Though my current Utah driver’s license won’t expire until April, I decided to renew early in hopes of securing a card with a more flattering photo. Thus, I made an appointment for last Friday morning at DMV headquarters, where I was almost turned away by a clerk who couldn’t confirm my identity—not even after I showed her my current license with the horrible photograph.
“We need more than your name, date of birth and horrible photograph,” she said. “We need your appointment confirmation number.”
Foolishly, I had neglected to tattoo said number on my forearm. However, I had remembered to bring along my cell phone, from which she was able to retrieve it. I was then assigned a second number and ordered to wait for it to be called, whereupon I reported to an second station, answered a few questions, took an eye test and forked over fifty bucks. The examiner then handed me a temporary permit, which he said would serve as my new driver’s license until the laminated version could be minted.
Because my original license hadn’t yet expired, I decided to hang onto ti until the new one arrives. As a result, yesterday I was denied entry to a restaurant that serves alcoholic beverages. Why?
“Because your driver’s license has a hole in it,” I was told. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized that.
“But I’m eighty years old,” I cried. “Clearly, I’m not a minor. I mean, just look at the birth date. Look at the picture—geez, it makes me look like I’m even older.”
“Let me talk to my manager,” she said, as I continued to fulminate.
Presently she returned. “Sorry, but we don’t serve your kind. Your driver’s license has been punched. We can’t serve your kind in here.”
At this point, I had to be escorted outside by my would-be dining companion George, who at one time had worked for the Utah Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control.
You can’t blame her,” he said. “Blame the DABC. The law stipulates that everyone who walks into a bar must get carded. One misstep, and they’ll take away the establishment’s liquor license. In fact, they even send out spies in order to make sure the rules are being enforced.”
“So, in other words, the Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control is basically a sting operation that employs senior citizens to pose as teenagers? How very clever of them. And it would have worked, had someone not punched a hole in my otherwise valid driver’s license?”
“Exactly. Next time you try to pass yourself of as an adult, you’ll know to be more careful.”
I suppose I could write a letter to my representative; however, it’s unlikely to be opened since the Utah legislature is currently busy outlawing certain library books and denying transsexuals entrance to public restrooms. You know, stuff that’s really important in this day and age.
Now normally, I like to include a photo with every post, so here’s one that I shot the same day my that driver’s license was nullified. It happens that the DMV office is situated on the Utah State Fairgrounds, where years ago I spent the worst ten days of my life as official photographer for the Utah State Fair, having taken the place of the original contractor, who had fallen ill after biting into a tainted corn dog. Upon presenting my bill, I was denied payment, because even though I had dutifully all the terms on the contract, it wasn’t my name on the contract.
Anyhow, I decided to take a walk down memory lane, revisiting exhibit halls and stockyards where once I had labored ankle-deep in animal poop, posing sheep and goats as Lee Greenwood blared from overhead loudspeakers. Presently I came upon a gaggle of geese that were literally goose-stepping as if on parade. Shouldn’t they be migrating in V-shaped formation? I wondered. Evidently not. I’m thinking perhaps their license to fly has been revoked by some paper punching bureaucrat.
