Click It or Ticket can stick it

Forcing motorists to wear seatbelts is one of the most innane laws ever concocted. It ranks up there with blue laws and profanity laws. It should not be the role of our government to tell us how to protect ourselves. If I'm not buckling in a child, that's one thing. I'd even go so far as to say if I fail to buckle myself up when I've got a kid in the car that's another thing. But if I as an adult make a conscious choice not to wear my seat belt, this should not infringe on any law. If I run a red light, I've created a traffic hazard. That merits a citation. Driving at night with no headlights is dangerous to others. That merits a citation. Who's rights have I stepped on by not wearing my seatbelt? No one's. What's next? The you're-eating-too-much-sodium law or how about the didn't-bundle-up-enough-for-the-cold law?

I'm ranting in response to the court invitation I got from the Duluth police department today. Coming back from the library and creeping along at a speed slower than a one-legged man can hobble, I was approached by a cop who was walking his motorcycle down the dividing line between lanes of people coming up on a red light. I presume his soul intention was to find people who don't buckle up in two-mile-per-hour traffic. Those daredevils! Alas, he found one as he pulled up next to my passenger side window and peered in. I returned his quisitive look with a smile and a wave. He gave the universal hand signal for roll down your window, Scofflaw. I did and he inquired as to why I wasn't wearing my seatbelt. I recognized this as the epitomy of all retorical questions. What possible answer could I have provided that would have persuaded him not to write me a ticket?

Having pulled over into the turn lane as instructed I waited shamefully as he pulled pad and pen out of his side compartment. "Man, why aren't you wearing your seatbelt? It's Click It or Ticket. Everybody knows that," he said.

"Well, I didn't know," I said smiling.

"You do now," he said smiling. He then proceded to write me a ticket for failing to wear my seatbelt.

I didn't see the benefit in sharing my disdain for this stupid law with him. His job isn't to make the laws; he just enforces them. And he was quite pleasant as far as cops go. What pissed me off was his comment as he had me sign the ticket.

"Yeh, you need to wear your seatbelt for the next two weeks," he said.

"What about after two weeks?" I asked, handing him back the signed ticket.

"Well, you're supposed to wear it all the time, but after two weeks Click It or Ticket will be over."

In other words, he openly admits that Click It or Ticket is merely a financial ruse of the Duluth Police Department designed to bring revenue into the city. I guess somebody's gotta pay for those Christmas lights and decorations around their downtown area. I don't know what a beat cop's salary is, much less how much it costs to maintain his motorcycle and the gas to power it, but surely it doesn't justify the fifty lousy dollars I'll have to pay for this harmless infraction. Take note, Duluth taxpayers. These are your tax dollars at waste.

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Georgia native makes global plea to blog watchers

I sent out a bulk email last night inviting almost 500 people to check out my blog. After emailing these unsuspecting souls, I couldn't decide if having done so would be looked at by them as vain on my part or just plain desperate. A blog by its very nature does lend itself toward vanity. The author thinks that he has some unique take on life and that people actually care to hear it. But being conceited is of little worth if you don't also have blog watchers who further inflate your ego by letting you know they've read your blog. Hence my desperate call for more of them.

I admit that I did not actually know all the recipients of this message. Many of the addresses were some I swiped from other bulk emailings I have received. If you have reached this site because you got an email from some Kevin guy you didn't know, you likely either a) did community theater with someone who emailed the both of us, b) took a real estate class at the law offices of Weissman Nowack with me, or c) got word of a Nigerian banking opportunity at the same time I did. In other words, you and I most likely know someone in common. Think of it like the six degrees of Kevin Bacon, only this is with a different Kevin and there are fewer degrees. If on the other hand you and I do know each other, thanks for humoring me enough to point your browser in my direction. You have proven yourself to be the kind of person I would lend a cup of sugar to or ask if I could borrow two hundred dollars. On second thought, scratch that. We're getting kind of low on sugar.

In the brief time since I sent out the email, I've received a variety of responses. As I had hoped, some people looked at it as an opportunity to fill me in on their lives. Some shared good news, others bad. I now have a growing list of people with whom I feel the need to touch base (aside from an impersonal bulk email of course.) So far I've only had one nervous nellie write back that if I did not remove her name from my list, she would report me as spam. Ooooh. Go on, Webenezer Scrooge. Make my day.

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The to-do list: one down and umptine million to go

On the side of our refrigerator is a house wish-list my wife composed a few years ago. It lists home improvements we aspire to have completed someday. When she first handed it to me, I read it and nodded at her approvingly the same way she does to me each time I tell her I'm going to lose weight. It doesn't bother me that we don't have a built-in shelving fixture under the bathroom counter or a nice piece of art hanging over our fireplace. It's not that the items on the list are financially undoable or that I don't think these would be worthy ways of bettering our home. It's just that by nature I'm a rather stagnant person. I don't look for things to make me happy; I look for happiness in the things I have.

On the flipside, when you're in a relationship, this Zen philosophy only works to the extent that the other person will allow it. If my wife is unhappy, I can rest assured my happiness too will be short lived. Call it the law of spousal transferrence of mood. When looked at from this perspective, my theory of finding happiness in the things around me is shot all to hell. Passively seeking contentment stops being the path to nirvana and starts becoming the downward spiral to marital malfunction.

Back to the house wish-list. We recently completed another item on the list, namely getting new floors installed. I confess this makes all the difference in the world. Our house is easier to clean and it's much more attractive. Come to think of it, I'd have to say the same thing about the last improvement we made which was putting recessed lighting in the kitchen and dining room. While not an official item on the list, moving the tv out of the living room and into our new tv lounge was another brilliant idea my wife had. My reaction was the same after all three of these things. Why did we wait so long to make such a vast improvement, I thought. I suppose one of the more beneficial things about marriage is having unlimited time with another person so you can help them mend their backward ways. Even more beneficial is having another's perspective to show you how you can make your life better than it was before you met them.

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Burger King character or Satan's spawn?

Have you seen the new Burger King commercials? The Burger King guy with the gargantuan plastic head and crimson red eyes is pure evil incarnate. The creepy factor on this guy is way off the charts. If his looks alone weren't reason enough to make you question his motives then surely his reckless behavior would be. I'm talking about the commercial where they show him drilling bolts into a steel girder as he and another guy are standing God-only-knows how many stories high off the ground on an I-beam at a construction site. Near the end of the commercial, the Burger King slaps his construction coworker on the back so hard that the coworker almost plummets to his doom.

Luckily the other driller catches his balance thus saving himself from an otherwise fatal fall. This Burger King character doesn't make me want to buy a hamburger; he makes me want to buy a gun.

More puzzling to me is why the Burger King is working part-time at a construction job. Can he not find work elsewhere? Doesn't he get enough hours at the 2.7 gazillion restaurants he has in the world, what with openings and birthday parties and such? I don't mean to make snap judgments, but is he really cut out for construction work? Any moron can hold a drill. That doesn't mean he needs to be assembling architecture. I can't help but wonder if the Burger King was taken on in order to fill some hiring quota. Can't you just picture a foreman saying Well, last week we hired two Inuits and I've already got a Pacific Islander on drywall . . . Hmm, maybe we can keep the people at EEOC further at bay if we hire a member of fast food royalty. What if this commercial takes place at the site of an under construction McDonald's? Am I the only one who sees what havoc could be reeked by a disgruntled Burger King wielding a power tool thirty stories high? I shudder to think.

No sir, the Burger King is not your friend. If ever there were a reason to invoke stranger danger it would be because of him. I never thought I'd see the day that I could say Ronald McDonald would make a safer playmate for one's child, but it's true. Speaking of children, when I was in second grade, my class got to tour a Burger King in the late 70s. I remember the deep fry matron telling us the reason the hamburgers tasted so good was because they cooked them with fire. Now I know her secret. It's eternal hellfire.

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Yummy treats and politesse abound at GA French Bakery in Duluth

On two occasions this week I visited the GA French Bakery (3512 Satellite Blvd., Suite 5, Duluth, GA 30096; 770-622-2682) near the corner of Satellite Boulevard and Pleasant Hill Road. My first visit was on Wednesday when two hours into a crumby work day I decided that the only thing that could sway the on-coming crabbiness was sweet sweet pastry. GA French Bakery was a place I had passed several times and even stopped at once before but for whatever reason I hadn't made it a regular stop on the periodic midday hunger run.

Famished for something sweet and anxious to refresh my French, I greeted the baker with a hearty Bonjour. The display case was filled with a variety of flaky pastries, both fruity and chocolaty. There were cookies, brownies and danishes along side the traditional croissants and baguettes. The cakes and pies were nothing like the bland thawed imported varieties you get at a restaurant. These were real desserts -- manna in filo dough.

Not knowing the French equivalent for cinnamon roll, I ordered "deux cinnamon rolls et une baguette, s'il vous plait." The baguette was an afterthough just because they looked and smelled so delicious. We chatted a bit en français, the baker and I. He remarked on my level of French (the surefire way to serve any francophile's ego.) When he rang up my total I reached for my debit card. He responded with a wave of the finger and told me he didn't accept credit cards but would gladly accept a check. After furling through my wallet for cash or check I could see that my cash was limited to four dollars and I had no checks. My total was six dollars and something. Mildly embarrassed for having a stomach bigger than my wallet, I asked, "Ben . . . combien pour les deux cinnamon rolls alors?" Now the total came to three dollars and some odd cents. Hurrah! I handed him my cash. He gave me the change.

"Vous pouvez avoir la baguette," he said nudging the baguette toward me.

"Pardon?" I asked, not sure if I understood him.

"Vous pouvez prendre la baguette," he said reassuring me it was okay to take it.

"Que vous êtes très gentil," I said and told him I'd gladly pay for the baguette on my next visit.

I returned today for more cinnamon rolls and to compensate the baker for the bread. He politely declined the offer which I found to be most gentlemanly. If he had silver candlesticks and a goblet he might have offered that as well. Maybe if this baby's a girl, we'll name her Cosette.

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In utero pictures of baby

Some pictures paint a thousand words. These on the other hand leave me speechless. Proud and joyful, but speechless. Any guesses on whether it's a boy or a girl?

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Waffle House patron needs drugs to stay alive

This past Sunday my wife and I went to the local Waffle House to dine out . . . in so far as feasting on greasy hashbrowns and gristle can be construed as dining out. Waffle House is a diner of the greasy spoon variety. Though it's a national chain each establishment attracts a local element of color particular to that vicinity.

Sitting at the counter was a gentleman who had four prescription pill bottles lined up next to his plate. Four! Why anyone would proudly display his drugs of choice for fellow restaurant goers to see is beyond me. Even more baffling is the fact that someone who feels he needs multiple medicines to keep him alive would even set foot in a Waffle House, much less eat the food. I made a brief attempt to look over and inconspicuously read one of the labels but it was to no avail. The print was too small. I did recognize one of the caution stickers on the side. It said TAKE WITH FOOD.

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