Happy Saturday, loyal readers. Yes, I’m talking to both of you. Please enjoy this ongoing series about my big day yesterday. I planned on making this a two parter, but knowing how I like to ramble, there will probably be several more than two chapters. I am what I am.

Yesterday I had the good fortune to “fight” a speeding ticket. I have never done this in New York. I once fought a ticket in Connecticut, so I have some familiarity with the experience, and figured it was a good idea to take my chances. This one in Connecticut I got driving up to the in-laws when Jake was a baby. He was screaming in the backseat, as usual, and I was following in a line of cars. There’s a point on 91 when you are almost to the Massachusetts border when the speed limit abruptly drops from 65 to 55. Right after the sign, you are on a gentle downhill slope. When you’re the last guy in a line of cars, and you have out of state plates…

Basically, fighting the ticket involved going to the courthouse in some podunk Connecticut town and parking in the municipal lot with all the other out-of-state schmucks that got nabbed. Then I went through the metal detectors, signed in, and sat in the courtroom surrounded by other jittery violators perfecting their excuses. Why was I the only one who thought to bring a book? I waited about an hour until one of the prosecutors called my name. I told him my story – following in traffic, baby screaming, honestly not paying attention – I made a mistake, but my license is clean and I didn’t want points to screw up my insurance. The Prosecutor, who was about 13 years old, said he could knock it down to 65 in a 55 and it would be $100 – I think, I forget the exact details, but I know it saved me like $200. I said thank you, shook his hand, and headed to the payment window with my Visa card in hand. 

I have also had a few other tickets in my day, most of which were related in some way to Rosemary Caine. Got one on the Jersey Turnpike following another band vehicle on our way down to the Dulles Airport (I’m not yet comfortable calling it Ronald Reagan International) vicinity when flying out to France almost 15 years ago (I am so old). Got one racing through the suburbs of Boston to get to a gig at TT the Bears. Got one in Sunderland, MA coming home from a band rehearsal when I was a recent graduate, but bassist Jeff was still a student, allowing us to use campus facilities for practicing. This last ticket was for doing 36 in a 30, but I had New York plates on my car. When I pointed to my driveway about 100 yards down the road, the officer actually apologized sheepishly and said he didn’t realize I lived there, but he’d already made a radio report in and written the ticket so he couldn’t let it go. Nice, huh?

Oh, my other great ticket was in New Jersey again, just on the other side of the Holland Tunnel. Route 1, I think. I was working for Liquid Digital Information Systems, when it was not part of the other company I don’t feel like talking about. I will preserve the anonymity of the corporate partner who was in the passenger seat because I love him and don’t want to shower him with undue attention, but I will say he’s a big wuss because he made me drive. Kiss kiss. Anyway, it was a fairly new Volvo that belonged to my boss, and I was used to my slightly aged Ford Escort. My Escort had a bad alignment problem that caused it to shake violently once you got up to about 50 miles per hour. So, as we raced along Route 1 (I think) searching for the correct path to tawny Warren Township and a meeting with a group of marketing honchos at Lucent, I had no idea that I was doing over 80. Of course, we got pulled over by a personality-light tropper who was like 5′ 6″ and…well, let’s just say he had something to prove. I was certainly guilty of the offense, though I have to say I had NO IDEA how fast I was going. That Volvo sure did drive smooth. And, to make matters worse, there was no registration in the vehicle. Later, the boss had a little chuckle about how he’d just that morning been telling his wife to remind him to put itin the glovebox. So, after a few minutes of fruitless searching and trying to explain to the trooper that it was not my car, he muttered something like a curse and snapped, “I don’t have time for this!” before stomping back to his cruiser. So, I got a big speeding ticket, with a hefty additional charge for not having the registration. Yeah, that was awesome.

There are a few other times I’ve been pulled over and allowed to skate – like for going through a yellow light that turned red – and I have been in the car with other drivers being pulled over, but I’m pretty sure this is an accurate summary of my violations. I have never otherwise been arrested or accused. Though I did have that problem when I worked for Strawberries Records and Tapes in West Springfield when I hacked the computer terminal register to make the receipts say “Merry Fucking Christmas” but that’s a whole other story.

And no, no charges were filed.