Sentence of Dave Inspires Me, Alternatively Titled "My Earliest Appearances in Court"

Dave of Sentence of Dave wrote two recent Davish posts about his son's speeding tickets and subsequent court appearance, including an aside that "Alex should be thankful that he has a supportive father who accompanied him to court" just to prove that Dave wrote it.  This inspired today's post.

Almost 30 years ago I spent a summer in the Burg living with rootsy, Nelson, and Juan Moritz on Braxton Court.  This confederacy of dunces encountered a comedy of errors including broken pipes, shower fungus, and a misunderstanding of when the co-eds from whom we sublet the place expected us to be out.  But we managed to eke out some fun along the way.

I used Hoopy's name to get a job working at the Short Stop Cafe.  I think I made it through three shifts before I was fired.  I misread the calendar and showed up for a dinner shift when I was supposed to work a lunch.  The manager said "We have a policy here, no show, no call, no job."  I replied without skipping a beat, naturally, "No shit." and handed him my apron and Shortstop polo shirt.  I'm still bad at calendars but I haven't been fired since.

I was not phased by this turn of events.  I knew I wasn't cut out for the waitering life, with its formalities and expectations like courtesy and politeness.  I was too sick and rude to wait.

Shortly afterwards, I saw a sign at Paul's Deli advertising an opening for a delivery driver.  This seemed like a good fit.  I like to drive, it involved minimal customer interaction, I got a free meal on each shift, the commute was about 250 feet, and I could smoke cigarettes on the job.  It suited my 21-year-old lifestyle to a T.

Except for the part about the cops.  Williamsburg is crawling with them.  Campus Police, Colonial Williamsburg Police, Ford's Colony Police, Kingsmill Police, Williamsburg Police, James City County Police, State Troopers, all of them looking to pull over a young guy in a Japanese car with NJ plates driving 6 to 9 MPH over the limit.  All this is to say I had a lot of interactions with the local constabulary.  In these situations I would point to the pile of pizza and sandwiches in the passenger seat, explain that I deliver for Paul's, and occasionally they would let me off with a warning.  Or they might give me a ticket for improper equipment, a misdemeanor that doesn't put points on your license.  About half the time they would give me a speeding ticket for 5-9 MPH over the limit (no matter how fast I was really going).

I couldn't afford the points and resulting insurance hike so I would put on a jacket and tie, take the ticket to court and beg the judge for mercy.  Sometimes the cop wouldn't show up so the judge had to let me go scot-free.  Other times the judge would knock the ticket down to improper equipment, maybe they liked Paul's French dip (truly a hidden gem of a sandwich).  Once I negotiated with the prosecutor before the proceedings started and walked out with improper equipment instead of speeding.

My favorite courtroom appearance, to this day, arose from such a situation.  I was driving on Route 60 towards the Outlets and the myriad hotels, motels, and mobile estates out that way.  I made this run a million times and knew every crack and pothole in the road.  I also knew where the 25 MPH zone ended and the 40 MPH zone began.  I was cruising along at about 30 MPH in the 25, and once I was within sight of the 40 MPH sign I sped up.  Almost instantly, out of a shitty little hidey-hole tucked twixt two shrubberies popped Sneaky Pete.  I looked down, saw I was doing about 37 MPH, and pulled over immediately.

Radio off, interior light on, window down, rearview tilted up so I didn't get blinded by the coplights, hands on the wheel.  A Statie rolled up, a young guy.  He gave me permission to get my documents from the glove box, asked how fast I was going, and I told him "37 MPH because I could see the 40 MPH sign" and gave him my usual song and dance about Paul's.  He appreciated my honesty so he was honest too.  "It's the end of the month and I need to make my number.  You've been straight with me so if you come to court I'll tell the judge you were cooperative so he might reduce the fine."  This is why people hate the regulatory state but I didn't get into that right then and there, instead I took what the defense gave me and checked down to "Thank you sir."  After we exchanged the relevant paperwork I went back about my business with the popcorn shrimp and hot Hollies.

For whatever reason I had to appear at the courthouse in Yorktown.  The judge was straight out of central casting, a Southern fried take-no-bullshit sumbitch like Fred Gwynne in "My Cousin Vinny" and he looked like the judge from "Air Bud."  The entire proceeding irritated him and he had complete disdain for most of the lawbreakers who came before him.  He threw the figurative book at almost everyone.  Almost.

I got there a little bit before the appointed time, and that was a stupid move--this court also has jurisdiction over maritime issues so I had to sit through an hour of boating and crabbing shenanigans.  And they really were shenanigans.  In the maritime session, a Vietnamese guy tried to fight a ticket for taking some undersized crabs.  The judge lit into him, "This is whyyyyeh we don't have enough cray-yibs innymore!  Becuz pyeople lahk yeeeew are tayehkin' unnersahzed cray-yibs en overcrabbin' the bay!"  The defendant couldn't follow what was going on and barely managed to say anything in English in response.  The judge yelled some more and hit him with a $750 fine.

Very next guy up was Jimmy Joe Jim Bob John from Croaker or Norge or whatever.  The cop explained the facts--same as the previous guy, except he had two coolers full of too-small crabs.  The defendant was incensed.  "Judge" he said, "Ah've bin crabbin the bay since ah wiz knee-hah to a grasshopper en ah've nivver bin tickitted fer sumpin lahk this!!"  I swear to god he said knee-high to a grasshopper.  The judge was suddenly accommodating and said "Sir, ah unnerstan how yew fee-yil, buuht the sitchy-ation here is bay-yid.  Pyeople are overcrabbin the bay!  An if yew keep takin 'em fore they're ole nuff tuh reeper-duce, sum day we wone have inny lift!"  Jimmy Joe Jim Bob John adjusted his mesh baseball hat, put his hands on his hips, and screwed up his face as if to say "Ah cay-yint argue with tha-yit."  The judge turned him out with a $250 fine and an admonishment to consider future generations of crabbers.

White privilege is real.

Eventually they got to the landlubber moving violations.  The defendants were called based on the cop who caught them, so that each cop worked through all his criminals in one batch, allowing him to promptly get back to eating donuts and giving himself testicular cancer with the radar gun.  The judge demolished everyone, he didn't want to hear anyone's excuses or stories about anything until a pretty little girl went to the defendant's table for a ticket written by Sneaky Pete, the same guy who wrote mine.  She was accompanied by a guy who I assumed was her father until he entered an appearance as Sam Slickness from Dewey Cheatam & Howe.  The cop explained that he pulled her over making a U-turn at a stoplight that had a "NO U-TURN" sign.  Open and shut, right?  No!  Slickness did his dizzle.

First he asked the cop if the little girl had any other moving violations on her license.  She didn't.  Then he asked if she was polite when pulled over.  She was.  Then he asked if any drugs or alcohol were involved.  They weren't.  Slickness then said "Yer onner, as you can see, li'l Suzy Sweetness nivvir did innythin lahk this before, she was pulaht to the ossifer, en there are no extenyatin circumstances with the incident.  She jus gradjeeated from Yorktown Hah School, she's about to be a frishmin at the University of Virginia, en her daddy, Poppa Sweetness, is on the town council here in Yorktown."

The judge leaned forward and grinned like the Cheshire cat.  "Li'l Suzy Sweetness, dew yew promise yer nivvir gonna do this agin?"  Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth as she coyly relied "Yessir" and batted her eyes.  "Aw-rite thin" purred the old judge, "ahm givin yew a ticket for im-proper equipmin.  Run along now, en ah don't wanna see yew in my courtroom agin," smiling the whole time.

Then they called me.

Sneaky Pete explained the facts as he recalled them and based on his notes, ending with 37 MPH in a 25.  Then I did Slickness's dizzle.

I did not know anything about precedent or stare decisis, but I figured I should say what the lawyer just said, adapting to my facts of course.  The only differences were (1) I was within sight of a sign that allowed me to do what I was doing, and (2) my daddy wasn't on the town council here in Yorktown.  I assumed there was no way he couldn't let me off if I did what the lawyer did, otherwise it would be clear that the only reason Suzy Sweetness skated was her father's position on the town council.

So I asked the cop if I had any other moving violations on my license.  I didn't (thanks to all those "improper equipment" trips to court previously).  I asked if I was polite when pulled over.  I was.  I asked if any drugs or alcohol were involved.  They weren't.  I asked if I was within sight of a 40 MPH sign when the cop hit me with the radar gun.  I was.

Then I said to the judge "Your honor, I have no other moving violations on my record, I was polite when pulled over, and there are no extenuating circumstances with the incident.  I was doing 37 MPH because I was within sight of the 40 MPH sign, and I was speeding up in anticipation of entering the 40 MPH zone.  I deliver food for Paul's Deli so I'm familiar with where the different zones begin and end.  I'm about to be a senior at the College of William & Mary, and I promise I'm never going to do this again."

The judge was livid.  He saw exactly what I was doing, and exactly why he couldn't throw the book at me.  He leaned forward and through clenched teeth asked me "Suuun, did yew say yer a stewdin ay-it the laaaw skoo-wul?"

"No sir" I replied, "I'm just an undergrad delivering pizza to pay some bills."

He could've spit nails. "Ahm fahnin yew fer im-proper equipmin, yew be-yin the im-proper equipmin!!  En ah don't ever wanna see yew in mah courtroom agin!!"  Then he banged his gavel.

Some of the poor slobs waiting their turn before this hanging judge gasped.  One or two cheered a bit, there was even a brief smattering of clapping.  I left the courtroom to pay my fine and a middle-aged woman ran after me.  She caught up to me and panted, "That was incredible, how did you do that?"  I replied "I just said what the lawyer right before me said, I figured if it worked for him it should work for me."  Stunned, she smiled and went back into the courtroom.  I like to think that everyone else followed my lead and went home with im-proper equipmin fines too. 

What Car Should a Gheorghie Drive: Juan Carlos Edition

I first met Juan Carlos by the basement back door of Unit M.  He stood there, a fratguy in his kingdom, cradling a plurality of cans of Milwaukee's Best in one arm, talking to a smiling, nodding girl.  He turned to me, an awestruck freshman, and said coolly and calmly "Hey, do you want to shotgun beers til you puke?" I, of course, said "Yes.  Yes I do."  The rest is history.

That night he told me his name and I thought he said Carlos, so I called him Carlos for a while.  I am not alone.  He is, after all, Juan Carlos, King of Spain (which makes Unit M the House of Bourbon).

Before zwoman met him I made mention of Juan Carlos.  She said "Juan Carlos is JP, right?"  JP is, of course, FOGTB JP.  I said "No.  JP is JP.  Juan Carlos is the King of Spain."  zwoman replied "Oh.  So Juan Carlos is Spanish?"  I said "No."  Confused, she said "So no one is Spanish?" and I said "JP is Spanish" so she replied "That's what I thought.  Then why isn't JP the King of Spain?" and I answered "Because Juan Carlos is the King of Spain."  We went around this circle a few more times and she gave up.

It seems like Juan Carlos should have a Spanish car but the only brands I can think of are Hispano-Suiza, which went out of business 80 years ago, and S.E.A.T.  I realize that S.E.A.T. sounds like the name of a bad-guy organization from an Austin Powers movie but I assure you that Sociedad Española de Automóviles de Turismo is real.  You've never heard of them because they never sold any cars in the US and they never made any cars that are cool.  Honestly.  Here's the list.  Hover over those links and you'll see one bland shitbox after another.  I have no idea how the nation that gave the world jamón serrano, manchego, Paz Vega, Balenciaga, mahon, Picasso, paella, Penélope Cruz, flamenco, Rafael Nadal and chorizo failed to come up with at least one aesthetically awesome car.

Juan Carlos is cool.  He's cooler than you but he's cool about it.  It's a very laid-back and discreet brand of coolness.  It's obvious that he's cool and does cool things, but when you learn more you realize that whatever you're looking at is even cooler than you thought upon first impression.

For example, if you go to Juan Carlos's house he will serve you appetizers.  Perhaps fish fillets on a skewer with sliced plum tomatoes and pickled peppers.  You might say "Dam son this fish is dope!  What is it?"  He will understatedly reply "They're fresh sardines" and when you say "These don't look like sardines" he will explain that sardines from a can are not very good at all, and that canning them destroys the flavor, texture, color, basically everything about the fish.  He knows a place where they sell fresh sardine fillets, which he then prepares them ceviche style with lemon juice so they hold up enough to be skewered.  Then when you exclaim how good the peppers are, he will explain how he grew the peppers from seeds he picked up in Seville and then pickled them himself over the winter using a pickling brine of his own concoction.  This happens all the time.  JC's food is superb.

Juan Carlos is amazingly handy.  I won't regale you with all of his tremendous feats of home improvement, but I was stunned when he installed his own underground gas line from his house to his grille.  I was there the first time he used it and he deadpanned "Either we'll have dinner in 30 minutes or I'll blow the house up."  We had dinner 30 minutes later and it was outstanding.

He thus should drive something clearly cool, but also reserved, and that becomes even cooler upon investigation.  It should also be relatively useful for trips to the mulch pit and the hardware store, and relatively easy to work on.  It should be European, clearly.  The marque should have some historical importance with bonus points for significant engineering aspects.

This was harder than I thought it would be, but I should've known better.  Juan Carlos is a complicated man but no one understands him but his woman.

I considered the Audi ur-Quattro.  The hatchback makes it very practical.  The 20-valve five cylinder engine was an engineering masterpiece.  It pioneered Audi's all-wheel-drive Quattro system and it won the World Rally Championship three years in a row.  But these are difficult to work on, which cuts against JC's DYI nature, and they're rare and expensive, which cuts against my goal of keeping WCSAGD attainable.  They also don't quite look the part.  Just a little too big in the hips for the King of Spain to floss.

Ever the VW fanboy, I also considered the Audi RS2 Avant, but it suffers the same problems as the ur-Quattro--expensive as hell and a headache to work on.  But there's plenty to love.  Much like Marls's WCSAGD, Porsche massaged various Audi bits to make the RS2 Avant an unholy speed demon, and it has four doors, a real back seat and a big trunk so you can haul ass while hauling lumber.  Five cylinders sound cool too.

But as with the ur-Quattro, the RS2 Avant doesn't look quite right for Juan Carlos.  He's too sexy for this car.

The Jaguar XJS Lynx came to mind.  It makes sense for Juan Carlos to drive a shooting brake, especially one with twelve cylinders, burled walnut trim and Connolly leather hides.  And they look great.  

But these too are exceedingly rare and expensive.  I'm also not sure he should drive a Jaguar, it doesn't really mesh with his regal Mediterranean vibe.  It's just a tad effete.  

Juan Carlos should drive a 1986 Alfa Romeo GTV6 in black over biscuit, like this:

The best classic under $20,000?  Maybe.  Prices are creeping up so JC might need to shell out $25k to $30k for a really crispy example.  How does this tick all the boxes?  Alfa Romeo is over 100 years old and has more racing wins than any other marque in the world.  Their logo involves a crowned snake swallowing a man whole.  The brand is swathed in manliness and badassery.

The 6 in GTV6 refers to the engine, Alfa's famous Busso V6.  The manifold isn't as pretty as the 164's but really what is?  It still sounds amazing, arguably the best sounding engine ever.  Don't take my word for it, see what Harry Metcalfe has to say:

Harry's homeboy's GTV6 has Quadrifoglio badges and basket wheels which make the whole thing even cooler.  "Needs a fair amount of warming up" (9:55).  "Doesn't rev very high but gets quite musical" (10:33).  "There's bits covering up where the size of it should've been, I can't understand why Luigi didn't make the DIN slot the right size" (12:24).  "Quite a short stroke, wide bore, but it does sound good ... it's quality" (14:51).  "It still looks super neat today and I love that it's the size that it is" (19:04).  "This car is all about charisma and that it has by the bucketload, there is something joyous seeing this car" (19:47).  All of that could be said about Juan Carlos. 

Watch Harry's expression after he downshifts and gets back on the gas around 19:33.  The sound he makes is the same one I made when Heather Graham took her clothes off for the first time in Boogie Nights.  Like JC the GTV6 is a sex machine.  Most importantly, I think Juan Carlos's father had an Alfa at one point so getting another might foster reflection on old memories while creating new ones.

That's what Juan Carlos should drive.