This Is the City, Fo’ Shizzle

Although I’ve been a writer for many years, I just recently learned how credits can come back to haunt you. In 1987, I was a co-writer on the film “Dragnet,” which inspired an editor of this magazine to ask if I’d like to write a piece about “True Crime: Streets of L.A.”--a hugely popular video game since its release last year.

The object of this game is simple: An indescribable hell has been unleashed by ruthless gangs, so it is my job to drive, fight and shoot my way through an accurately reproduced L.A. to rid our city of this scourge. And the tour guide is rapper Snoop Dogg, whose music provides the experience with a realistic soundtrack.

But here comes the wrinkle. I am asked to imagine what would happen if Sgt. Joe Friday, the stiff, monotoned character from “Dragnet,” had inexplicably found himself in the game--and his partner was no longer Frank Gannon, but Snoop D-O-double G.

Joe Friday: 9:56 a.m. I’m patrolling the streets of this city. Los Angeles, California--465 square miles of constantly interfacing humanity representing every race, color, creed and persuasion.

Snoop Dogg: Who you talkin’ to? And why we up at 9:56 a.m.? Ain’t no gang activity goin’ on now. Homeboys be sleeping. (He starts rapping.)

If you’re white or if you’re black,

If you don’t like me, this is something to groove to,

Made to move to, ensue you, like Snoop do ...

Friday: The fact is, Officer Dogg, “ensue you” is not an expression that exists in the English language. You can’t ensue someone. And if you could, trust me buster, you wouldn’t be the one I’d want to ensue me.

Snoop: Hey fuzzhead, you gettin’ my doggy underwear in a bunch. Let’s just blunt out and relax. Fo’ shizzle.

Friday: Fo’ what?

Once their ride started, Snoop Dogg and Joe Friday were confronted with a danger far greater than militarily armed thugs. Specifically, that a 50-year-old sedentary writer who barely had the hand-eye coordination to use a Q-tip without incident was now at the controls of the PlayStation 2.

Backward and forward I sent them. Crashing into a bus. A delivery truck. And one of those little vans like the ones that transport blind people. The car then jumped a curb, pinned a mailman to the side of Staples Center, entered a building through a third-floor window, then somehow found its way onto the 10 Freeway after mowing down some bystanders.

Friday: 10:38 a.m. Now my underwear is in a bunch.

I now was driving upward of 200 mph on a freeway on which I’d sat in gridlock for an inordinate chunk of my adult life. And because I had a relatively clear road ahead of me (with the exception of the occasional sniper), I began to get a feel for the controls and was actually enjoying the ride. I would have put the top down had it not been for its armored frame that weighed about 700 pounds.

Friday: Traffic’s light today.

Snoop: That’s ‘cuz this tricked-out pimpmobile just waylaid the whole town.

Friday: This is no pimpmobile, junior. This is a standard-issue LAPD undercover vehicle with minor modifications to accommodate investigation and pursuit.

Snoop: Dang, Friday. You gotta learn to chill. Take some free time and kick it with your boys.

Friday: I chill just fine, hophead, and I spend my free time at church “kickin’ it” with my boy upstairs.

Snoop: Yeah? Which church you go to?

Friday: All of them.

I got off the freeway to see if my own neighborhood was depicted, and that’s when I got into trouble. I took the Bundy exit at a brisk 210 mph, flipped over onto the 405 and slid upside down to Wilshire Boulevard. The car didn’t right itself until after I leveled what used to be my favorite Japanese restaurant on San Vicente.

Deep into Brentwood the car sped, past familiar businesses and shops. And though steering was no longer a problem, slowing down became increasingly painful each time the car took flight over what seemed like extraordinarily high and numerous speed bumps.

Snoop: Hey, Flattop, what’s with all the bumps?

Friday: Customary in a residential neighborhood to reduce vehicle speeds without adversely affecting intersection operations.

Snoop: In my ‘hood, we want to slow down traffic, we just flash a .44. Hustlas and gold teefas be chill when there’s a 187 investigatin.’ Ah, shiz-nit! I think I just bit my tongue.

I pressed a button that I prayed was a brake. Unfortunately, it was a Gatling gun that reduced a neighbor’s cat to a pile of teeth and fur balls. Another button separated a guy who looked like the president of our Neighborhood Watch from three of his limbs. And in a desperate attempt to avoid plowing into a young boy, I swerved, shredding his parents, and spaying his collie before the car came to rest on what looked like my front lawn.

Friday: 2:23 p.m. Brentwood, California. Home of the elite, and the elite’s accountants. System failures and equipment malfunctions have sabotaged our mission with unfortunate ramifications. Collateral damage was unavoidable.

Snoop: Joe, I’m the first brother they’ve seen in these parts since O.J. pulled that stunt, and look what we just did.

Friday: This is peanuts. You wouldn’t believe what we got away with when Willie Williams was in charge.

Snoop: Friday, you one crazy cop.

Friday: Fo’ shizzle, Officer Dogg. Fo’ shizzle.

This is why I write. Twenty minutes behind the wheel and I had managed to cause more death and destruction than the riots and the Northridge earthquake combined. Maybe it was just a game, but I know that if I was out on the road delivering pizzas, the results wouldn’t be much different. So in the end, this assignment served a purpose--aside from calling attention to my general lack of dexterity. It drove home the point that despite the occasional critical backlash, I know that I am meant to write. Trust me, it’s safer for all of us.