I just don’t understand how we, as a society, came to view driving a car as some sort of God-given right.
Early in the morning of Sunday, August 1, Rebecca Thompson, a 42 year old mother of three and her dog were struck and killed while walking in Harrison Township. The driver, later identified as 24 year old Jimmie Picklesimer fled the scene.
After killing Rebecca Thompson, Picklesimer called 911, not to get help for the woman and dog he’d run down, but to claim that his 1992 Chevrolet S-10 pickup had been carjacked by an armed black man two blocks north of the crime scene. He told deputies that his assailant had taken his keys. Inconsistencies in his story and the fact that it was discovered he had the keys in his pocket naturally caused deputies to question his story. Picklesimer eventually admitted to hitting the woman and her dog, and also to having downed six beers prior to doing so.
Now, here’s the really disturbing part of the story. Picklesimer who, remember, is just 24, has had his license suspended 9 times and in 2006 he was convicted of driving without a license. 9 suspensions in roughly 8 years, yet this person was still licensed to drive. Am I the only one who thinks there is something very, very wrong with this scenario?
From The Dayton Daily News:
Local police say they regularly stop drivers with multiple license suspensions. “It’s not unusual to get a guy with 10 or 15 suspensions,” said veteran Dayton police Officer Randy Beane. “We spend a lot of time with individuals like this.”
How can the automotive culture and lawmakers in this country be so blinded by our love affair with our cars as to be willing to allow these people to drive, unhindered, until they kill someone?
Honest to God, how many times does a person have to demonstrate that they aren’t capable of safely operating a motor vehicle before the “justice” system takes that privilege away from them, for good?
*Source: Dayton Daily News. Link 1, Link 2, Link 3
In a 5-1 decision Wednesday, Ohio’s Supreme Court upheld a speeding ticket based solely upon how fast a driver appeared to be moving. You read that right, an officer’s educated guess is now sufficient to overcome the state’s burden of proof beyond a reasonable doubt.
Justice Maureen O’Connor (who’s running for chief justice of the Ohio Supreme Court this November) wrote (in part):
We hold that a police officer’s unaided visual estimation of a vehicle’s speed is sufficient evidence to support a conviction for speeding in violation of R.C. 4511.21(D) without independent verification of the vehicle’s speed if the officer is trained, is certified by the Ohio Peace Officer Training Academy or a similar organization that develops and implements training programs to meet the needs of law enforcement professionals and the communities they serve, and is experienced in visually estimating vehicle speed.
That’s right, no independent verification, just the best guess of a highly-trained and infallible officer of the law. Thank God every police officer in Ohio is completely beyond reproach, otherwise some might abuse a law that gives such sweeping power with absolutely no accountability.
The lone dissenting vote came from Justice Terrence O’Donnell (apparently the only person on the Ohio Supreme Court with any sense) who argued the majority essentially created a standard that the police officer is always right.
This sets a dangerous precedent. In what other areas might an officer’s uncorroborated expert opinion to be admitted as incontrovertible evidence?
On the positive side, imagine the positive impact this will have on the state’s budget. Auction off all that unnecessary RADAR and LIDAR equipment! Speedometers in patrol cars will be a thing of the past!
Hopefully the ACLU (or someone) can get this insane decision before the US Supreme Court where it will be overturned. Unless they, too, have all taken leave of their senses.
I filed my Federal, State, and School District tax returns months ago (electronically). My City return, though, requires me to fill out an actual paper form which I then must either mail or hand-deliver to the courthouse. It’s all so quaint and 1900’s-ish.
Anyway… today I finally got around to doing my city taxes.
Included with my “city income tax package” was a sheet of instructions on Goldenrod paper. I read one side and it said, “Please read both sides! There is important information on the other side.” I read that and it said, “Please read both sides! There is important information on the other side.” I read that and it said, “Please read both sides! There is important information on the other side.” I read that and…
2 hours later, I gave up and started working on my return.
We had three winter storms in ten days. This was taken after things thawed out, just a bit.
I have a funny feeling that I’m still going to be looking at that pile of snow in April.
Thank goodness the delivery notice telling me “we delivered your package” was affixed directly to my package, or I never would have known.
If they’re going to play these sort of mind-games, they should go all out, check ‘other’, and pencil in “right fucking here.”
Just as I was falling asleep Saturday I was jolted awake by a loud CRASH. The cat was next to me on the bed (though she made a mad dash for cover) so I knew it wasn’t her. Since there was no one else here, I decided it must have come from the downstairs neighbor. Replaying in my mind what I’d heard, I decided that it sounded like someone dropped a large metal can full of smaller cans, or possibly dishes; probably in the foyer. Satisfied with this explanation, I dozed back off, though I was still contemplating it. Sometime later I awoke again, worried that the noise could have come from my apartment somewhere. Checking for signs of calamity, I made my way to the kitchen. There, sitting in pool of water amid the shattered shards of the cat’s water dish was my old toaster, which apparently fell from its spot on the shelf of the microwave cart.
I’d refilled the cat’s water when I got home, then gone to bed. A short while later I awoke and went to the kitchen for a drink. I noticed that I hadn’t put her water in its usual spot, next to the microwave cart, so I moved it. At no time during this process did I notice the toaster (which hasn’t been moved since I got a new toaster last Christmas) resting precariously.
Here’s the really crazy part. This isn’t the first time it’s happened!! A couple of years ago the toaster dove into, and smashed, Caldonia’s food dish while I slept.
This is obviously the work of a ghost. A ghost with a taste for toast. Or a ghost that doesn’t like my cat. Or an evil mouse. Whatever the fuck it is, I wish it would stop. One thing’s for certain: I’m getting rid of that damned toaster. Then, if need be, I’ll call an exorcist and/or exterminator.
Finally saw the horn-as-doorbell idiot in the flesh. While I was out working on my car (@ 8:15AM) there was a familiar blast of steam-boat sounding car horn. Stepping from behind the raised hood I’m face to face with a Cadillac full of (I’m assuming) carpoolers. Lady in the passenger seat says “we weren’t blowing at you, we were blowing for our friend”. I don’t know if they heard me say “Have you never heard of a fucking doorbell?” as I climbed into my car (whose windows, like theirs, were down), but I don’t really care.
What the hell is wrong with people? Surely at least one of those people, too lazy to walk to the front door, has a cell phone and could call their friend to announce their arrival, rather than entertaining the entire neighborhood with their charming novelty horn every Goddamned morning, at 8AM!
I feel bad for neglecting the blog. If you feel like you’re missing out on your daily/weekly/monthly allotment of Gregisms, you can catch up with me on Twitter (@gargreguan). Anyway, I just wanted to share my latest brainstorm with you, my adoring public.
I’m going to start an “anti-social networking” site and call it…
HateBook(!) As soon as I figure out a way to monetize the thing I’ll be sitting on easy street.
Shut up! I hate all you melon-fevers!
As I do almost all of my banking online or via debit card, I use, at the very most, 3 or 4 checks per month. This means that an order of checks lasts me a very long time. After writing the check for my rent (the only check I write every month, I discovered/remembered that I’m almost out of checks. I had noticed this some weeks ago, but since I was still using the freebies from when I opened the account (literally 3+ years ago!) I couldn’t just re-order online and would have to talk to a “customer service represenative”.
So, I call the 800 number and navigate through the menus until I get “Troy” on the line. Troy was quite personable, making chit-chat as he gathers the necessary information (evidently, the weather in Manila, Philippines is quite nice now). Troy asks me if I want the same checks as before, “sure, that’s fine” says I. Then Troy dropped a bombshell; 250 of the rather ordinary-looking checks I’ve been using will cost $77!! First of all, I do not need 250 checks, it’s taken me 3 1/2 years to use 150. Secondly, $77 for checks? That’s fucking crazy!
So, I politely explain to Troy that there is absolutely no way I’m paying that much for checks. With little fanfare he hooks me up with plain-old, regular-ass checks, yellow, I believe, for a much less angina-inducing $21.50 per 150. Assuming I don’t move (or die) I should still be using these checks 5 years from now.
$77 for checks! That’s just crazy talk!
In the wee hours of Friday morning, I found myself in need of a stamp. Sadly, the Post Office half a mile from my house mysteriously removed their stamp machines some time ago, so I’ll have to turn elsewhere.
No problem, I think, the US Bank (an account I’ve kept open for no reason other than occasional fee-free ATM usage) is just as close and the ATM sells stamps. And so, off I go. After I go through the dozen or so steps necessary to purchase stamps the ATM informs me that my card has expired and asks if I want another transaction. Another transaction? WTF? No, thank you, just give me back my useless card.
So, I return home to search for the ATM card which I assume came, unnoticed, in the mail. No luck. If the card came, it apparently made its way, unnoticed, into the trash. OK, plan B. I can use the debit card for my primary account, pay a fee to everyone involved, and get my stamps. I return to the ATM, only to discover that neither of the possible PIN’s which come to mind will work so I’m thwarted once more.
Dejected, I turn for home and when I’m almost there I realize Fulmer’s (the very conveniently-located grocery store which I hate and never shop at) is open 24 hours and sells stamps. I turn around, zip over to Fulmer’s (which looks suspiciously dark) and head for the door. As I approach the doors a man inside meets me and indicates that they’re closed, they don’t open until 6. Huh, apparently they are no longer open 24 hours.
So after all of this, I head to the Kroger across town where I normally do my grocery shopping, which I know for certain was still open 24 hours as recently as last week. It is open. Victory is mine! Naturally the only cashier working is taking her break, and naturally, the guy filling in for her is unfamiliar with the stamp selling protocol, but after a few false-starts I finally have my stamps.
I place a stamp on my envelope, drive back across town to the Post Office right by my house (you know, the one where they took out the fucking stamp machines) and drop it in the mail. A mere 2 hours after I started this little adventure, I was safely back at home.
And that, friends, is how hard it is to buy stamps.
Why is it that my hobbies punish me for neglecting them? Too much time off the bike means a sore ass as I start to ride more. Playing my mandolin too infrequently means seriously painful, bordering on blistered fingertips upon picking it back up. I really need to get busy building up (and maintaining) some calluses.
Why is it that when you’re running late and in a hurry, everything possible seems to conspire to slow you down? Last night I was running a bit late, getting ready for work. I grabbed my hair brush and it immediately self-destructed. The rubber part which holds the metal bristles divorced itself from the handle and flew off. It only just avoided splashing down in the toilet (wouldn’t that have been a nice touch?).
It’s surprisingly difficult to brush your hair with a floppy piece of rubber studded with metal bristles, particularly given the wild and desperately in need of cutting condition my hair finds itself in. So of course this added more time which I didn’t have to spare to my preparations. I finally made it out the door only to be thwarted and delayed by every red-light I came to, random cops rolling with radar, and an abundance of cars driving 5 mph below the limit.
Really though, if this is all I can find to bitch about, things aren’t going too bad. You know?