LUGGY

I’m very tired. Last night Noah started calling for Mommy and Daddy around 11pm. He didn’t stop until about 3am. He would call for Mommy nonstop for an extended period. Finally, Carol would go up and soothe him. He would ‘agree’ to go to sleep. Five minutes after she got back in bed he’d start calling Daddy. The cycle went on for way too long, and we are both exhausted.

Still, I haven’t written in a few days. I guess I’m still winded from the speeding ticket epic. I did see a good vanity plate yesterday, though, so that’s a place to start. On the back of a Honda CRV that was a couple years old: LUGGY. What does that mean? Is it, like, a car that can ‘lug’ a bunch of stuff around? Maybe the guy/gal who owned Luggy used to drive something really small, like Vespa Scooter.

Reminds me of the time when we wanted to put some insulation in the attic of our first house. I was used to driving the Ford Escort hatchback I had at the time, and forgot we were in Carol’s Neon. The Neon had, um, limited trunk space. I can’t believe we crammed four bags of pink unfaced bats into that thing. I think only one fit in the truck and the rest got crammed in the backseat. I almost left Carol at Home Depot so I could drive home with one of the packs in the passenger seat. But it didn’t come to that. I can be quite stubborn.

Still, not as funny as the time we drove home on the highway with a couple of sheets of plywood on the roof of the Jeep. It’s when we were putting new sheet vinyl flooring in the kitchen of that same house. Carol was very pregnant and we both had to have a hand out the window, holding onto the plywood. See, once you hit about 35 miles per hour, the sheets would bow up like a big plywood sail. It was an aerodynamics thing, I guess. A very challenging drive.

I remember we both got home with our window arms aching and very cold. I looked at my big-with-baby wife and apologized for putting her through another hardship. You know, I do that a lot. Maybe I’m too Luggy. Oh well. Sorry Carol.

Return of the Judgie: I Fought The Law Part…

The final chapter in this ridiculous epic. Significant background and much funnier stuff in Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV , and Part V.

I passed through the metal detectors without incident. I made my way into Courtroom B and found a seat on one of the pew-like benches in the back, all the way to the side. Within 5 minutes it got kind of crowded, and I had to watch my elbows to keep from jabbing the guy next to me, but it was still better than flying coach.

Most people in the Courtroom were nervous, which I remember from that Connecticut ticket I fought way back when (see Part I for details). But in Connecticut, we all sat around in the Courtroom waiting to be called to speak with the Prosecutor. Speaking to the Prosecutor either (a) got you a reduction and you just went to pay the clerk or (b) got you a trial because you thought you were smarter than the Prosecutor and Judge and tried to get off scott-free. For example, there was a young guy next to me who wouldn’t shut up about how his van was a piece of crap that “couldn’t possibly go 50 miles an hour so how the hell did the cop clock me at 80” and “he must have radared another car and thought it was me.” I tried to ignore him, reading my book, but he went on and on. He was called before me, and I could see that the Prosecutor didn’t believe the story either. He ended up with a trial, and I’m sure the judge was pissed off.

In White Plains, however, we’d made our deal with the cop, so we already knew our fate. I was a little apprehensive about pleading guilty to anything in front of a Judge with a DVD burner (the Stenographer was already gone – see Part IV), especially considering the Patriot Act and all the Freedom of Information stuff, but I figured I’d take my chances. I calmly read my Avengers Graphic Novel and eavesdropped on the nearby preaching of the attorney that the little Daddy’s girl had hired (also in Part IV).

I only waited about 15 minutes. It was 10 minutes before the Judge got started (and that included the technical difficulties with the DVD recorder that required the temporary stenographer). Then another 5 minutes to get through the 8 or 10 people before me. Yes, it was that quick. Almost all of the cases were the same as mine with the same plea. One or two involved some other detail, or the speed and fine was different, but the exchange was similar. The only difference between mine and the ones before me was that I spoke loud and clear (did not mumble), and I said thank you at the end, which only about half of the others did.

Judge: Mr. Bancroft, you have agreed to plead guilty to a speeding violation of 40 miles per hour  in a 30. Is that correct.
Mr. Bancroft: Yes, sir.
J: You are hereby instructed to pay a fine of $100 plus a surcharge of $50. You can pay the clerk outside.
Mr. B: Thank you.

That’s about it, though I have to bring up the same important detail I first wrote about in Part IV. When I said, “Thank you,” the Judge looked down at me. It was a good, solid, somewhat professorial look. An over-the-glasses look. As I said before, it was what I imagine to be a grandfatherly look. And I swear, I’m not making this up, I’m not embellishing, this is the honest to goodness truth: he smiled at me. Listen, I was watching. Though he was nice and friendly to everyone, he didn’t give anybody else that smile. Just me. And it wasn’t a weird or inappropriate smile. It wasn’t suggestive. Pull your mind out of the gutter. It was just a cool “we’re a couple of cool guys hangin’ in Courtroom B” smile. I smiled back.

I used to have this Police Synchronicity poster with them all in their torn-up, primary color, post-apocalyptic video clothes. No matter where you went in the room, Sting was looking at you. And it was a creepy, Don’t Stand So Close to Me look. Maybe this thing with the Judge was, like, a reverse optical illusion. Instead of having eyes that follow you around the room, Judgie had a smile that is only visible in a narrow-focused area directly in front of the bench.

Hey, you never know.

By the way, after paying cash for my fine, calling Carol on the cell to let her know the outcome, and walking back to the municipal lot at a calmer pace than I’d left it, I still had an hour and 20 minutes left on the meter. Of course, considering the more or less favorable outcome of my day in court (and still floating a little from that Judgie smile), I was not upset about my adventure finding change earlier that morning (that’s in Part II). Hell, I figured I’d share the love, so I waved over a woman in a minivan who was cruising the 3 hour part of the lot looking for a meter with some time left on it. I pulled out, accepted her little wave with a gracious nod, and went on my way. I bet she was psyched when she saw how much free time I’d left her.

Rock on, Minivan lady. And if you had business in Courtroom B, I hope you were polite, spoke clearly, and got your own Judgie smile.

Officer McFriendly: I Fought The Law Part V

I’m really trying to get my Star Wars double trilogy on, so this may be shorter than the earlier Parts. Don’t miss Part I, Part II, Part III, or Part IV for the background.

I finally got to the front of the line. I had watched scores of people go through the motions – the crotchety old lady, the skanks, a nice young guy with a suspended license who needed to get his points down so he could legally drive to work, etc. Now it was my turn.

The officer was seated at a municipal steel desk. As I approached, rehearsing my story in my head, he gestured to a red plastic chair. I accepted his offer and took the seat. I showed him my letter, folded so that my name was easily visible. I said my name quietly at the same time so as not to be rude, but I find it is easier for people in these circumstances to see my written name than to try and hear me say it. Part of this compulsion is, I think, because I have a slight speech impediment – I have trouble with the letter ‘r.’ If you listen closely, and unless I am trying, I say my name a little more like “Dwoo” than you’d expect. Again, nobody seems to notice, but I am self-conscious about it.

Anyway, the cop dug out my file, gave it a quick once over and then offered me a deal. He spoke nonstop for about a minute and a half and I never even got a chance to give my story. Not that it mattered, of course. This was quicker.

Basically, he told me that I had been clocked at 53 in a 30 which is a 6 point offense. The 6 points warrants an immediate $300 addition to my fine (which would have been $200 I think). He said he was willing to reduce it to 40 in a 30, 3 license points. I told him I was concerned about points causing my insurance to go up because my license is otherwise clean and point-free. He said if my license is clean I should not worry about 3 points. He then said that the DMV does not notify insurance companies about points. He said that as long as I don’t tell them, my insurance won’t go up. (So, don’t tell them, ok?)

Not only were my worries soon to end, but I felt, in some teeny tiny way, like I was in collusion with this officer of the law. Sweet.

The officer pointed to Courtroom B and told me to go through the metal detectors and wait for the judge. He told me what the judge would say and that I should just agree. It was all pretty easy and made a lot of sense for me. Yes, I would have to pay $150 ($100 for the speeding offense, and $50 in fees and surcharges), but that beats the obligation of $500 or so that I started the day with.

I stood, thanked the officer, and extended my hand. Surprise flashed behind his eyes for a fraction of a second, and then it resolved to a sort of standard, cop smile. But it wasn’t smug. He wasn’t rolling his eyes or humoring me. He shook my hand, and I really believe it made his day a hair better. Maybe only a very small hair, but that’s better than nothing, right?

Things I Learned at the Court House: I Fought…

I wonder if I can make this a double trilogy like Star Wars. I’m close. Very close. Perhaps I shall use…the force? No! The Schwarz. Ok, that’s more Spaceballs than Part I, Part II, or Part III of this epic.

In this part I will dispel some urban myths about traffic violations, fighting tickets, etc. I learned a few things on Friday the 13th that may be beneficial to you.

1. Unless your speeding violation is so severe that you will get your license suspended, do not hire an attorney – unless your rich Daddy is paying for it. They (the court) will always offer you a plea (unless you are very stupid and argumentative) that will save you money. The lawyer will not save you any more money, he will just do all the talking with the cop who offers the plea. He may also have sway with the courtroom flunkies and get you to go first, but that will only save you between 5 and 15 minutes. He will charge you a lot of money for this and everyone else in courtroom will glower at you until you leave.

2. I don’t know about highway violations involving state troopers, but for local speeding violations in White Plains (and apparently most of Westchester – I got this from the chatty attorney before the Judge came in, so he wasn’t all bad) they book the trials on a day when the officer is on duty. That means the old if-the-officer-doesn’t-show-up-you-get-off trick won’t work. If you are dumb enough to attempt this this, they simply radio the officer and he will be in court within 20 minutes. Incidentally, this is why I got the summons letter less than 2 weeks before the date of my appearance. They don’t send them until the cops are scheduled to be on duty. So, yeah. Don’t try that. It will just piss everybody off.

3. License points are not insurance company points. Different system, different scale. In New York you can have something like 11 points on your license before it is suspended. Also, if you do more than 20 miles over the limit you get 6 points, which is an automatic $300 additional fine. Ouch. For those keeping score, I did 53 in a 30 (I know I’m bad bad bad) so aren’t you eager to find out the outcome? I think I’ll save that for Episode VI, Return of the Violator.

4. Ample cleavage and daintiness won’t get you a better deal than sensible jeans and a cardigan. Neither will bringing a giggling friend along for moral support. The cop you made your deal with may attempt a smile. Maybe if your friend is actually hot…but I doubt it. These guys are professional. If this item mystifies you, you haven’t read Part III.

5. The DMV does not report points to insurance companies. So, “I have a clean license and I’m afraid my insurance will go up” is not a valid argument. I suppose it only becomes an issue if you apply for new insurance during the period when you have points. Otherwise, if you don’t tell them, nobody will. So, I won’t be switching to Geico anytime soon. At least not for 4 months.

6. “4 months?” you ask. “But Drew, I thought points were on your license for 18 months.” You are correct attentive reader, however, the 18 months begins at the time of the violation. So, since the wheels of justice turned so very slowly, 14 months have passed since I got nabbed for speeding. Thus, 4 remaining months in which to wonder if it really is so easy a caveman can do it. Darn. (Dislaimer: This is NY – I don’t know the deal wherever you got caught speeding).

7. When the cop offers you the deal without even asking for your story, answers your questions about points and insurance, and does not accuse you or say anything to make you feel like the depp down dirty criminal you are, it is a good idea to shake his hand. The look of mild surprise, and the almost smile you get in return is really kind of rewarding. I think I’ll expand on this in Part V.

7a. The smile you get from the cop for being sensible and polite is far more genuine than the one you get for bringing your skanky friend along.

7b. The smile you get from the cop for being sensible and polite is far more rewarding than the sigh and frustrated ‘nothing I can do about it’ look you get when you’re a crotchety old meanie who says, “can you tell me what is wrong with Westchester County when a retired woman has to stand in line for 45 minutes waiting and still has to go into the courtroom blah blah blah blah.” She was two people in front of the skanks. I hadn’t noticed her until then.

8. You cannot pay for your fine with a personal check – at least, that’s the case in White Plains Court. You can use cash, a debit card, most major credit cards, but no personal checks. I think you can also use the 16 pound 6 inch square coins of the Boogum Boogum tribe in Southern Namibia, but you should double check that. I meant to ask.

9. In court, at least in Court Room B of White Plains City Court, they do not use stenographers unless the DVD burner recording apparatus breaks down. Which actually happened, so I got to see a stenographer in action for about as long as it took to reboot Windows. So, it was like an hour and a half.

9a. Just kidding, she was only there for 5 minutes, and most of that was to make sure the machine was working again.

10. The judge might actually be nice. Not an arrogant prick like in all those Grisham novels. When he entered, though they didn’t say “all rise” like on The People’s Court, several people started to. He immediately said, “be seated, be seated,” in a jovial, grandfatherly manner. And he had a good sense of humor about the stenographer thing. Also, when you get called up, if you respond in a clear voice and say thank you at the end, the judge (at least this judge) may even give you a comforting smile. Court really wasn’t that bad. For a moment he was like the grandfather I never had.

I mean, I had a grandfather. Two, actually. One died before I was born and the other one didn’t really know me, but the judge was like a third grandfather. Super Grandfather. I wish he’d had his robe closed so I could imagine a big ‘S’ on his chest. Instead it was sort of hanging open so I could see his shirt and tie. It broke the illusion, but it was still way better than jiggling cleavage (see Part III). I still could have pinched his tit, though. Damn, I really should have pinched his tit. That would have been awesome.

Artifax & Cleavage: I Fought The Law Part III

This story may, in fact, never end. Don’t miss Part I and Part II for the background that may be necessary to comprehend the ramblings of this latest chapter.

I made it to the courthouse with 2 minutes to spare. I was not actually in the presence of the Judge. I wasn’t even in the presence of the cop that everyone seemed to have to speak to before being sent into one of the courtrooms. But I was on site, and there were dozens of people waiting right along with me. There were many people in this very slow moving line, including a wily older woman of middle eastern descent who made several attempts to slip to a more advantageous place in the line when it did, in fact move. But since it moved so VERY slowly, she had little success in the long haul. For the most part she just seemed to agitate the Mom behind me.

The Mom behind me was nice, and meant well, but was extremely rattled. She kept asking if this was the right line. I told her the guy at the desk told me this was the place to go when I showed him my summons letter. She remained ill at ease. She showed me her letter – identical except her time to appear was 10am. Then a court cop came around and told us only people with letters telling them to appear should be in the line. Anyone else (who had to pay a fine, or schedule something, or reschedule something, etc.) should go to a clerk window out of our line of sight. This renewed Mom’s nervousness, though I pointed out that she had the letter the cop had been talking about. It would be about 40 more minutes until we made it to the front of the line and I was on deck to speak with the desk cop before she resolved that she was, in fact, in the correct place. She said, “I guess we’re on the right line,” though she seemed, somehow, to still lack confidence.

The cool thing Mom did was to ask the people behind us (a slightly loud, gawdy, know-it-all couple that I think would have felt very at home on the set of the Sopranos) if the old woman trying to creep forward was with them. She did it without accusation, just sort of nervous curiosity. Sopranos woman very loudly said, “No, she ain’t with us. She’s be-hind us.” She emphasized “behind” with some annoyance (and considering her carriage it seemed a word she should be comfortable using) and the old lady suddenly scurried back to her place. She’d been hovering a bit to my right, creeping forward, so this was a welcome relief of tension for me.

In front of me were two young (ahem) ladies who pointedly laid out (no pun) their prior evening’s activities through a not too quiet conversation and several even less quiet cell phone calls. They were twenty-somethings who had spent the night before at a club. One had received a speeding violation the same morning in May ’06 as me. The Violator had also apparently been digitally violated at the bar on Thursday night…willingly. Um. Yuck.

She had orange hair, lots of freckles, ridiculous cleavage, a dull palor of hangover-sans-shower. Perhaps she had changed her clothes. I don’t really want to speculate. Her deep v-necked top did little to cover her side chubs and she was wearing denim short-shorts. She was a big girl. That’s not a polite way of saying she was tall. I momentarily wished for a stapler so I could attach her shirt to her belt and cover up the pallid rolls of flesh, but then again, I don’t think I would have liked touching her.

Her friend, along for moral support, was a little shorter and a little less plump, but her white fleecy top and matching shorts were somewhat grayed, and she had about her a persistent odor of stale cigarette smoke. The friend made several phone calls seeking information about another friend because “I don’t know where she slept last night.”

There was way too much jiggling flesh, far below my preferred part of the female anatomy for jiggling, than I could handle. So I kept turning sideways in the line. Each time I did this, to avoid being blinded by yucky girl skank, Mom would start up with “So, the guy at the desk told you to get on this line, right? Do you think he knows where we’re really supposed to be?”

There was a moment when I had to stifle a laugh. See, the two chunkers did this thing where they acted really dainty. Like pointing their heads down and glancing up for a doe-eyed, Audrey Hepburn look. Their look was, of course, more moose-eyed. Oh, and they always had their hands up with bent wrists and their pinkies out. Quite dainty. Uber dainty. 400+ cumulative pounds of dainty. So, as the line made a sort of left turn, we were suddenly able to see the clerk window (which got Mom going again about maybe she should have gone there first. You didn’t go to the window before you got on this line, did you?). A small display of old cop stuff also became visible. Pork Antiques. There were a couple of motorcycles from many decades ago. There was a very old scale used to weigh prisoners. There was a gallows.

Just kidding, wanted to see if you were paying attention. Would have been cool, though…

The big stuff was in front of a glass case with smaller things. I read the tags on everything with large enough type to decipher from 20 feet away. I had time to kill and Mom had momentarily stopped chattering. I found the pre-Miranda era tear gas gun interesting.

The chunkies noticed the stuff too, prompting the following phonetically transcribed conversation:

Friend: They got a lotta artifax and shit.
Violated Violator: Yeah <dainty giggle, rolling jiggle>
F: You should, like, aks the cop about it.
VV: Yeah. <raised pinky, contemplative pause> Yeah.
F: Be, like, all interested and shit. About the artifax. He’ll like that.
VV: Mmmmm. <cuticle nibble, cuticle nibble, cuticle nibble> Uh-huh.
F: You’re such a whore. <throaty chuckle, then yanking on VV’s top to display yet more cleavage>
VV: Stop pinching my tit! <dainty giggle>
F: You shoulda wore the green top. It shows off your boobs better. <appraising glance>
VV: You puked on it you fuckin’ douche. <mock scowl>
F: Oh yeah. <fond remembering glance skyward, pause, then dainty giggle> That was awesome.

Does it matter that there’s a ‘t’ in artifact? When I think of pinched tits and vomit encrusted lycra, and…ummm…douches, well, I guess the answer is no. It does not.

Brother, Can You Spare a Quarter?: I Fought The…

Yeah, this is going to be a lot more than 2 parts. Part I may clear up some of the details if this seems confusing.

I got the speeding ticket in May of 2006. It’s a stretch of Bloomingdale Road in White Plains by the Westchester Mall where you just come off 287. There’s been construction and congestion on 287 for many years now, so on most days the traffic blows. This day in May, the traffic had been bad, and the people at the series of lights I had to pass through were not…cooperating. I finally got past a few near misses negotiating the turn off the Exit and onto Bloomingdale Road. I got through a light, past a minivan doing about 7 miles per hour, and started cruising. At the time I was VERY unfamiliar with this stretch of road, clueless about the impending speed trap. I rounded a soft turn and started up a hill and saw what I thought was a taxi. Unfortunately, it was a police car. The cop was hanging out with the radar gun on his hood. He stepped into the road and waved me over. No lights. No sirens. No excitement. Just a little “Gotcha Buddy” with a crook of his index finger.

Turns out I was doing 53 in a 30. That’s pretty bad, I admit. I mean, for this bit of road, 3 lanes in each direction, I figured it was at least 40, but I failed to see the signs that I now know are there. Lesson learned. Very sucky lesson learned. I got the ticket, requested a trial (recalling my good luck in Connecticut a few years ago – again, see Part I for the details), and started waiting.

Less than two weeks ago I received my court date in the mail. On the 12 month anniversary I was actually thinking I might have gotten away with it. Unfortunately for me, though, the wheels of justice may turn slow, but they definitely turn. I actually learned why they turn so slow, too. I will discuss that along with several other tidbits I picked up in a later Part.

I was kind of pissed. After 14 months of silence, the City of White Plains finally deigned to see me with only about 11 calendar days of advance notice. Further, the letter clearly stated that there would be no adjournments prior to this time. I had a moment of panic thinking that meant there would be no deals like in Connecticut, but then I looked up adjournment and found that it just means postponement of the trial date. I always thought that when they said “court is adjourned” in lawyer movies, it meant it was, you know, over. I guess it means something more like it’s over for now, but we’re “postponing” the juicy stuff until tomorrow.

My limited legal understanding aside, I was instructed to show up at 9:30am, so I left early, afraid of 287 traffic (thankfully, the location of the courthouse is nowhere near Bloomingdale Road). I made one crucial mistake. We have a new car which I probably neglected to mention. It is about 2 weeks old so it has picked up little of the detritus of mobile life such as child stains, Cheerios on the floor, or loose pocket change. It turns out that all the municipal lots in White Plains (there are many), along with all the street parking spaces, still have meters requiring change.

Eeeek! I had not a single quarter. But I located the court house and cruised two lots with more than 45 minutes to spare, so I knew I could figure something out. I found a Dunkin’ Donuts on Mamoroneck Avenue with an open space and ran in, hoping the expired meter would not catch any attention. The line was huge, and included 2 cops and a parking enforcement official about 6 patrons ahead of me. I crossed my fingers and waited my turn, watching from the corner of my eye when the fuzz exited with their Dunkin’ booty and passed my wheels. They didn’t seem to notice. Finally it was my turn and I ordered a medium coffee. Quick calculations told me this was the item and size that would yield the most potential change. I also asked the cashier three times if he could possibly spare some quarters. He feigned a lack of English the first two times. Having heard him conversing at length with the bottle blond in front of me, I persisted, and he finally scooped a few quarters, dimes and nickels from the tip cup and traded me for a buck.

Yeah. Great. I now had about an hour and a half of change. I spent somewhere between 2 and 3 hours in the Connecticut courthouse, so I knew this wouldn’t do. I thought about trying it, and if I got an overtime notice in the garage, well would that be more expensive than paying in advance? Would there be some sort of additional fine? I don’t know. I was getting a little ansty and wasn’t thinking too clearly.

I figured I’d try a branch of my bank across the street. But you see, my bank was recently purchased by another, bigger, bank. The bigger bank already had a branch nearby and had decided to close the one that was most convenient to my current circumstances. Can you feel my pain?

It was now 5 minutes to 9. I made the command decision to drive to a store with ample free parking where I now the owner. On a good day it’s about 5 minutes away. I raced off (not really, I was quite paranoid at this point and very carefully observing the posted speed limit). I got behind a senior-mobile of late 70s vintage doing 15 in a 30 and let loose a stream of curses. At 9:15 I was sprinting out of my friend’s dry cleaning shop with about 5 bucks in quarters.

On the way back up Old Mamaroneck Road (which merges onto Mamaroneck Road proper) I was behind a school bus. No joke. You really can’t make this stuff up.

Being quite familiar with parking by the courthouse, I made short work of finding a spot in the 3 hour section of the lot, pumping the meter to the max, and jogging up the street to the front entrance of the court house. I showed my letter to the guy at the desk and he pointed me to the back of a long line. I looked at the time on my cell phone. 9:27am.

Hot damn. I made it.

Sort of. More to come…

NUGABUG & H34ME

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.

If you see Moonbear, say “Hello” for me

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.