two blocks away. “Hm. OK.” and off he goes.

Later we realized that for him the neighborhood was dark and foreboding because he probably lived literally 100 miles away in a new stucco box amidst many others. He did not see the neighborhood as the ridiculous enclave of hipster wealth it has become, but as something “way down there.” and unfortunately close to the homeless population herded together on skid row several blocks away.

Now we ask ourselves what are we doing way down here. Feeding the cats.

2 Likes
31

Back when I took care of a friends big dog I would often walk through industrial back lots and other areas I’d otherwise avoid, figuring the dog was protection from thugs and if security asked what I was doing I’d say “My dog is looking for the perfect spot to shit. You know how that goes.” But I never saw anyone.

Your story reminded me of Ray Bradbury’s “The Pedestrian”

‘Your name?’ said the police car in a metallic whisper. He couldn’t
see the men in it for the bright light in his eyes.
‘Leonard Mead,’ he said.
‘Speak up!’
‘Leonard Mead!’
‘Business or profession?’
‘I guess you’d call me a writer.”
“No profession,’ said the police car, as If talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.
‘You might say that,’ said Mr Mead. He hadn’t written in years. Magazines and books didn’t sell any more. Everything went on in the tomb-like houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy. The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people sat like the dead, the grey or multi-coloured lights touching their faces, but never really touching them.
‘No profession,’ said the phonograph voice, hissing. ‘What are you doing out?’
‘Walking,’ said Leonard Mead.
‘Walking!’
‘Just walking,’ he said simply, but his face felt cold.
‘Walking, just walking, walking?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Walking where? For what?’
‘Walking for air. Walking to see.’
‘Your address!’
‘Eleven South Saint James Street.’
‘And there is air in your house, you have an air conditioner, Mr Mead?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you have a viewing screen in your house to see with?’
‘No.’
‘No’’ There was a crackling quiet that in itself was an accusation.
‘Are you married, Mr Mead?’
‘No.’
‘Not married,’ said the police voice behind the fiery beam. The moon was high and clear among the stars and the houses were grey and silent.
‘Nobody wanted me,’ said Leonard Mead with a smile.
‘Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to!’ Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.
“Just walking, Mr Mead?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you haven’t explained for what purpose.’
‘I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk.’
‘Have you done this often?’
‘Every night for years.’
The police car sat in the centre of the street with its radio throat faintly humming.
‘Well, Mr Mead,’ it said.
‘Is that all?’ he asked politely.
‘Yes,’ said the voice. ‘Here.’ There was a sigh, a pop. The back door of the police car sprang wide. ‘Get in.’
‘Wait a minute, I haven’t done anything!’
‘Get in.’
‘I protest!’
‘Mr Mead.’ He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he passed the front window of the car he looked in. As he had expected, there was no-one in the front seat, no-one in the car at all. ‘Get in.’ He put his hand to the door and peered into the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of harsh anti¬septic; it smelled too clean and hard and metallic. There was nothing soft there.
‘Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi,’ said the iron voice. 'But - ’
‘Where are you taking me?’
The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was dropping card by punch-slotted card under electric eyes.
'To the Psychiatric Centre for Research on Regressive Tendencies. ’ He got in. The door shut with a soft thud. The police car rolled through the night avenues, flashing its dim lights ahead. They passed one house on one street a moment later, one house in an entire city of houses that were dark, but this one particular house had all of its electric lights brightly lit every window a loud yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool darkness.
‘That’s my house,’ said Leonard Mead.
No-one answered him. The car moved down the empty river- bed streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with the empty pavements, and no sound and no motion all the rest of the chill November night.

  • Ray Bradbury, “The Pedestrian”
2 Likes
32

The white zone is for loading and unloading only

This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER…it is my responsibility to enforce all the laws
that haven’t been passed yet. It is also my responsibility to alert each and every one
of you to the potential consequences of various ordinary everyday activities you
might be performing which could eventually lead to The Death Penalty (or affect
your parents’ credit rating). Our criminal institutions are full of little creeps like you
who do wrong things.…and many of them were driven to these crimes by a horrible
force called MUSIC!

Our studies have shown that this horrible force is so dangerous to society at large
that laws are being drawn up at this very moment to stop it forever! Cruel and inhuman
punishments are being carefully described in tiny paragraphs so they won’t conflict
with the Constitution (which, itself, is being modified in order to accommodate THE FUTURE).
-F. Zappa, Joe’s Garage

33

What’s he building in there?
What the hell is he building
In there?
He has subscriptions to those
Magazines… He never
Waves when he goes by
He’s hiding something from
The rest of us… He’s all
To himself… I think I know
Why… He took down the
Tire swing from the Peppertree
He has no children of his
Own you see… He has no dog
And he has no friends and
His lawn is dying… and
What about all those packages
He sends. What’s he building in there?..
He has no friends
But he gets a lot of mail
I’ll bet he spent a little
Time in jail…
I heard he was up on the
Roof last night
Signaling with a flashlight
And what’s that tune he’s
Always whistling…
What’s he building in there?
What’s he building in there?

We have a right to know… {Tom Waits}

3 Likes
34

Of course, let’s not forget “The Monsters Are Due On Maple Street,” where the perfect picket fence neighborhood goes berserk because the lights went out.

http://www.tv.com/shows/the-twilight-zone/watch/the-monsters-are-due-on-maple-street-12606/

35

OMG. Brilliant acting by Sellers and Wynn.

1 Like
36

Or the man could have been a real asshole. We brown people occasionally are… it used to be that you could be merely unkind and not have it made into a federal case.

1 Like
37

Well, given that we know the police officer is a racist bag of dicks, given his reason for turning in his neighbor, that provides the most obvious explanation as to why the neighbor was unfriendly to him in the first place.

38

This topic was automatically closed after 5 days. New replies are no longer allowed.