In the middle of doing a lot of stuff to get ready to go to London -- haircut, dentist, cleaners -- I decided I wanted to look for some new boots. Someone recommended Central Police Supply, which is just what it sounds like. It's in the Heights, on the north side of downtown, so to get there you drive past the huge apartment complex that hides the cemetery where Howard Hughes is buried, and where a pack of coyotes is said to howl at night. Then through a battered but on-the-rise neighborhood, and just when the skyline looms big, there's the police supply store. It's full of guys. I'm trying on boots, they're trying on holsters, concealed weapons carriers, and bulletproof vests. They are being flirted with by a Latina salesperson who's wearing denim short-shorts and has a butterfly tattooed on her outer thigh. I am not being flirted with. They have short hair; I have short hair. They are very buff; I'm in decent shape myself. They are wearing tight jeans and navy blue t-shirts. I am, it turns out, wearing tight jeans and a navy t-shirt. Their shirts say, STATE TROOPER or HPD. Mine says POLAR BEARS FOR OBAMA.
It's a strange moment.