My iPod has been playing a lot of Sting lately. I didn’t know I even *had* any Sting on the iPod. I don’t remember downloading any of his music, and don’t own any of his CDs. It’s not that I dislike him; I don’t really have strong feelings one way or the other. Except for that Fields of Gold song, which I actually do like. But can you really ever look at him and not think about the Tantric sex thing? I mean, hours? Even if it wasn’t true, it’s all that comes to mind. So to speak.

So, you’re driving at night down a back road with your high beams on and another car approaches. You dim your lights, but the other car, oblivious to the fact that it’s dark and they have their lights on, much less the fact that the little blue light on the dashboard means that the high beams have been turned on, does not. You flick your lights at them for the fraction of a second that politely indicates, “Could you please reduce the wattage of your headlights?” They demur to comply with this reasonable request. Having no other option, you then return your lights to their high setting, signifying, “Look, dickhead, if you won’t turn your lights down, then your retinas have to suffer as well.” This, however, is not sufficient to indicate your irritation with this uncivilized behavior and, short of swerving into the other car’s lane, there is nothing you can do to reinforce the fact that driving manners do matter. Don’t you just wish that there was a third setting on your lights that’s called, oh, “INCINERATE”, which, when engaged would blast the other driver’s eyes with light of such intensity that their rods and cones would be turned to little piles of ash and their optic nerves would retract in horror? No? You don’t? Well, I’d certainly pay extra for that option package.

This evening my husband, Rebecca, a friend of hers and I had dinner at a local restaurant. The girls left after they were done eating and went out to the car (presumably to call boys on their cell phones), while we waited for the check. As we walked out into the parking lot, the girls came rushing up to us, pointing to a Honda whose rear left tail light was smashed along with a portion of the back fender. They told us they had witnessed an accident – another car had backed up into the Honda, driven to another part of the parking lot (apparently scanning the lot to see if anyone would notice that there had been a gigantic fucking crash and that there was glass shattered all over the pavement), and then sped away. Rebecca reported that the female passenger was gesticulating widely to the male driver, hand signaling, “I can’t believe you did that, you fucking moron! You backed into that car! You cretinous fuckwad! Now, let’s drive away rapidly so that you can avoid any responsibility for your actions!” Ok, so that may have been my interpretation.

Rebecca and her friend had the presence of mind to not only note the make of the car, but also the license plate number (written on Rebecca’s hand, as if it was the phone number of a new potential boyfriend). The restaurant managers rushed out, gathered information from the girls and rushed back in to call the police. We got a call this evening from the investigating officer who came over to take Rebecca’s statement. This is what we learned:
1. Rebecca reported the perpetrator’s height as 5’6”, until the cop stood up and asked if he was taller or shorter than the driver. When she said he was about the same height, the officer corrected the report to read 6’. So what’s 6 inches?
2. The driver, when contacted by phone, denied that he knew anything about an accident. First he claimed there was a passenger in the car, and then changed his story to not having a passenger. The cop threatened to charge him with filing a false police report, but the guy held fast to his story.
3. People who live near here who are vacationing in Italy had both their cars stolen while they were away. Not related to this story, but he volunteered that information. That would really suck to come home to an empty garage. Unless someone had cleaned it for me. Then they could have the cars.
4. At federal jury duty in Philadelphia, the jury candidates are told that if they are selected for a trial, it will take longer an hour to resolve. Because so many people believe that Law and Order shows the actual duration of a case, apparently. Also unrelated, but simply fascinating, in an odd, sort of shake-your-head-in-disbelief way.
5. If this guy continues to assert that he and his vehicle were not involved in an accident, Rebecca will have to testify at the district justice office. She was disappointed to learn that it will be arranged around her school schedule so she won’t have to miss any school time.

That was all well and good, but the best part was when Rebecca informed me that the two people in the car were not married, but clearly on a date. When I asked her how she knew this, she replied, “He opened the door for her when she got into the car.” The most insightful observation of the evening.