We Talk To a Racist Cop

Steve posted about the great Philladelphia open mic. Well, the adventure continued.

Back outside, a white cop pulls up behind the van parked just outside the venue. Good naturedly, he says, "Texas huh? You guys are lost! You are REALLY LOST!" We have Texas plates you see, as that's where Steve came from. Gene starts chatting with him and explains, "We're in a band on tour."

"Oh? What kind of music?"
"Rock."
"Rock music in the ghetto! I guess this place is coming up."
This amuses me as the area felt like Brooklyn in the sense that it could once have been dangerous, but now it was exactly the kind of place I'd want to spend a Saturday night.

"My niece is on an air force base in Te..."
He stops dead, mid-sentence, turns, and oggles a pair of black girls walking by.
"You know, rookie cops say, 'I could never get into that,' but I guess after you're out here for a while you develop a taste."

"Alright, well, uh, I guess we're going to get going." Gene had caught word of a dance party at another place. We get directions from the officer and head out.

I lost my shoes earlier in the tour, and the place had a no-flip-flops dress code, so we ended up just going out to get a couple of drinks and calling it a night.

In the morning, Gene gets up to feed the meter. We head downstairs to meet him, and I start bitching about something or another, as I often do when I'm hungry. He starts to take off. Steve starts yelling, "whoah whoah whoah!" I look over and see that Steve's only half in the van. I chime in, "Whoah whoah whoah! You're running over Steve!" Nobody was hurt, so I can say in retrospect that Steve had the funniest terrified expression on his face. We picked up a couple of cheesesteaks to make it all good. On the way, Steve was navigating.

Steve: Turn right here on Syndor.
Gene: It's pronounced Snydor.
Steve: Ah, well, you say potato, I say fuck you.
Me: (Laughing for 5 minutes)