An upsetting afternoon. I was quietly reading the news on my phone about a group of about 20 Palestinian terrorists, young people in their 20s, in a caravan of SUVs flying Palestinian flags. They pulled up in front of a Japanese sushi café a couple of miles from my house, in the lower part of Beverly Hills, a neighborhood largely of older Jewish people. The young “men” wore all black and were masked.
They jumped out of their SUVs, shouted anti-Semitic trash, then asked, “Who’s Jewish?” Then they hit some elderly customers and pulled them onto the pavement and kicked their heads. When younger customers, including a Gentile Armenian, tried to save the elderly Jews, the young Palestinians beat them and kicked them. They also sprayed them in their eyes with pepper spray, which hurts like hell.
When several people started to video the terrorism, the young “men” left after landing a few more blows. Some LAPD squad cars appeared but apparently made little of the event.
I was digesting this, along with many other reports of Palestinian terror in L.A. and other cities, as I was driving back from my doctor’s appointment along Santa Monica Boulevard in Century City, a high-end office, cinema, restaurant, and shopping mecca, when an SUV with four dark-skinned (but definitely not black or Hispanic) men pulled up next to my car.
The driver asked me to roll down my passenger side window, which I did. “You just hit my car,” he said. “You have to pull over to see the damage.”
I knew I had not hit him, and I knew it was an attempted robbery or carjacking or Palestinian terror act — or all three. So I said, “I know I did not hit your car.” Then I drove east. He kept next to me and insisted I had hit his car and that I must pull over.
Again, I am not a total fool, so I just said, “I know I didn’t hit you. Go away.”
Then the driver, with a thick mustache, said, “You look like the kind of man who would like to touch young boys. I have some young boys in my car.”
At that point, I rolled up my window and sped away as fast as my car would allow. I wanted to get the license plate of the “men,” but they turned off and were soon gone.
But I was rattled. Should I have called 9-1-1? I probably should have, but I was on my cell phone with my pal Ellis, in New Haven. It’s a new car, and I was not totally sure how to hang up right away and call 9-1-1.
I drove right to the Beverly Hills PD. It is in a building that looked like a building you see in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Angles. Curves. Bewildering. I finally found the detective bureau and asked a young man there what I should have done. “Just what you did,” he said.
I asked him how I could get a license for concealed carry. He said the BHPD at this point only had an interim chief. I would have to wait until a full-time chief was appointed and confirmed to get such a permit.
He referred me to a private agency that could get me the permit and also sell me a small pistol. I left, but I will tell you, it scared me plenty.
When I got home, which is virtually next door to the BHPD, I told wifey about the incident. She was concerned.
On the news there is one story after another about pro-Palestinian demonstrations and attacks on Jews all over the world. It’s scary stuff. Then there’s the mayor of Chicago complaining about the “overwhelming whiteness” of the Chicago press corps.
This country is changing fast.
Source: The American Spectator