Wednesday, September 19, 2007

i'm ready for my close-up

yesterday i received a very official looking letter in the mail from the beverly hills police department. since i don't live in beverly hills, i was intrigued. i opened the envelope, half expecting a summons for all the nasty things i have written in the past about some of beverly hills finest residents - lindsay, paris, nicole and britney - but that was not the case. inside the envelope was a traffic ticket and attached to the ticket was a very attractive photo of me.

the camera caught me, sunroof open and hair flying, just as i was singing along with the radio to the chorus of "bye, bye miss american pie". it seems, at the very moment of the photo, according to an officer hartman, i was also flying through a red light. i remember the exact moment and what i was doing, because, just as i sang "drove my chevy through the levee and the levee was dry", and passed through an amber light, there was a flashing strobe that nearly blinded me.

now, i am all for catching criminals. i think murderers, rapists, child predators and cat burglarers all deserve to have their evil deeds captured on film. all the better to convict them and throw away the key. there have been many incidents of kidnappings and bank robberies that have been caught on tape and the perpetrators identified and captured. so hooray for hidden cameras. HOWEVER - to quote a famous past president "i am not a crook". i can not imagine that beverly hills doesn't have better places to spend their money than on hidden cameras on one of the fanciest thoroughfares in their fair city. i feel my privacy has been invaded. what if i was cruising through that amber light with, say, a lover? all of a sudden a photo would arrive on my doorstep with me and said paramour. that would be just plain wrong. besides, i didn't go through a red light and so i am going to fight it.

the husband just wants me to go to traffic school and move on. i refuse. traffic school in los angeles is worse than prison. you have your choice of regular traffic school - six hours of watching car crashes in a hot and stuffy room with murderers and rapists, who were not caught for their felonies, but are being held captive for not making a full stop at an intersection. you can also go to comedy traffic school. same six hours, same murderers and rapists but instead of an under qualified, unemployable teacher you get six hours of an under qualified unemployable comedian. i, personally, would rather sit through six hours of head on collisions than 15 minutes of a bad comic. you can also choose traffic school for ice cream addicts or chocolate lovers. same drill, only instead of jokes you get sweets - for six hours. what would make you sicker to your stomach? bloody wrecks or six hours worth of lousy ice cream or even worse milk chocolate?

no, no traffic school for me. i am going to the mat on this one. i am taking my summons and my very attractive photo (it is a good thing, in los angeles, to always be camera ready. you never know when you might get caught in the crossfire of dueling paparazzi - in an effort to catch the olsen twins, not eating at the ivy, they could accidentally get you, seated at the next table, in the frame. next thing you know you are in people magazine. trust me - you do not want to be caught on a bad hair day or even worse with no make-up on on the glossy pages of people magazine.) straight down the beverly hills court house. just standing in the very spot where zsa zsa gabor faced down the policeman who dared stop her for speeding, gives me the chills. knowing that this is the same court of justice that granted wynona ryder her freedom makes me want to stand up and sing "god bless america".

i am going to fight for truth, justice and the american way, get cameras out of my private space and get these moving violation points off my license. unless, of course, you can get frequent flyer miles for those points.

1 comment:

izon said...

You ran a red light, and you're whinging 'cos you got caught. Be thankful you didn't cause an accident.