Many years ago, in what was in many ways a different lifetime, I was driving home from work through an industrial section of town, having finished a swing shift. It was dark, there was no traffic, and I ran a stop sign. Didn't stop, didn't pause, nothing. I worked down there, knew the area, and knew I could have seen any oncoming traffic.

A dark, uniformed police car sitting in the shadows of a warehouse with a view of the entire area saw me and pulled me over. I smelled like a brewery, the car smelled like a brewery, and I knew it. I started to get out so as to minimize the smell, but he was a one-man car in a dark neighborhood and told me to stay in. I knew I was "had", thought about running, realized he had my plate. I knew enough at that time to be polite and not cooperate with any field sobriety tests. And be polite. They didn't have breathalyzers then.

He asked for my drivers license. I gave it to him. He said he smelled alcohol. I said nothing, but nodded. He asked if I had been drinking, I said nothing, looking him in the eye to let him know I'd heard the question and I wasn't going to answer. He walked back to his car with my license.

After about 1 minute he hurried up to me, handed me my license, and told me to never do that again. I didn't ask what "that" was, I just said "No, no, sir" a couple of times as he ran back to his car.

He took off with light and siren.

Relieved, and feeling a bit more sober, I drove home and turned on the news.

A fellow flying a small plane had committed suicide by flying into a large building near where the cop had stopped me, when the cop had stopped me.

I have to admit to feeling very grateful to whoever thay guy was, though I thought it was a bit extreme.

And I wouldn't blame anyone who didn't believe this.

Arf