If you are *anywhere* in the vicinity of microphones, whether or not you are sure they are turned off, do not, under ANY circumstances, say something that you might wish was not broadcast, recorded and shared.
Ummmkay?
I know, I know, sure, Ronald Reagan ran afoul of this. So did George W. Bush.
And so, you’d think we’d all learn.
But no.
Disgraced California lawmaker denies affairs
And as a post script…why is it always the ardent “family values” people who are the most wacky?
Think about it.
…and the law will probabaly win.
Ok, not me, but a man named Dave Vontesmar. Mr. Vontesmar lives in Arizona. Phoenix, to be exact.
And Mr. Vontesmar has to commute daily for his job at Sky Harbor airport.
Mr. Vontesmar is not a fan of the recently installed cameras that Phoenix has been using to catch speeders (and, let’s be clear, raise revenue).
It is, as this article describes, a “photo-enforcement gantlet (sic) on Interstate 17, Arizona 51 and Interstate 10.”
Mr. Vontesmar IS, however, a fan of going in excess of the speed limit.
And so the perfect solution is born.
Dave Vontesmar wears a monkey mask when driving. Sometimes a giraffe mask, but mostly a monkey mask.
And when the tickets, some 37 so far, totaling fines upward of $6,500, show up at his home, he says:
“‘Not one of them there is a picture where you can identify the driver,’ Vontesmar said. ‘The ball’s in their court. I sent back all these ones I got with a copy of my driver’s license and said, ‘It’s not me. I’m not paying them.””
Well ok. I guess they use the car registration and the driver’s license photo to id the drivers and issue the ticket.
So Vontesmar is working a loophole here.
Except…
“…officers sat outside Vontesmar’s home and watched him drive to work. ‘We watched him four different times put the monkey mask on and put the giraffe-style mask on,’ Officer Dave Porter said. ‘Based on surveillance, we were positive that Vontesmar was the driver.'”
So fine, he’s probably not going to get away with this, but damn…you gotta like his style!
File this under: hot desert sun does something funny to folks.
Photo from azcentral.com
Sort of, anyway.
I mean, over the weekend, in fact, last night, I had occasion to make dinner for my husband. I admit, there is something so *deeply* satisfying to cook for my man, and even more so when he took a first bite and made a yummy noise. Gets right to the heart of me!
Ok, so here’s another way I may be a bit stodgy. Ladies, listen in here… The weekend just past was Labor Day.
And we all know what that means, right?
Of course, no wearing white after Labor Day. We can wear it again come Easter.
There, I said it. I know, I know, that rule is out of date and there is such a thing as “winter white” and so on.
To me, this rule really applies to two items of clothing…pants and shoes.
A nice crisp white blouse with darker pants is fine.
But pair that with white shoes? *gasp*
My mother, who was, in her day, quite fashionable (don’t scoff dear mum, I have the photos to prove it!), taught me the no white after Labor Day rule.
But then she also gave me the handy carve out that, since we lived in New Mexico and the weather stayed warmer in New Mexico than, say, eastern climates, wearing white a little bit longer was acceptable.
But no, I took the rule entirely to heart. Nope, nada, ain’t gonna do it! Back in my college days living in the sorority house, I was one of *those* girls who would point and gasp in horror when one of my sisters dared to sport a pair of white heels in the month of September.
Really rude, I know.
Then again…who wears white heels? Seriously.
I seem to have zero trouble following my own rule because…I don’t own a pair of white pants. Really, there are only a very select group of women in this world who should be allowed to wear white pants. The rest of us can sit out this fashion, trust me.
And I’m pretty sure I don’t own any white shoes either, if you don’t count athletic shoes, which I don’t. (and mine aren’t white anyway)
Pretty much, in my middle years, I’m less and less inclined to get uptight about this rule.
And what kicked off this whole train of thought was an article in Time discussing the origin of the rule. Turns out the history is a bit fuzzy.
Ah well.
Really, in fashion, to each their own, right?
(I’m looking at you, Lady Gaga)
“Younger people at the moment are very mouthy and aggressive,” he complains…”
Guess who said that?
Go on…guess!
No, really, you’ll NEVER get it.
It’s too…too…..deliciously ironic!
Ok, I’ll tell.
I just can’t hold it in anymore!
Ready?
Johnny Rotten!
No, really. Here’s the article!
Hey, you kids! Get off my lawn!!!
So, there I was today, in bumper to bumper traffic, trying to get to work.
The Bay Bridge is closed this weekend for construction, so the traffic patterns in the Bay Area have gone all wonky.
My usual peaceful, easy commute was jammed up. Fine. A fact of life in a highly populated area.
As you may or may not know, in California, it’s legal for motorcycle riders to “split the lanes”, meaning, they can ride in that space between two cars, side by side in their respective lanes.
It took me quite some time to get used to this, but now, especially in a traffic slowdown, I’m quite alert. As a car driver it’s always best to stay the course when a motorcycle comes whipping down between lanes.
This morning, as I sat, fully stopped, I watched the usual parade of motorcycles split the lanes. A Harley rumbled by. A really sweet BMW bike glided through. A couple of those very speedy Japanese bikes that force the rider to stick his rear up (doesn’t seem right to go a 100mph with your ass higher than you head, but what do I know?).
And then, in my rearview, I saw this patchwork bike come wobbling along, looking like something out of the Road Warrior films.
Apparently mismatched parts had been collected from the junk pile. The thin tires looked better suited to off road than asphalt. The fender didn’t match the bumper. It made a sound like a monkey wrench caught in the spin cycle.
But the rider sat tall in the saddle. He was decked in leathers and fully in command of his vehicle, proudly guiding his bike through Bay Area traffic.
And as he passed by, I noted the New Mexico license plate bolted firmly to the back.
As he rode away, out of sight, I held hand to my heart and quietly hummed “O Fair New Mexico”.
“O Fair New Mexico, we love, we love you so….”
Thank you, New Mexico, for keeping it rasquache, even here in the Bay Area.
Oh so ready for the Labor Day Weekend. Happy and safe one, ya’ll!
