the heart of darkness—not so bad after all

This morning I went to the DMV to (finally) finish registering my car in the grand State of California. I had steeled myself for some major distress and frustration but everything was fairly quick and easy. This unexpected simplicity left me a little shell-shocked, but soon transformed into a warm, fuzzy feeling once I hit the highway. Now I’m confused. Did I just have a good DMV experience? As this goes against everything I believe in, my gut is screaming no! no! but maybe I should reconsider my long-held belief that spending time at the DMV is second only to gouging one’s eyes out with a spork. I mean, if I’m going to claim a certain amount of understanding for radical, suicide-bomber terrorists, Lord knows I should be able to apply the same logic to DMV workers, right?

Therefore, I take back every bad thing that I’ve ever said about the DMV. Well, almost. They’re still not great at communicating their processes. Or helping you. Or hiding their sarcasm for those who do not understand the intricacies of the motor vehicle registration universe. But they’re aiight. They deal with a ton of people every day, in a variety of languages, and sift through mounds of paperwork for each case. That has to be frustrating as hell. Sure, I might only be there for four hours, but they’re stuck there for eight. Every day (except for national holidays, Mondays, every other Saturday, and random unannounced ‘closed’ days). When the job-suckiness factor is properly accounted for, it seems strange that there aren’t more crazy DMV worker shooting sprees. Geez—compared to these people, postal workers are pussies.

And I’ve discovered some good things about the DMV. For example, their all-business attitude and categorized ticket system got me in and out of their faces under one hour. Considering the fact that I had brought a copy of the New Yorker and a small notebook in which to write my life memoirs, I was pleasantly surprised at the short amount of time it actually took to get my motor affairs in order. And the woman who helped me was very nice. This impressed me because she looked to be about 14 months pregnant, and that can’t be good for a chick’s mood. Plus, I sat next to a bunch of ex-convicts talking about their upcoming court dates, developing strategies to avoid the state pen, and chatting about their mothers. By and large, the overall Calvin Klein commercial mood of the DMV was “joviality”, not the usual “suffering” or “brain hemorrhage” that I’m accustomed to. Nice.

Now if only I could get the goddamn hexagonal screws off my fucking license plates…