"You are wrong, and I don't know what you're talking about" (Part III)

For the next few weeks I moved the X-Wing frequently so that it would not even be on a street being checked each day. I printed my receipt for the DMV appointment and taped it to the inside of my windshield next to the note requesting pity from SF parking enforcement. And then the day arrived.

The DMV is an incredible place that seems to be a a strange timewarp-delay of 20 years, no matter the decade. The technology in this office was clearly a product of the 1990s including large projection televisions with static, MSDOS running on nearly every computer monitor, massive copy machines, and a 4-foot stack of boxes filled with staples. I could see that the desktop behind the counter closest to me had an extension for zip-drive disks. Everyone was dressed in plaid or bright pastel blouses.

Everyone has to come here at some point. The DMV is one of those pieces of the American experience that still unifies the public with a shared identity and nemesis (read, "nation building"). And it has a remarkable capacity to strip even the most determined individual of the reason and patience they might exhibit in all other aspects of their life, so that you inevitably find yourself sputtering half-conceived nonsense in protest of just about everything. A line stretched out of the front door, everyone appeared to be either angry or anxious, and only 2 of the 30 windows showed any sign of activity. How this widespread phenomenon has persisted against all probability since Man first had to register the first wheelbarrow with his tribal accountant, I will never know. But I am certain that if we could make citizens at the DMV feel loved and appreciated, the quality of our entire political culture, national democracy and positive views of government would increase a hundred fold.

45 minutes later my number was called over the loudspeaker. I approached Window#19 with deep breaths and explained my predicament one more time. And then something new, and sweet, and unexpected happened.

"Oh, wow. That sucks. We should probably apologize for that."

"Oh my, is that.... is that an apology?"

"No, it was an observation."

"Oh," I considered. "Well, would you like to apologize then?"

He thought for some time. "Um, yeah, OK." And just like that, he turned back to his green-text computer screen to finish processing my request, his cheeks undoubtedly blushing behind his frightening scraggly beard.

I felt vindicated and light of heart. Within moments this man had produced for me the registration for which I had longed for so many months. With the X-Wing's legal recognition in hand, I left the crude place and pranced forth into the sunlight with great hope. I could now drive without risking arrest, and my misunderstood offenses would be forgiven. I was vindicated, and I was free.

Briefly.

"You are wrong, and I don't know what you're talking about" (Part II)

Several days later, the Ante was upped to $180 with a third citation in less than two weeks time. I printed the receipt from my online renewal and taped it to my windshield with a plea to stop issuing tickets. I moved my car frequently so that it was not even on the same street as the parking officers on their daily routes. I submitted a formal protest to SFMTA and assured them that my registration would update in March. "I have an appointment," I pleaded. "They're going to give me me new tags because the old ones just never came." I was skipping lunch for this :/

"Mmm hmmm, so they never came...4 months ago? Whadya been doin' since 4 months ago, hmmm?"

"Trying to get them!"

She scoffed. "I don't think the DMV would do that to you."

"You are wrong, and I don't know what you're talking about" (Part I)

The California Department of Motor Vehicles gave me an early birthday present this year, validating our long unspoken love for one another. But we will get to that.

In October of 2010, the registration for my 1999 Silver Volvo V70 station wagon with turbo and spoiler(yeah!) was scheduled to expire. As often happens in the case of responsible and modern law abiding citizens, the registration was updated, fees were paid, and a receipt of my online activities was delivered to my inbox. The experience was unnecessarily complicated, but no more so than filing the forms in person. The Renewal Notice and instructions thanked me for following the law, and suggested that I allow up to 8 weeks for my Registration Tags to be delivered. And so passed without my consideration, the first of several mythic signs of things to come.