A few weeks ago, Rep. Lauren Boebert (R-Colorado) caught the attention of security officers at a performing arts theater, where she and a male companion were enjoying a musical. It turns out they were enjoying some hands-on activities as well.
If you didn’t already know that video cameras were recording your every move, even in the dark, you know now. The video evidence shows the Congresswoman vaping, distracting other patrons, and engaged with her mate in the kind of touchy-feely behavior that gets kids in trouble in the 8th grade. (Or so I hear).
To top it off, she didn’t go quietly. After being escorted from the theater, she gave an encore performance in the lobby. On her way out, she saluted the security officers with one solitary finger while shouting the words that victimized, entitled celebrities live by: “Do You Know Who I Am?” In this case this response was, “Why yes, we certainly do. Now leave.”
This encounter recalls several notorious incidents in which famous people responded to police officers with the “Do You Know Who I Am?” defense. That may have worked before social media, or before cameras became omnipresent. But nowadays, it usually ends up backfiring on the celebrity.
Since my broadcasting career has made me a low-level local celebrity, I guess I could say, “Do You Know Who I Am?” when trying to get seated at a fancy restaurant. But so far, that has not been an issue at my usual haunts: Burger King and Hardee’s.
I had one memorable traffic stop, several years ago. I was 20 years old, and I was the morning deejay on a Chattanooga radio station. I had just gotten off work, and I was starving. (When you’re 20, hunger pains occur every fifteen minutes. You can eat a huge burger, and never gain a pound. Then after you turn forty, you can sniff an onion ring and go up two shirt sizes).
It just so happened that a new Wendy’s had opened near the radio station. I had never eaten a Wendy’s burger, so I considered it my duty to be among the first in line.
Evidently, I was in quite a hurry. Shortly after I hit the highway, I saw the dreaded blue light flashing in my rear view mirror. I didn’t even try to pretend the cop was chasing someone else. I was as guilty as Opie when he was taking credit for making all A’s, even though he knew Miss Crump had made a mistake.
“Do you know how fast you’re going?” the man in blue asked. “More than the speed limit, I know,” I replied. As I handed him my driver’s license, he studied it for a moment. “David Carroll. David Carroll,” he repeated. “Where do I know that name from?”
“Well,” I replied, “I’m on the radio, you may have heard me…” He cut me off. “Wait a minute! You’re on KZ-106, right?” “Yes sir, that’s me.” He flashed a wide grin.
“I take my daughter to school every morning, and we always listen to you!” he exclaimed. As my head started to swell, he went on. “We think you’re funny, we like them jokes you tell, and how you make fun of the news.” I could already envision this ticket being ripped to shreds and forever forgotten by all parties.
“Hey listen,” he said. “Reckon you could play a song for her in the morning?” (To avoid a ticket, I would have played a duet by Lawrence Welk and Yoko Ono.) “Absolutely,” I said. He ripped a page out of his notepad, and asked for an autograph. “Michelle will love this,” he said. “She won’t believe I met you.”
I was about to resume my trip to Wendy’s. “Just one more thing,” he said. He handed me a citation, and still smiling broadly, he said, “You’ll need to come to City Court on Monday at 2:30. Be sure to bring sixty-two dollars in cash. It was great to meet you!”
As promised, I played a song for his daughter the next morning. Maybe you’ve heard it. It’s called, “I Fought the Law, and the Law Won.”
