Yesterday, I went to court for the first time.

That's right. Broke some laws, baby. I'm a bad, bad man.

A loner, Dottie. A rebel.

Actually, it was a traffic violation. Well, technically, it had very little to do with traffic. But, still, the fact remains that I did some violating, and that's what's important.

It was a pleasant July evening. I was driving up to the IO, happily obeying all traffic laws and probably singing along with something on the Oldies station. I felt slightly nervous when the black and white appeared in my rearview, but I wasn't going to do anything to provoke him. I was a cucumber, as in 'Cool as a.'

Then he pulled me over.

Ah, what a pleasant experience it is to be pulled over in rush hour traffic. You know, I am aspiring to be an entertainer, after all. And entertain the motorists I did, at the corner of Wilshire and La Brea, judging by the large amount of rubbernecking my fellow commuters did as they drove by and amused themselves with my plight.

It's hard to look cool when you've been pulled over and are sitting there in a white 1997 Geo Metro, but if you stare straight ahead and scowl, you can pull it off.

So, the officer explained that he had pulled me over because I was a public nuisance, a dangerous element, a threat to the safety of the grand metropolis.

That's right: I hadn't bothered to renew my tags.

So I says to the punk "This gangsta don't give no fuck." Which actually translates into me saying "Officer, of course I would have renewed my tags, but, you see, I seem to be in the midst of a bit of bad luck, old boy, and cannot afford to do so at this time."

The grand irony of this episode is, as he was writing me a ticket for my infraction, a group of eight guys ran out on front of my parked car and tried to cross the very busy La Brea right in the middle of the street, a HUGE no-no in Los Angeles. These idiots were actively putting their lives in danger, impeding traffic, and creating a very hazardous situation right in front of this fucking cop.

"Hey! Cross at a crosswalk!" he yelled at them, and then went back to busting me for having the wrong color sticker on my license plate.

So, he gave me what's called a "Fix It Ticket." He explained that I had until September 3rd to correct the problem, or I could appear in court to plead my case.

Yesterday was the day. I looked vainly for a reason not to go, but found none. I did, in fact, come up with two very good reasons to go. 1: The plan, otherwise, was to stay home and send out resumes for jobs that apparently do not exist. 2: If I hadn't appeared, they would issue a bench warrant for my arrest.

Now, I know someone that was issued a fix it ticket for the same violation three years ago. He skipped his court date, and there's a warrant out for him. He's been pulled over twice in that time, and nothing at all has ever happened to him.

I toyed with the idea of not bothering with it, but the way my luck's been going lately, they not only would have issued the bench warrant, they would have come over here at 7am this morning and hauled my ass out of bed.

So I went. I wore a suit, as that seems to be what one does when appearing in front of a judge. I drove to the courthouse, which was in a part of Los Angeles that was apparently bombed by the Allies during World War II.

I let myself be raped for parking, and went inside. I asked a security guard where to go. She laughed evilly as she pointed to a long line.

I was overdressed. I should have worn my FUBU gear. Perhaps a visor, tastefully cocked off to the side, to accentuate the outfit.

I managed to kill about 25 minutes in line with a long overdue catch up call to the sweet Sally, and we were both more than happy for the distraction. Finally, about ten people away from being called to the window, we got off the phone when a loudspeaker crackled with information. I listened. The message, essentially: "If you have a Fix It Ticket, you should be in the other line."

Holy Mother of Fuck.

I wasn't getting out of that damn line. I had come too far. To add insult to injury, one of the two open windows closed. My fellow line mates and I collectively groaned.

I turned to the girl next to me. "I think I'd just rather have the warrant."

"Yeah, really," she laughed, and then went on to string the words bitch shit muthafucka assHOLE together in ways that hadn't occured to me before.

I got my turn at the window. Bizarrely, mercifully, the loudspeaker message must have applied to everyone with a fix it ticket that wasn't named Bill, because the guy was able to process me just fine. He gave me a two month extension and explained what I had to do to, well, fix it. After his spiel:

ME: Uh, hey. Are you guys hiring?

HIM: Ha. No. We're laying off.

Bitch shit muthafucka assHOLE.