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well,
I live in New York, sometimes in New York City, sometimes upstate. New York is home. Like once I was on tour, driving all over the country, then I came back into New York and it was "yes, I am home." It smelled right. It looked right. The temperature was right. Then I got pulled over for speeding on Route 17 and had to explain to the officer that No Sir I wasn't really sure where I was headed, actually, though I was pretty sure that we were coming from Ann Arbor, and hold on let me check maybe we're going to Rhode Island, and no Sir my license isn't really suspended, the computer's just got it in there wrong, this has happened before, and yes I'll get out of the car, and thank you Sir for not arresting me. And then when I missed my court date and went to court another day the judge said he was going to throw me in jail because I was from Brooklyn and needed to be taught a lesson, because judges in New York town and village courts don't need to be lawyers except on Long Island so they teach lessons rather than apply the law, and the prosecutor said "no, no, he didn't do anything, you can't throw him in jail," and finally the judge let me go and I only had to pay my speeding ticket because that's what the prosecutor suggested I do as she was not charging me with driving with a suspended license because I hadn't done that and Sir you can't throw him in jail because he's from Brooklyn.
I think part of it was that I had dressed up to go to court; you know, just business casual, but nice looking because I was going to court, and everyone else there was wearing fuzzy pink house slippers and woodlands camouflauge t-shirts and babies, except for the African Americans, who were wearing manacles and fetters and chains and were all lined up on a bench off to the side seperated from everyone else.
So now I drive pretty slowly on the highway near that town, because I don't ever want to have to go there again.
