Fond of rumpots, crackpots, and how are you, Mr. Wilson?

Those who know me are probably aware that I was tooling around for a while in a car with no-longer-valid license plates. This meant driving could be a nerve-wracking occasion, with even benign trips to the store undercut by virulent skull-banshees screaming, "OH GODS PLEASE DON'T NOTICE ME" in my head any time a police car approached. I finally got new plates, but it still takes a moment for me to shut the skull-banshees up in the presence of the Five-0.

I mentioned this to rain_herself yesterday as I drove her to the Alewife T stop, and I felt that familiar twinge as we passed a cruiser on the side of the road, watching the traffic creep by. "I wonder if that fear will ever go away," I said.

Right on cue, the woo-woo lights came on, and the cop swooped in behind me. "Well," Andrea said, "you're going to get some practice."

For I moment I entertained the idea that he was on his way to an emergency elsewhere, an idea that evaporated when I heard, "PULL OVER INTO THE DRIVEWAY" echoing from the cruiser's bullhorn. Well, fucknuggets. Once I was parked and the cruiser was jackknifed behind me, I could see that he was the sort of man whose photo could easily appear on the Wikipedia page for "Career Boston Police Officer": stocky, silver-haired, bar-fight nose, ramrod posture. He identified himself as Officer I-Wasn't-Paying-Attention-to-the-Name of the Cambridge police, and told me he'd pulled me over for not having an inspection sticker. Ahhh, okay, that makes sense. I told him that the plates were new and that I hadn't had time to get the inspection in, inwardly praying that the seven-day cutoff rule had some flex to it.

After a harried search for the registration paperwork (it was on the passenger-side floorboards), the officer vanished into his car while we engaged in the Flop-Sweat of the Detained, pretending we weren't studiously watching him out the rear-view to see if he came out with more pieces of paper than he went in with. I knew a late inspection was only a ticketing offense, and a small one at that, but I was still hoping for a warning and a Hill Street Blues-esque "Let's be careful out there." When he finally emerged, he had a small license-sized card, a larger registration-sized sheet, and a third item somewhere in between. Dag nabbit.

He ambled up to my open window, and pointed toward the back seat. "What's that instrument back there?" he asked in standard police-issue monotone.

I blinked. "It's a mandolin."

He stood a little taller. "Well. I have never written a ticket for a mandolin player, and I'm not about to start today."

The extra paper was a written warning, no ticket no fine, no effect on my insurance. He told me he'd have asked me to play him a tune if it weren't such a busy morning; I reflected (silently) that if I had played him a tune at my current mandolin skill level or lack thereof, this wouldn't have been just a warning. We were on our way, and I ended up only 15 minutes late to work.

Country Dick Montana, the late drummer for the Beat Farmers, once wrote that if you're ever pulled over in the South, you should be related to the quarterback. In Cambridge, I think we can amend that to having Berkelee School of Music connections. Thus endeth my attempt to find a funny closing thesis for this essay. Thank you. *bows*