Thoughts on the DMV

They say there are only two certainties in life: Death and taxes. I suppose they’re right. But as far as your average non-living-in-super-major-metropolitan-area-Americans are concerned, there’s a third certainty.

The Department of Motor Vehicles.

Chances are, if you’re a citizen of the United States and you’re over the age of 16, you probably have a driver’s license. If you fall in that vast majority of folks who operate a motor vehicle for occupation/recreation/procreation purposes, then you’re going to need to get that license renewed every three to five years or so.

Having just “celebrated” my 28th birthday, my number was up. Time to get an updated terrible picture of myself to show to bouncers at the gay bars I no longer frequent now that I’m married.

While I waited on line at the East Liberty (pronounced “‘S’liberty” in these parts) DMV, a couple thoughts occurred to me.

1. The clerk who takes care of taking your photo ID card, verifying information, and snapping your sweet new head shot should have a lot more authority than he/she apparently does.

For instance, about four years ago, when I was doing this renewing song and dance in Indiana, I wanted some information changed on my license. When I earned the privilege of operating a Class C motor vehicle from the State of Pennsylvania, I was 16-years old and 5 feet, 10 inches tall. This height was reflected on said license.

Since that time, I’ve grown about six inches. I’m currently 6-feet-4 and have been since I was about 18 years old. So when the clerk in Indiana showed me the screen and asked if all the information was correct, I said, “No. I’m 6-feet-4. Please change that.” She asked for signed verification from a doctor. I asked if I could just go grab a tape measure or stand in the doorway of a convenience and have my picture taken instead. She said no. She asked if there was anything else she could do for me. I asked for fellatio, since she was apparently not going to follow through on any of these offers anyway. Luckily, she had no idea what fellatio was, so she took my picture and I was doomed to be 5-feet-10 for another four years (In that time, I filled out the proper paperwork and while I waited at ‘S’Liberty, I was ready to grow six inches in the span of three minutes).

In addition to being able to change obvious vital statistics without medical verification, these clerks should also be granted veto power over people who are there to renew. While I waited my turn, an older, portly gentleman operating a rascal had to get into position to get his picture taken.

During that time, he knocked over a garbage can, crashed into the clerk’s desk, then got stuck on a chair. To be fair, it was a bit of a tight space, but c’mon man. Three strikes and you’re out. This is the dipshit who’s going to gouge my fender while parallel parking and then just drive away.

In this case, the clerk should be able to politely refer the gentleman to the line where they issue bus passes.

And 2. What do famous people do when they need to renew their licenses? They drive cars/trucks/SUV’s/what-have-you. Therefore, they must have driver’s licenses. Therefore, they must renew their licenses. Therefore, they must come to the DMV, right?

I mean, famous people have a lot of crap done for them by other people, but this is something you have to do yourself, right? You can’t email a digital picture of yourself can you? If you did, how could you assure that it would be unflattering enough? And you still have to be there to put down your electronic signature and decide whether you want to be an organ donor and/or register to vote, no?

I take a certain sick satisfaction in knowing that people like Paris Hilton and Barry Bonds have to sit in the damn DMV line in order to have the right to drive their obscenely expensive automobiles. They have to do that, don’t they? There’s no way around it, is there? Other than death, the DMV provides the second-most-ultimate form of equality in our rigid class structure, right?

I sure hope so.