Once, I snapped at Ruth Newhall. In the newsroom. Strangest thing? I am here, alive, and able to talk about my death-inviting stupidity.

It was about 50 years ago and I was in my biker phase. Many in a series of daft and crooked legislative edicts oozed from Sacramento and in this particular case, it was a bill making it mandatory to wear a helmet while riding a motorcycle in California. I was, and am, against it. I had shoulder-length hair (on most of my head) and loved the feel of it blowing in the wind. I didn’t ride a big bike for the mileage.

Ruth listed a litany of reasons why wearing a helmet was a good idea, top of the list was that if someone inept at high-speed locomotion like myself were to crash into a telephone pole, first responders would be spared the latrine-cleaning trauma of sponging up my brains because all 1/128th ounce of it would be right there, in the helmet.

And I snapped: “Yeah. Just what we need, Ruth. Government as mom.”

Quickly, I doubled over, waiting for the blow, and cupped my mouth with both hands. Forget being The Mighty Signal’s feared managing editor. Like some dowager empress, Ruth could get you killed, slowly, with just a glance, not to mention, but she had mentioned, “I’m going to kill you” and that was over a misplaced modifier in a girls’ volleyball story.

My disagreeing with Mrs. Newhall (last name? same as the town?) shocked both of us. I managed to insert my second foot in my mouth by pointing out that the pond scum assemblyman who introduced the bill had received a fortune in campaign contributions from........

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