Because of the Orlando massacre, I am republishing my three-part series about the Los Angeles Riots of 1992 in which Karen and I and the children were trapped for several frightening hours. We were unarmed, helpless save for our wits. The police were conspicuously absent and the bad guys—frequently armed with heavy weapons—owned the streets.
It was a defining moment in my life.
I’m reposting this series as a cautionary tale because when IslamoNazis go on murderous rampages the left invariably blames the actions of evil men on hunks of steel, piously calling for ever more gun laws. The ultimate aim, of course, is to disarm law-abiding American citizens through mass gun confiscations.
If the Democrat party’s vision is fulfilled all of America will become like those defenseless men and women in Pulse: Gays without guns.
Los Angeles burns, 1992.
Hollywood is Burning
Hollywood is on fire.
Karen and I lock every door in the house, shut tight the windows. We move through the house switching off all the lights.
Gazing from our bedroom window we watch orange flames lick at the darkness, pillars of black smoke climb into the sky. We can actually smell the acrid odor of burning rubber.
“Look how close they are,” says Karen.
“Just past La Cienega. Maybe eight blocks away.”
Karen gives me a long penetrating gaze:
“What do we do if they come here?”
My mind is racing away. The truth is we are defenseless. Unless I get crazy inventive like Dustin Hoffman in Straw Dogs.
“After this is all over,” I vow, “I’m going to buy a pistol.”
Karen says: “How about a shotgun?”