October 21, 2011
the hipster cop
A few days ago I mentioned doing police work could be interesting and not a few days later Kelsey finds this:
He was dubbed “The Hipster Cop” a little over a week ago, a few days after pictures trickled online of a plainclothes detective—dressed more like an actor from Dead Poet’s Society than NYPD Blue—patrolling the Occupy Wall Street protest. Then the Hipster Cop Twitter jokes started: “He only uses pepper spray ironically.” “Sure I have a nightstick…I bought it on svpply.com.” And just yesterday, The New York Times ran the first interview with Rick Lee, a 45-year-old community affairs detective with an addiction to Ralph Lauren, a.k.a. The Hipster Cop. Or rather, a.k.a. The Country Gentleman.
Maybe I really have missed my calling.
comments


Occifer.
I’ve occasionally thought it’s a drag that applying to work for the CIA was so seriously uncool when I was young enough to do so. I think I would have made a kick-ass spy.
I’d be good CIA too.
Bauman! Wait. No. Your cover name is Ryan.
Foxy Renner.
Also,
BaumanRyan, odds are you won’t live to see tomorrow.Secret Asian Man.
I sometimes hear it as that!
(And when I get excited, my little China girl says, “Oh, baby, just you shut your mouth.”)
Sheila, I’d make the worst spy the world has ever known.
I’d be so happy to have a cover name though.
I’d give you mine, Kelsey, if it weren’t Deron’s. Wait. Maybe you could be “Bauman” and I could be “Parker”.
Oh, but that wouldn’t work, ’cause Deron and I have too much fun barking “Bauman!” and “Ryan!” at one another.
Ryan!
No, wait! Now you say, “Bauman!” and then I say, “Ryan!” ‘Cause we’re spies.
Ryan!
I’m throwing them off.
Okay, I’m taking off my wig.
It’s a trap!
Okay, I’ll pretend I’m a woman and try and seduce the counter-operative.
.aedi doog a s’tahT
20-8-1-14-11-19.
our-yay. elcome-way.
Unu bieron, mi petas.
I’m making a signal with my nose.
That is all. Clark.
I think I just got shot by a poison dart fired from an umbrella.
The antidote is in a capsule in a cavity fashioned in the heel of my shoe.
Could our carrier pigeon please transport the antidote from the heel of your shoe to my heel?
Check the horizon for puffs of smoke.
I’m seeing spots . . . everything’s going black . . . I’m swallowing the secret message . . . tell them I did it all in the service of a Worthy Cause.
Listen to the dial tone! It will reverse the symptoms! Do it now!
Ooh. That was nasty. I spewed the secret message. Coming back up, it tasted like those orange marshmallow circus peanuts. And I got my fingertips all sticky rearranging the letters.
People think the life of a secret agent is glamorous, but they don’t know the half of it.