Grade Me, Stamp Me, Pass Me: Love and Hate at the DMV

I sat on the floor at the DMV today, waiting for them to open. They opened the office thirty-five minutes late. I arrived 35 minutes early so I could get my new car/hideous mistake a temporary tag. Had I arrived earlier, would the cosmos have spun just that much slower to elongate my wait? Imagine, for a moment, if you were to do that: you pay a parking ticket thirty-five minutes late, you buy auto insurance thirty-five minutes late, you apply for your driver's license thirty-five minutes late. All of these would cause situations which are not easily brushed off with “We had a meetin'. NEXT.” But that works when you are the DMV. The rest of us stand shaking our fists at the sky and plotting beheadings, but the DMV ladies- they hold the scepter. At least that's what I do when I am at the DMV. You can recognize me as the guy standing in line shaking his fist at the acoustic ceiling tiles and muttering under his breath. Do not look him directly in the eye.

But here is my dirty little secret. I love bureaucracy. I like assembling documents, arranging them in a folder, possibly clipping them together with some sort of paper clip or binder holder... the mind wobbles. I put them all together, knowing that in order to emerge victorious, everything must be in order. And I control that order, and therefore, ma'am, behind-the-counter-staring-at-me-with-deathly-bored eyes DMV lady, I control you. Do my bidding helpless wench. You too, lackey, jump when that printer spits out my temporary registration card! Feel the power of my writing out a check! For the next twenty-five seconds, you are all mine. And I will rule with an iron fist.

But also, you must love me, DMV lady. You must. You gave me a parting gift- neatly printed documents with holograms and stickers and smelling ever so much like toner, paper and adhesives. And you know how much I love the smell of officialdom, random DMV person. I know you can see it in my eyes. Do you know that I swoon over driver's licenses? That library cards make my heart race, with their plastic raciness and shapely barcodes neatly laminated? That passports are my weakness? Did you know that getting a visa is akin to getting a new tattoo? There is pain of course, lover, but then, when isn't there? And the payoff- that foreign-granted mark of privilege and access- makes me weak in the knees. Ohhh officialdom, let's never fight again. I'll be back in forty-five days or less: do not despair my DMV lover.

DMV Lady: You gonna need fill this out in triplicate! Take a number! (subtext: come for me conqueror, I await your passionate touch)
The King: I already filled it out online and printed it (subtext: I touch you. Let us shake the foundations.)
DMV Lady: I TOLD you TAKE a NUMBER! (subtext: passion is not so easy lover, it must erupt from the right time and place, it will not flow forth on command)
The King: Fine. (subtext: cock tease.)

Oh My Holy God What Have I Done

I just bought a $500 Ford Escort Wagon. That's right- I bought a FORD ESCORT WAGON. OF MY OWN FREE WILL. (hyperventilating into a bag, breathe, breathe, breathe). I maintain that all of my research is paying off here, and that yes, this car, with it's small mechanical problems that are easily fixable will be a good car to own for the next six months. I know this in my rational head. I know it. But I JUST BOUGHT A STATION WAGON.

I am cheap. Others consider it thrifty, but I know in my heart that if I am ever a millionaire, it will be because I saved 22 cents by buying off brand floor cleaner. I don't want to spend thousands of dollars on cars. I figure that if this piece of proverbial crap holds out for six months, then my total car payment was like 20 dollars a week, including insurance. Sweet!

But still, I just bought a silver station wagon.

Cougar's at the Bar (a remembrance of weekends past)

We took the English Guy to Delaware, so he could see what his country men lost, in all it's glory. And so he could better understand the concept of “strip mall” and “huge fat asses”. He learned his lesson quick, that EG, he's wily. Between all the swimming and mall strolling and crab eating, we decided to have some drinks. Yes, the King and friends do occasionally enjoy a fine beverage, or six. We chose “The Starboard” which immediately turned out to be a huge mistake. Basically, all that is attached to the beach in Dewey and Rehoboth is a mistake, really, except for the beach itself. We had chosen to come here voluntarily, so I will stop judging. Well, stop judging so much anyway. Where was I? Judging. That's right.

No, there was nothing wrong with the Starboard, except for the cougars. For my east coast friends, you may not be aware of the significance of the cougar, but if you are from the upper Midwest, or Canada, oh then: you know. Cougars are women of a certain age that go cruising bars for younger men. Sometimes much younger men, i.e. moms with kids in college rubbing up against recent high school grads. It's not pretty. I realize we all have to get our lovin' on somehow and I'm fine with that, but seriously people.

To be honest, they were all very successful, married women from Bethesda, Maryland out on a “girlfriends” weekend, as they kept screaming in high tones. They sat down with us, spilled drinks on us and then insisted that we get up and dance to AC/DC because it reminded them of HIGHSCHOOL. Awesome. Rad. Completely gnarly. Sike. Double-down twin hand SIKE, ladies. Not gnarly at all.

Conversation of the Evening:

The King: Yeah, AC/DC is pretty good.

Cougar: NO! They are THE BEST!

TK: Right, yeah, really good.

C: No! THE BEST! Except for Billy Jowel. I mean JOEL! HA HA! I said Jowel instead of Joel! HA HA! I am so DRUNK! Right ladies! WHOOOHHOOOOOOOOOOO!

TK: (Edging away slowly) Billy Joel is good- I like it when he wears unionsuits.

C: WHERE ARE YOU GOING! Have you ever head the Billy Joel songs about 9/11? I mean, if you haven't heard them then I don't even think you are really American. I mean, you listen to them and it is JUST SO SAD. WHOOOooooHHHoooHOOOO!! BACK in BLACK! My favorite song!

TK: Right then.

C: I want to introduce you to my girlfriends in Bethesda!

TK: I date that guy over there. So I don't so much need to meet girls.

C: Oh wow! That is so great! I mean, I don't think you should be able to get married, but still, that is great!

Seriously: Where do these people come from?

L'Shana Tovah!

This last Friday was Rosh Hashana. Never having celebrated it before, being goyim, I decided to roast a goose for the Boy Friend and his family. We decided friends should come over, too. It's good to dilute family. I didn't realize until too late that there are many things that are traditional for Rosh Hashana, but goose is not one of them. Oye vey. However, after introspection, I present:

Rules for a Happy Rosh Hashana

1. Much blowing of the ram's horn is in order.

2. There must be much, much wine.

3. Gifilte fish should be made illegal. It looks like cooked snot.

4. Roasted meats make everyone happy. Even vegetarians, except they express their happiness by looking disturbed. But they are happy.

5. Dessert. Always serve dessert.

6. Again- wine.

Happy New Year!

Huzzah, the barber who spake not.

Getting one's hair cut is a pleasure for some. One comes in to the barber shop, someone fusses over their head while keeping a running commentary about baseball and the president, and they leave with a freshly shorn scalp. I hate it. I can't seem to keep up a running commentary about anything with a barber. Do I have a chit-chat disorder? Do I have a disability affecting the running commentary part of my brain? A case in point:

Barber: What about that president?

Me: I think he needs to just shut up and deliver some results. I am tired of hear about how everything is great in Iraq when it is clearly falling to pieces.

B: I was talking about the president of the MBA.

M: Uhhhh, ok. I don't even know who that is.

B: judging silence.

M: brooding silence.

B: more judging silence.

M: So, good weather we are having right now, eh?

B: Republicans are the moral saviors of America you know.

M: Riiiiight.

B: super judging silence

M: super broody silence. Can he tell that I am gay? Is he going to give me a lecture about where my penis should go? Am I going to have to punch him?

--twenty five uncomfortable minutes later--

B: That will be 17 dollars.

Isn't it the barber's job to agree with everything the client says? Plus, what is the barber doing asking pointed questions anyway? He's the one with a weapon in his hand. It's not fair to talk politics if one of the people is holding a sharp steel instrument against your ear. Stupid barber.

But I have found the best barber now. He doesn't talk at all. In fact, he doesn't speak English. The shop owner had to explain to him how my hair was to be cut. Perfect. He does speak Spanish, but I didn't tell him that I also habla español, so we sat there in the comfortable silence that exists between two men who don't want to talk and can't anyway cause they don't speak the same language. Victory.

At least until he starts to learn English.

Ye Olde Tyme English Speake

On our recent trip to the beach, I was reminded that America loves to misspell stuff on signs. And we love to do it on purpose. I drove past a “Ye Olde Worlde Shopping Plaza”, which my friends, was a strip mall that contained a chinese restaurant, a Subway, a shuttered adult-book store, a liquor mart, and a “Curl Up and Dye” Hair Salon. The salon's previous owner's sign was still in the window, stating that “A Hair Affair” was open seven days a week, but did not offer child care service. The shopping plaza was a sad affair, made even more poignant by the fact that the owner clearly thought that by misspelling common words the passer-by would be duped into seeing olde worlde charm where there was none. Or, the owner was from the 14^th century. Either way, completely lame, dude.

A List of Purposely Misspelled Signs Seen Last Weekend:

1. Sea Esta Inn. OK, seriously people: esta is not a word in English. Neither is siesta, but whatever.

2. The Fishun' Hole. WRONG. Simply WRONG.

3. Gas n' Guzzle NO. And must never be shortened to just n', unless you want a punch in the face. Amos n' Andy? No. Guns n' Roses? Might let that one slide. Peaches n' Cream? Urge to kill rising...

4. DelaWARE (tourist shop). I realize this isn't actually misspelled, but this isn't how I roll.

5. Pine Terraza Manor. This is also not misspelled, but it referred to a trailer park.

6. Olde Thyme Antiques. This place was like a hovel filled with old glass bottles. So if I keep every jar that my food comes in for like fifty years, does that a business make?

7. Madjya Look...Good Hair Salon. Sound it out... slowly, now quicker. Now judge it.

Dela-wary in Delaware

This past weekend was the last warm weekend of the summer. I knew it would be. Jesus left a message on my machine. I, the boyfriend and the English Guy (visiting from... surprise: England) drove the General Sherman to the beach in Delaware. Oh Delaware: The First State. Seriously, you couldn't have a more creative state name than that? No, no you couldn't.

I had never been to Delaware before. The EG had never been to Delaware before. Only the boyfriend had been to Delaware, back in the days before I completed him (natch). I just had to google natch to make sure I was using it right. I am awesome. Anyway, Delaware. It's crazy out there. It is all flat. And those people out in Delaware, they LOVE them some strip mall. We drove out of DC stuffed into the General Sherman and were whisked to Annapolis, where things started getting a bit, shall we say, delawarish. I was dela-wary. Shall I dela-stop the pun? Yes. I shall.

As soon as we crossed the bay bridge, things started turning pear shaped. I don't mean to judge, but I am going to judge now: strip malls = stupid populace. Trust me, I am from the middle of the country where strip malls roam the plains like displaced buffalos. If the citizens of a town allow strip malls, you should hurry up and move away because those people probably think that the moslems are just getting what is coming to them and Bill Clinton is one of the seven signs. They are wrong.

When we arrived in Dewey Beach, I realized that Dewey and Rehoboth (two beach towns about three hours from DC, for those fine readers who live outside of the belt way, all two of you.) are just one big strip mall. Seriously, there are like five outlet malls, all of the marts (both Wal- and K-) and a bunch of tacky random crap thrown in as well. Even the best place to eat crabs in town, Lazy Susan's, is located in the parking lot of a strip mall. Our motel? Next to a strip mall, and across the street from a strip mall. But the beach, oh that was nice. The north Atlantic isn't known for beautiful beaches but I have to say, this one hit the spot. Just be glad they haven't turned it into a strip mall yet.

Picture taken from a strip mall. Well, not really.

An absence makes the heart grow fonder

That is complete crap because normally people just forget about you when you are away. Sorry about the long time between posts- some bad news and then the fun arrival of our friend from London has lead to lack of posting due to both laziness, sloth, and drunkenness. Look! I'm so lazy I can't even use both right! In Soviet Russia, grammar uses you!

And you feel dirty, because you thought that grammar really cared.