This is the 20th anniversary of the Rodney King riots. Those days and nights are imprinted in my memory as vividly as a movie.
Thus, I am republishing my three-part series about the LA Riots of 1992 in which Karen and I and the children were caught. We were unarmed, helpless save our wits. The police were conspicuously absent and the bad guys owned the streets. It was a defining moment in my life.
I’m reposting this series as a cautionary tale because the Trayvon Martin race hustlers—the usual suspects who helped stoke the LA riots, now enabled by the most powerful man in the world, Barack Obama—are carefully laying the groundwork for more deadly riots.
Hollywood is Burning
Jew Without a Gun
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?”