Long time RIP magazine editor Lonn Friend mugged and robbed.
Duff & Lonn trade books at NAMM 2012
Long time RIP magazine editor Lonn Friend mugged & robbed in Long Beach California
Posted By: Metal Sludge
Long Beach, CA — Wake Up Call: Part 1. Eleven days ago, in the 11th hour of my 56th year, 11 ticks after the 29th, I’m waiting for a bus on Long Beach Bl. and 6th. Just looking down at the sidewalk. Peacefully, silently waiting. Black dude strolls by and says, “You got change for a $20?” I look up; he’s tall dressed in some kind of sports wear. "No man, sorry," I reply. Three more similarly clad but shorter in stature fellows arrive and start to hover like the crows in Hitchcock’s The Birds. I’m still looking down when all of a sudden, BOOM! No idea what hit me – a bat, pipe, fist – or where it came but the blindside knocks me off the bench. "What the fuck?!" I yell, staggering upright. Side of my face instantly begins to feel weird. And then, BOOM! another shot to the right cheek. I drop to the ground like a set of keys and my KISS hat flies off. Split second later, the ebony quartet dart across the street and around the Walgreens. Gone.
Ten seconds later, the bus arrives. I have no idea what just happened to me except my wallet is gone and for some inexplicable reason, my Droid is still in my right hand along with the buck and a quarter for the bus. I text officer Dave my LAPD rocker buddy. “I think I was just mugged at a bus stop.” He texts me back in 30 seconds. “Call 911. Immediately. Report it to Long Beach P.D. You okay?” I’m not sure about anything except the realization that for the first time in my 56 years and 11 days, I’m a victim of violent crime. I exit the public transport at the corner of Redondo and 7th and wobble into the Union 76 mini mart, addressing the guy behind the cashier’s window. “Hey man, I just got mugged, my wallet’s gone and I don’t have a dime on me,” I mutter. Can I get some ice?” As wicked and inhuman and unkind as those thugs were who’d just cold cocked for me for $20 and the gold chain my father gave me on my 21st birthday that I returned to my neck a week ago after decades in the drawer (the one with the Hebrew symbol that means “TO LIFE” )– as downright brutal and insensitive as those desperate and damaged societal outcasts were, the mini-mart fellow, probably pulling down $10 an hour working overnights – went out of his way to load up a big gulp sized cup of ice for me and instantly restore my faith in humanity. “Here man, take this, no problem, I’m really sorry. Hope they find those assholes.”
Five minutes later, I’m home waiting for the LB cops who the 911 operator said would be at my apartment in ten minutes, which they were. Officers Garcia and Heady were attentive and compassionate. Heady had worked the Oscars with officer Dave. I am instantly comforted by the synchronicity. They examine my eyes, and assure me I don’t have a concussion, and that I was pretty lucky. Another inch toward the right ear and it may have been a tragically different story. “Lots of ice for a couple days.” They gather what little description I can regurgitate and depart. I melt into a hot bath, pop three Advils and pray for sleep. Should have been paying closer attention to my surroundings. I am aware. I am conscious. I am trusting. Well, two out the three ain’t bad for Meatloaf but it’s the wrong song for downtown Long Beach at midnight. Next installment: The healing, feeling, dealing and revealing.
Metal Sludge sends our best to Lonn, get well soon buddy.