Everyone loves a good conspiracy theory.  I'm from Nevada - it's what we do here.  Aliens.  Area 51.  Disemboweled cows.  ["Oh my!"]  And if it's not about flying saucers, you can bet your government bail-out check that it's a cover-up for something even more diabolical, something too weird and sexual to imagine.  What it is, we don't know, but they're doing it, and getting away with it too.  Meanwhile, just next door in free-lovin' California, they can't keep a secret - not even a good one like California Highway Patrol's 11-99 Foundation.  This one has everything:  cops, speeders, bribes, corruption and a secret society.  No dead aliens.  Shit.

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I grew up on Germany's Autobahn and, like so many Army brats, later settled into the 'burbs of our nation's murder capitol, Washington, D.C.  Springfield, Virginia, to be precise, and if you know the spot, please don't hold it against me.  From a young motorist's perspective, this was a punch in the nuts, moving from a society that appreciates and respects speed to another that demonizes it.  To top things off, Virginia was one of only two states (and DC, murder capitol) in our country to operate a long-standing ban on radar detectors.  [Connecticut would repeal its ban in 1998.]  One speeding ticket later, I would raise a finger to the establishment, purchase my first Escort radar detector (about the size and weight of Earth's moon) and drive, baby drive, in defiance of state law, for seventeen years.

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Oh, just pluck out my eyeballs and spray Cheez Whiz in there. It's Olympics time and, out of character, I'm tuned into my local NBC affiliate, hookin' up with the Redeem Team for some international hoops ownage. "Let's do some ball, byotch!" And then, it happens: a commercial advertisement from our good friends at the Department of Public Safety, demonstrating some fartnob doing 65 MPH in a 25 MPH residential area. Bathed in triumphant needle-drop music, the villain is apprehended by no less than five-thousand motorcycle cops. [Been there, done that.] I bring up my first mouthful of popcorn. The PSA concludes, "Slow down, Nevada. We're watching you," or some Orwellian, Stingesque crap like that. I run to the kitchen for some rat poison.

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Ever wonder how many tax dollars are spent scooting Highway Patrol vehicles about? Well, more now than before, thanks to those naughty oil speculators and their wee influence on fuel prices. Because of this, some states are modifying their highway enforcement strategies, favoring stationary positions over roving vehicles. Driving this decision is not only the cost of fuel, but the realization that fuel-efficient vehicles aren't up to the challenge of routine law-enforcement activities. Imagine Orange County police chasing OJ in a fleet of Priuses. Or is it "Prii?" "Gaggle of Priaux?!" Whatever.

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