Stay Outta Speedtrap, South Carolina

I don’t speed, especially here in South Carolina, with all its tiny towns, and homophobic hamlets, and bigoted ‘burgs; I don’t want to end up like the Ricardo’s and Mertz’s did when they were travelling from New York City to Hollywood and spend a night in jail in some wee town somewhere … out there. So I don’t speed; I “cruise control.”

Speeding is bad, especially if your lead foot takes you through Turbeville, South Carolina, on Route 378 toward Myrtle Beach. Turbeville is a speed trap of epic proportions, which is why there is a class action lawsuit against the town.

There are just 804 people living in Turbeville, but the town has raked in over a million dollars a year for the last thirteen years from speeders.

And here’s where it gets a bit sticky: the annual budget to keep this town of 800 up and running is $1.4 million, of which $1.1 comes from those traffic fines. And that’s a good thing because, according to town records, it costs a cool million to keep the police department in action … writing those tickets to raise the million to pay for themselves. Those million dollars a year for the police comes to about $1,250 for every single person in Turbeville. By contrast Columbia, with an $18 million-a-year police budget, spends about $130 a resident.

All of which has lead to that class action lawsuit seeking to force Turbeville to nullify its “town safety” ordinance which allows Turbeville to write traffic tickets with higher fines than state traffic tickets and to keep a majority of the money collected from those tickets.  The suit also demands that Turbeville return millions of dollars to the tens of thousands of drivers who have received municipal tickets since the local ordinance was passed in 2003.

And here’s how Turbeville gets away with it …. As in most states, when you are ticketed you get “points” on your driver’s license and an increase in insurance costs; and nobody likes that. But, in Turbeville, if you pay the fine, which, again, is often much higher than a state fine, the ticket is not reported to the Department of Motor Vehicles or the driver’s insurance company, so no points, no higher insurance rates; all that means is that ticketed driver’s are more apt to pay the fines and avoid the points.

If, however, you opt to fight the ticket — which can carry a fine of up to $500 or 30 days in jail — the Turbeville magistrate, hired by the town council, converts the ticket to a state citation, thereby lowering the possibility that the town ordinance will be challenged.

And speeding violations in Turbeville are not even called that; the town ordinance doesn’t list speeding as a crime and drivers stopped for speeding are cited for “careless operation” of a vehicle; the officer notes something like “55/35” on the ticket to indicate that the defendant was driving 20 miles an hour over the speed limit.

Now, in South Carolina, each town pays a $5 fee for each ticket they issue to the state treasurer’s office and, according to the Treasurer’s records, from December 2014 to November 2015, Turbeville pad $12,215, which translates to 2,443 tickets a year, or an average of 203 tickets a month or almost seven tickets a day.

By comparison, Camden, South Carolina — where yours truly resides — with a population of 7,085 — nearly nine times greater than Turbeville — pays just $6,155 to the state; that amounts to 1,231 tickets a year, an average of 103 a month or 3 tickets per day.

During the prime beach going months of May through August, Turbeville’s monthly average of tickets jumps to 245; that amounts to more than one ticket for every Turbeville resident during the vacation season.

The lesson here: again, in South Carolina, it’s not the heat it’s the stupidity and … don’t speed … or "carelessly operate" a vehicle ... at least in Turbeville.

Cruise control your way through the state.

The State

Songs In The Key Of Bob

I am here to admit my shame. To get a few things off my chest. To reveal the sordid truth.
Yeah. Right.
So, I told the story about the leaky refrigerator. And how we called the home warranty people and they were sending out a refrigeration man. Then Carlos said he thought it was a plumbing issue. And how I cracked wise about his ass crack.
Turns out it is a plumbing issue.
Carlos will be doing his sashay-shantay down the hallway when he reads this.
He so loves to be right.
Whatever.
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Is it me, or was Whitney Houston high at the Grammys? I mean, she certainly seemed a bit off....not in the Crack-Is-Whack way of that Diane Sawyer interview, but in that I-don't-what-in-the-hell-I'm-doing-here way.
______________________________

I saw Joan Rivers on The View.
She cracks me up.
She says that because of the Botox, Bea Arthur's bowels move more often than Cher's face.
Of course, Joan should talk.
Her face is stretched tighter than a Mariah Carey mini-dress.
______________________________

Once, when I lived in California, we used to hang out at this bar. And one of the cocktail waitresses became quite friendly with our group.
Then one day I was surprised to learn that Cocktail Waitress and Husband had moved into the apartment above mine. We chatted every so often and, of course, she still brought me my round of Kamikaze's that I so enjoyed; I say enjoyed, because once you puke Kamikaze, you can't go back.
At least I can't.
Anyway. One morning I was walking to my car and I saw Cocktail Waitress in the parking lot with Husband. I hadn't met him yet, so we stopped for a minute. Husband was carrying a huge ceramic pot when Cocktail Waitress introduced us.
Me. Socially inept back then......heck, socially inept today....offered my hand for a handshake.
Husband was still carrying the huuuuuuuuge pot.
I stick out my hand.
He sticks out his finger,
I shake it.
It still mortifies me to this day.
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I used to tend bar in California and we had all sorts of regulars, and Vicki used to work with me. We had so much fun getting all the regulars laughing and telling stories; it was a fun job.
One night, during our storytelling, Vicki offered up the take of her then-husband, who worked at a local saw mill. He came home from work one night and told her about a man who was killed on the job when a band saw slipped.
Did it decapitate him? someone asked.
Nope. Vicki said firmly. Took his head right off.
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I was once stopped for speeding while driving down I-5 in California.
If you've been there, you know that I-5 is one long-assed boring stretch of road from Mexico to Canada. My friend Kim and I were on our way to an Amnesty International concert at the Coliseum in LA.
So, I'm driving along 5--it was a four-hundred-plus mile trip from my house to LA--and I'm about 250 miles from LA, cruising along at about ninety.
The speed limit was Sixty-five.
Red lights.
Red face.
Pull over.
Helicopter caught you doing nine-zero. CHP say.
Wow. I say. So intelligent.
Yeah. What's the hurry.
I need to be in LA in fifteen minutes. Mind you, it's 250 miles away.
Looks like you won't make it.
Depends on how long this takes.
I'm lucky he had a sense of humor. Those orange jumpsuits don't look good on me.
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Once I was working in a bar, and this friend of mine, Dave, worked with me. We had a friend, Maria, who was, well, what you might politely call high-maintenance.
Seriously high. She weighted in at right around one-hundred pound sand called herself fat. I have shoes that weigh more than she did.
One night she was complaining about how she had popped a zipper in her pants.
How did you do that? I asked innocently.
Because I'm FAT. She said. I'm fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat!!!!
I walk away from the tirade.
An older couple is sitting at the bar as I pass by.
What's all that shouting down there? The old woman asks.
Before I could answer, the little old man said,
I don't know, but that fat girl is having a fit.