Booze
Since I first brought up vanity plates thanks to MOONBEAR, NUGABUG and (to a much lesser extent) H34ME, I have been seeing them anywhere. Nothing special for the most part until last night. On the Sprain Brook Parkway around 9pm I saw a red Acura with the plate ZINFANDL. I thought that was kind of cool. Don’t know what I would have thought if the car was white, though.
Life
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.
Life
I have a little follow-up to my earlier post about Moonbear. I have not seen him again, though I’ve been keeping my eyes peeled. Carol tells me she’s been watching for him too. This morning, again on the Taconic Parkway, I saw a number of vanity plates. Some were incomprehensible. Some were dumb. A couple were alright. I thought the minivan with NUGABUG was cool because I have no idea what it means, but it was nice and rhyme-y, and there were a bunch of paw stickers that had phrases like ‘I Love My Pets’ on the back.
On the other hand, the monstrous Hummer H3 that consistently took up both lanes with the H34ME license plate…that’s just stupid. I can see you have a ridiculously oversized vehicle with no practical purpose this far from Islamabad. Indeed, it is an H3. I don’t know who ‘ME’ is, but he’s probably a dick who we will randomly call…oh, I don’t know…Ass Face. Clever plate there, Ass Face.
Life
Jake’s new favorite movie is Spaceballs. It is also one of my favorite movies, but watching it together can be challenging. There are three primary problems. One is that he repeats his favorite lines – usually lines he does not really understand. Sometimes he asks what things mean. Like, “I love when the dog guy says holy shit! What does holy shit mean?”
Then there is the name of the Rick Moranis character, Dark Helmet. When Jake first got interested in Star Wars a few months ago, it was many weeks before he accepted that Darth Vader was not actually called Dark Vader. Now he keeps calling the bad guy in Spaceballs Darth Helmet.
The last problem is, as always, the never ending questions. Not just when we watch the movie, but throughout the day, during meals, in the bath/shower, A quick recent sampling (and yes, these are accurate, word-for-word quotes):
“Is Yogurt made out of yogurt?”
“Is his place made out of yogurt?”
“Then what’s made out of yogurt?”
“Will they ever see Yogurt and the Dinks again?”
“Are they said that they have to leave?”
“How come they’re not sad?”
“Is the guy with the mustache a bad guy?”
“Why is he a bad guy?”
“Have they always been bad guys?”
“Will they stop being bad guys?”
“Why do they say ‘suck, suck, suck’ – is it because they want to steal the air from their neighbor Druidia?”
“How does Barf know what a Transformer is?
Life
I don’t really like vanity license plates. I know they don’t cost a HUGE amount of money or anything, but they usually just seem to be a waste to me. Every once in a while I see something clever or even thought provoking (TWR TWO on a truck emblazoned with scores of Firefighting emblems a couple weeks ago in Kingston), but usually, the little “statements” made with 8 characters strike me as, well, stupid. I mean, it sure is helpful to know that your busted-ass minivan going 35 in the left lane on the highway is “MomzRyd” but I’d prefer a cell number on your plate so I could buzz you and interrupt your phone call to let you know there are a half dozen motorists eager to get home in a timely fashion without resorting to an illegal right lane pass. By the way, you’re teaching your 14 year old daughter a terrific lesson about safe driving habits.
But I digress. The other day I saw a cute silver hatchback, a recent model looking to be in good condition, with one Grateful Dead dancing bear in center position on the back window and this license plate: MOONBEAR. I kind of chuckled and sped up a little to get a look at the driver, who, for some reason, I had stereotyped as a twenty-something hippie chick. Wrong.
Moonbear is somewhere in the middle-age range. He has thick glasses and a bushy but neatly trimmed beard. Short, curlyish hair, light brown, probably some gray in it. We were doing like 65 on a winding part of the Taconic, so I may not have it all right. It was a cute license plate, and Moonbear wasn’t what I expected. I kind of liked it.
Then, this morning. Much farther south on the Taconic, I saw him again. He appeared to be more casually dressed, but no less serious. I think he forgets about his license plate. Kind of like when you’re a little kid and you get your face painted at the fair. Then, a couple hours later you go into a deli for a soda and can’t figure out why everyone is giving you that weird smile.
Point is, Moonbear has turned me around a little. From this day forward I will be at least a little more tolerant of vanity plates. I’m not saying I’m going to run out and get one of my own, but I won’t be such a snob about it. Thanks Moonbear, wherever the road takes you.
Life
I’m a little concerned this morning. Parenting is the most important job in the world, and we have to take our responsibilities very seriously. With global threats of abrupt climate change, terrorism, and the paparazzi always in our periphery, we really have to be on our toes. So when I encounter a particular news story and notice certain behaviors in my boys, I have to pay attention.
Both of my children have expressed a particular interest in footwear. At almost 5 and almost 2, they have both been caught on film in Mom’s high heels, my slippers. Hell, Noah has made a regular habit of tucking into a pair of Jake’s sneakers, then putting on one of Carol’s sandals and one of my oxfords. Jake in Carol’s calf-high boots (thigh-high for him) is a regular Winter sight. And socks. My, my, my. The socks. Both of them have been known to wear upwards of 5 pairs on a good day. Not every day, mind you. Just once in a while. One of them gets a little too close to a basket of fresh laundry and suddenly you see layers of white cotton, navy argyle, rainbow lycra covering tiny, tiny ankles. Egads.
Add to this an affection for baby powder. That’s right. A recently renewed delight for Jake in recent weeks. His post-shower “snow storm” is a favorite pleasure. And I don’t have to mention lotion. they love lotion. Skin care everywhere.
“What does this all mean?” I hear you ask. Honestly, I thought nothing of it until I came across this story. A 20 year old New Mexico woman in police custody was able to slip out of leg irons thanks to 6 pairs of socks and some lubricating cocoa butter. She threw baby powder in a guard’s face and made a run for it.
So, are my kids just exploring their boundaries? Are they just playing dress-up? Do they really have a thing for feet? Or are they thinking about what the future holds? Are they devilish and clever and planning for the inevitable?
People, please. Be safe out there. And watch your kids. Sure they’re cute. But they may also be practicing.
Life
Yesterday, Sunday, dubbed ‘Family Day’ in our house because it’s the one day we are always all together from dawn until dusk, I received the most egregious telemarketing call ever. It was around 12:30 in the afternoon on my cell phone. Caller ID showed an 800 number. Hmmmm. I answered and it was one of those pre-recorded messages that sounds like a real live person.
“Hi there. This is Bobby Graham,” and then a pause for me to reply “Hi, Bobby, what can I do for you today.” Except I, like most people, have developed that reserved, cynical, suspicious tone when answering the phone, so I offered no pleasant greeting to my new buddy Bobby.
Bobby went on to tell me that he represented the Billy Graham Ministries and was calling to see if I was one of the many people whose life was touched by ‘Grampa’ Billy. Wow. That was just so wrong. Where does Billy Graham (or the Billy Graham Ministries empire) get off calling me on my CELL PHONE to solicit saccharine nonsense and, ultimately, cash.
No, Bobby Graham. I have no tale of the miracle of faith in Grampa Billy answering my prayers and delivering that new used car downpayment in the form of a Pick Six ticket. And not for nothing, get the fuck off my cell phone. I’m not donating to your cause, and your unsolicited call of questionable legality (you will never convince me that this is a non-profit organization and I have never done business with you, so read your Do Not Call Registry guidelines a little closer, Bobby) is costing me money.
Look, I got about 4 hours of sleep last night and I’ve been up since 5 so I’m a little punchy, but come on. Bobby’s religious views are not mine, and my views are none of his business. This call really pissed me off. I don’t want email telling me my girl thinks my penis is too small and I better get going on some ‘natural male enhancement.’ I don’t want faxes urging me to secure a line of credit at incredible sub-prime rates. And I don’t want the God Squad bugging me for donations on Family Day. My time is my own. My faith is my own.
And anyway, when the Almighty communicates with me he prefers to burn a bush.