Picture Day at the DMV

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Christ, doesn’t every hack comedian do a bit on the Department of Motor Vehicles? Why do I need to read a Klog about it? What’s next, a stirring Klog about airline travel?” I had an experience today at the DMV that I thought I would share. BTW, be sure to be here next week for a stirring piece on airline travel.

So I got it in the mail, that little official form that says “dude, you’re getting older”. Yes, it was time to renew my driver’s license. Is there any other depressing memento of time passing by? In school, it was always the yearbook picture. Every year, you were well aware when ‘picture day’ was. You made the proper sacrifices to the acne gods-2 male chickens, I believe. You didn’t want zits. You wanted to have a good hair day. You worried how your braces would look. Back then, we didn’t have the digital luxury we have these days; there were no do overs. You would dread the day yearbooks came out to see how your picture turned out. We all knew kids who unfortunately fell into the following categories; closed eyes, zits, bad hair, molest-ache.

Turns out we never quite get away from that. In adulthood, it’s called getting your license picture taken. Few such days strike fear in my shallow heart as this day. It’s almost impossible to not do a quick inventory of your life when you show up to get your mug taken. Have I progressed any since last time I was here? What significant events have occurred since Uncle Sam last took a picture?

‘K, I will confess to being a bit shallow, even maybe just a tiny, tiny, tiny part vain. I mean no one wants to look like a goober, even if they really do look like a goober all day. I don’t need to see photographic proof to reinforce the fact I am said goober. Yet, I still get unreasonably nervous come picture day at the DMV.

Which is kind of odd. When you really think about it, just how often do you really look at your driver’s license picture? Sure, it’s usually readily visible in your wallet/purse. It’s usually the first thing you see when you open your wallet/purse up. Except for me. No sir, I cover mine up. The first thing you see is my American Express Black Card.

OK, it’s more like the plastic facsimile that comes in the mail with the application, but hey, it makes me feel better about myself. Back to the point, just how often do you look at your own drivers license picture (which will now simply be referred to as DLP, I don’t have all freaking day to type out the extra letters)? The only time you take it out is at the bar-if you are still lucky to get carded. Being well north of 21, it’s still a little flattering to get carded at the door. Even if the bouncer is clearly just doing his job, and calls you ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir’ as he hands it back. Chicks absolutely love getting carded. God forbid, you also have to whip out your license if you get pulled over.

I have always admired those brave souls who take goofy pictures for the DLP. You know, they make the ‘busted’ face, or roll their eyes or look super happy, etc. I think that’s damn funny, But I know if I ever did that, I would get pulled over all the time by cops with no sense of humor. That’s a taserin’.

Point is, you hardly ever do look at your DLP. Even at the bars, you just blindly hand it over, never even acknowledging the picture. So why do I (and maybe even you, for all I know) get so worked up over taking your DLP? I really reckon it to meeting your dates’ parents for the first time. You at least want to look decent. “Yes, hello Mr. So-and-so. Please don’t worry about your precious daughter. Yes, yes, I know she is your only daughter, and your wife miscarried the previous 3 girls. Please do not worry, as I have no ulterior motives or will do anything untoward or disrespectable towards your daughter. It will just be a movie-PG, of course-then perhaps a burger and a drink. Please don’t worry, as I will be more than happy with the handjob she will give me behind Fridays.”

I know I am not one of the ‘beautiful people’. I am OK with that. So why do I get so caught up in this? I am old, I am married, I have little to live for at this point, so why do I care? There’s not much to change. And face it, you never want to screw around with your look-whatever it may be-right before getting your DLP taken or married. I’m certainly not gonna change my scruff or goatee. Really, the only thing I have to worry about is hair. And there’s less and less of that. I know that because I look at my old license. There is long, healthy, blonde hair. Now a days, not so much.

I think I get worked up because for some reason, I think this picture might be on the news some day. I will go off and do something heroic. In a scramble, the media outlets have no picture of me. So I believe there is some imaginary government office that will release the only pic they have of me; my DLP. “And the big story today is the heroic acts of this man, who singlehandedly saved the crippled orphans from the raging fire.” O, who am I kidding? The story will most likely be “In other news this night, this man was found running and screaming naked up on the town water tower. It took 3 sedative darts to take him down. When he was on the ground, reports have him saying, “Where is my rum and where are my pants?”” And then you will see my DLP.

I lay picture day out. Since these places have notorious wait lines, I plan to get there early. Early in, early out. I shower, then proceed to ‘do my hair’. I put in some leave in conditioner, comb in, then headbang for a minute. I find Judas Priest music to work quite well. Make sure some of it covers my ugly mug. Ah yes, sweet, flat lifeless hair. It’s sunny today, and that’s one less things to worry about. Imagine my surprise when I show up and there’s already a line. Damn it! So I wait outside, just enough wind to mess up my already messed up hair. O, the humanity.

I go in, and there are only 2 photo desks open, which is fine. Turns out not too many people are there. One desk is manned by a woman, the other by a man. I start to feel like a girl. I feel self conscious. Suddenly, a flashback to my last time in this very office. I can’t remember too many of the specifics, but I do remember that the guy I got to take my picture, something was different about him. Shit, was he deaf, or mentally retarded or something? It really was something along those lines. I remember even feeling more self conscious. I felt like such a girl when I had to sign that damn electronic screen twice. No, priss that I am, my first autograph wasn’t good enough.

I have suck handwriting. Apparently, I didn’t pick up good penmanship in my 12 hellacious years in Catholic school. Honest to God, my cursive is no better than an 8 year olds. I have seen my nieces’ handwriting, and they are all better than mine. About halfway through high school, it was so bad, I couldn’t even read my own writing. So I fell back to printing, more or less. I hate what has turned out to be my ‘official’ signature. My printed one is far cooler. It’s neater looking, and also, when you bend it in half and hold it up to a mirror, it totally looks like a labia.

Fate calls me to the guy’s desk. It is here that I discover he is cross eyed. Shit! This makes me even more self conscious. I admire anyone who has any such sort of thing, really. I just worry about my reactions around them. I surely want to be respectful. But, fuck, which eye is the good eye, the one I’m supposed to look at?

I sit down and hand over my paperwork. I am so hyper aware, I take off my jacket, I don’t want it to be in the picture. Hell, I even labored over what color to wear today. I am such a priss. So he’s doing his thing on his computer, and I see my chance. On the wall a few feet away is a mirror. I am sure my hair got messed up outside. So I run over to take a look. As soon as I am a half step out of my chair, of course he has a question. Damn it. I continue to the mirror, just a quick glance. But now I feel bad, and I really don’t primp as I would want to. I am sure he’s rolling his eyes (at least the eye that can roll) at me. I sit back down. I have to sign that damned electronic screen thing again.

You know I have piss poor handwriting. Have you ever signed one of these things; they are everywhere. From UPS to Target, etc. No matter how clear your writing is, it comes up looking like indiscernible scribble. I do it once, and it really looks like an illiterate monkey signed it for me. I sheepishly ask to do it over, and he acquiesces. From observation, just about everybody asked for a second shot. I sign it again, and it is clearly no better. I could have all damn day to get a good ‘graph in there. But that would be rude to the motards behind me. Fine, whatever, I can let it go.

Next up is the hard part; the actual DLP. I have no idea what my hair looks like. He tells me to get ready, as I slap on what I refer to as ‘cheesy grin #3’. Look at the white dot and-flash! Damn, it takes forever as the picture comes up to the monitor on my right. Finally it appears and it’s…..eh. It’s about as “not horrible” as we can get. It looks like my goatee is eating my jaw. There’s no bangs hanging down to cover the mess that is my face. And it looks like there is more hair coming over my left shoulder than right shoulder. Fuck, what a mess, how horrible. Shit, how everyday.

Really, if I had the time and knowhow, I would post what both DLPs look like. But I am not that tech savvy, and I fear some nerd could come along and steal my info. Yes, even if I covered my license info with a thick piece of black cardboard, I am worried there is some hacker who could somehow eliminate that and steal my identity. It would be their bonehead move, because who wants to assume the ID of a jobless, penniless loser? Plus, one dark night, the Internet Police showed up at my door, and politely told me I am “far too ugly for the internet, and to please remove all pictures”. I shouldn’t complain; I thought they were coming about all the porno…

So now I am stuck with this for another 4 years. My mug will lamely shine from my Velcro Harley Davidson wallet. (Note to self-it might be time to get a new wallet.) One day you just might see it on the news.

Home Cooking

I have a personal chef. His name is George, George Foreman. Me and George get along well, real well. George will cook for me a few times a week. He understands me. He knows I am not a meat and potatoes kind of guy. I am a meat guy. Seriously, I can eat nothing but meat for a meal and be more than happy. I am not a vegetable guy. At all. I can honestly tell you I cannot remember the last time I ate a vegetable. I know they are good for me, but I just don’t like them.

I am a fairly clean, boring eater. I can eat tons of boring stuff and not complain. Fruit, nuts, chicken breast, fish, cottage cheese, tuna. I am fairly versed in the use of spice. Although my favorite was Ginger Spice from all those years ago.

I also make what I affectionately call Glop. Glop comes in many forms. At night, Glop contains a scoop of protein, oatmeal, cottage cheese, and maybe some raisins or peanut butter. Glop can also contain meat; like say diced chicken breast, crushed nacho chips, some cheese, maybe a dressing of some sort. Throw in a bowl, mix it around, nuke for 45 seconds and chow down. I have made some truly disgusting Glops that are actually pretty good. Even the dog looks at me like, “That’s disgusting.” And that’s saying something, because I am pretty sure he eats his own poop. At least I hope it’s his own poop. I am not a chef in the traditional way. Like, you know, what goes with what. I am intrinsic. I use whatever hits me at the time. I have no need for measuring cups or tea spoons. That’s what pussies use.

As it is in most relationships, my wife is the total opposite. Food Channel or whatever dafuck it’s called is her favorite channel. She can watch for hours. After watching a whole episode about cooking dish X, I will ask her if she will make it now, and she answers “no”. So then, what’s the point? She’s all into recipes and stuff. She takes an Oriental cooking class, and endures all my stereotypical jokes about how she’s cooking cats and gophers. There are things in the cabinets that only have Japanese written on them. And that scares me. How the hell are you supposed to know what’s really in them? How do you know it’s not a ploy to get dipshit Americans to eat foul stuff? Some say the war never ended….

T is also taking a night class. The class was asked when the last time some one did something nice for them was. The class-mostly broads, surprise-all said their husbands make them dinner. T seemed to be making a subconscious point when she came home to tell me this. I may be unemployed, but I ain’t stupid. It’s her gentle way of telling me she wants me to make her a dinner. For the record, I have made breakfast and lunch and dinner for her many times in the past. I think you can see that we do have differing tastes and definitions when it comes to dinner. I will gladly spice up extra chicken breasts and throw them on the grill so she can eat/use them whenever. I will always make extra turkey burgers, salmon, etc so she can mix them in a salad or take to work, etc.

My idea of ‘cooking’ involves the Foreman grill and that’s it. However, T will use these things called ‘pots’, ‘pans’, ‘stoves’ and ‘ovens’ in her cooking. That seems a tad too much for me. I am a one cooking device kinda guy. Anything more and you might as well alert the fire department. A gauntlet has been thrown down; make her dinner. Fear is struck into my heart. I mean, it’s only fair, she’s made me tons of good dinners over the years. I still refuse to eat her ‘broiled cat” or “stir fry squirrel”. Mama didn’t raise no fool.

On a Sunday while she has class, I head to Google to search for a recipe for the catfish I have. Protip when searching for recipes here, fellas; ALWAYS include the word “easy”. That will make your life so much easier. I cross reference the recipe to make sure we have everything we need in the house. Turns out I am missing 2 fucking things. It’s hard to hold onto your man card in Acme when you’re in the spice aisle.

It’s minimal work. All you do is throw the spices in a bowl, dip the catfish in and cook in the oven. OK, it was pretty smooth sailing after I figured out where the oven is. So I present her with the fish like a cat presenting a dead mouse. Ya know, “edible” is an oft under rated word. To be honest, it was fair, no Legionnaires at all. I probably fucked up correctly mixing the spices. I mean, is it my fault I don’t know the difference between what a teaspoon is and what a tablespoon is? It didn’t really taste Cajun or have a kick, but, still it was good, and there were no ensuing vomit session.

She’s been working long days lately. Plus, she’s been letting me borrow her car while mine was going into the shop. It occurred to me to give this making dinner another shot after she had a long day. She can bring home the bacon, at least I guess I can try to fry it up in the pan. Again, Google and easy lead me to a yummy sounding garlic crusted chicken. The degree is raised a bit, as I have to use the range and the oven. Dial 9 and 1 on the phone and keep it nearby.

I essentially melt butter in a pan, dip the chicken strips in, then coat them in a bowl of spices I have mixed. It’s about halfway through I realize I made a key mistake. In my haste, I have put the garlic in the bowl, not in the pan of butter as directed. Fuck! I fucked it up and it’s gonna be all garlic-y. Too late now. I even tried to figure out if there was a way to counter act the garlic by mixing something else in. I reassure myself that doing that would just make a garlic-y situation worse. I throw the sheet of chicken in the oven and hope for the best.

T came home and went right for a nap. She was wakened by the smell of garlic chicken floating through the house. Which is far better than the expected smell of charred drywall and burnt plastic. I take the chicken out and it actually looks pretty damn good. I load up our plates. I gentlemanly let her eat first. OK, that’s bullshit, I wanted her to go first to see how bad it was. Again, mama didn’t raise no cook and she certainly didn’t raise no fool. I watch her serene face turn to that of…pleasant surprise. She keeps chewing! Damn, this is a good sign. It has been decreed; I have made “damn good chicken”.

I bite in, and am also pleasantly surprised. No overwhelming garlic taste. T is genuinely impressed. She’s such a trooper, she tells me she was dreading eating this. But I have surpassed her expectations. For once, Kev done good. So now I know how to make two things good: garlic crusted chicken and rum and coke. Now, that’s a dinner. And I see it’s after 5…

Woefully Inadequate

I have been charged with a mission today, a mission I’d rather not complete. Go to Home Depot and line up getting carpet installed. This is in direct conflict with my “usual” schedule. I wake up early-6 is still considered early, these days, right?-make breakfast, spend a few hours trolling the Net for jobs, consequently band my head on the wall I even have to do this, try to do some sort of house stuff, cry, try to write something. I will also mix in going to the gym (keep me sane) or do something with the dog. You will note there is no mention of ‘shower’.

Shoot me, fucking shoot me. I hate Home Depot, hate Lowe’s, hate home improvements, hate tools, hate wrenches, hate it, hate it, hate it.

I do prefer HD over Lowe’s for some reason don’t ask me why. OK, I will tell you what my retarded reasoning is. Here’s is Jimmie Johnson, the current three-peating NASCAR Sprint Cup Champion. He is sponsored by Lowe’s.

I hate him because he is so successful. I hate him because that fag Jeff Gordon co-owns his team. I hate him because he is so goddamn bland and corporate and PC and vanilla. He gives the lamest cliché ridden interviews. Boring and vanilla. On the other hand here is Tony Stewart, who up until this year, drove for HD.

He is open and opinionated. He is aggressive on the track and will spin you out if you really piss him off. He is a 2 time champ. And I mean, just look at him’ he looks like he sustains himself on cheeseburgers and Molson Goldens. Yea, that’s who I wanna buy my tools from.

Plus, he used to have a monkey as a pet, and one day I want a helper monkey for myself. I am sure the monkey would be more adept at using a drill anyway. That’s what monkeys have opposable thumbs for, right?

Thankfully, in the yin and yang of our relationship, my wife is the tool head. She spends time in those stores like I used to spend time in record stores. God bless her for that. My most recent big tool purchase was a measuring tape. Big whoop.

I think I hate these stores because of that fucking show that started this whole home improvement movement. That one with that super-chipper host who you want to strangle with and electrical cord. Yea, Trading Spaces. I have it on good third hand knowledge that the show is faked. They shoot the bit with the couples, then kick them the hell out and get real workers to do the job. Think about it. Do you really think that just 2 dipshits can redo a kitchen in 2 days? Tear down tile, tear down drywall, rip down cabinets, reroute wiring, reroute plumbing, install new countertop, install new cabinets, put up drywall, tile, paint, wallpaper, install a new floor, build a new island, install a garbage compacter and lighting? Fuck no, open you eyes. But dumbfuck America buys it hook line and sinker. “Hey, look, that couple can do all that in one weekend, so can we!” No. No you cannot, not yours.

And would you really want your neighbors nosing around your stuff? Hell, no. I am convinced the neighbors next to us will be murderers. I am convinced there is something very odd going on in that house. The curtains are always drawn, you barely see the parents out, and you never see any of their 3 young kids running around in the backyard or going out for a walk. Fuck, they never even come out for Halloween. But I know one of these days, there’s gonna be news vans outside our houses. And I’m gonna have to be the dumb hick that says, “Duh, no, I never saw this coming. They were always quiet and kept to themselves. Snuffing cheerleaders on the web, you say? Yea, never saw that coming.”

Why are people so obsessed with this do it yourself thing when it comes to their homes? Would you try to fix the brakes on your car? No, so why is putzing around your house any more acceptable? In this economy, your house is the biggest asset you have, I get that. But what the fuck makes you think you can run electricity? Or properly install a deck? There are guys, good guys who can and will do this. Yes, it is costly, but think of the time and trouble you save yourself. Let a pro do the work. It shouldn’t be lost on anyone that you can’t spell “idiot” without “I do it”.

You would think laying a carpet would be easy. Remove furniture, take up the carpet (lucky for us it’s just an area rug), throw new carpet down, put furniture back in and life is normal. But NO! Of course it’s more fucking involved than that. No, you have to sweep and dust the floor. You have to order the carpet larger than the room so they can make the proper cuts. You have to install tacking. (O, so that’s how you get the edges to stay down) There’s the padding that goes beneath the carpet. You can’t have the carpet ‘sag’ in the middle. Then you have to air out the room because there’s chemicals in the carpet. Hey, if you can catch a high off the new carpet, I am down with that. Aside, geez, that’s a lot of fucking work.

The home improvement gods have not been kind to me since losing my job. We’ve had to replace the washer, dryer, fridge and now our shitty little TV in the bedroom finally flickered its last image. Now I can’t watch TV to help me fall asleep. Hopefully, all the voices in my head will get together and put on a play.

So I will wander in to HD. And I hate the way it makes me feel. I feel dumb. I feel stupid. I feel ignorant, retarded, clueless. I feel helpless, embarrassed, ashamed. I feel dopey, foolish, dense. I feel confused, lost, intimidated. I feel woefully inadequate.

In other words, how I feel every other day these days. I certainly don’t need ‘Stan’ back in ‘flooring’ to remind me of this fact.

I guess somewhere deep inside, I cling to that old school idea that a guy should be good with wrenches and saber saws. Maybe it’s because my dad is pretty handy. He has tools in the basement and garage. That’s a man there. It seemed growing up, if he had a situation he wasn’t familiar with, he went to one of 2 books. It was either the yellow or blue Reader’s Digest How To books. That was all he needed, those books somehow must have magically covered every scenario.

It’s not like as soon as you’re issued your balls, you are also graced with the know how to fix that running toilet or build a book case. I am so retarded, I couldn’t even hang a picture straight. Sure, they could draw me lifelike illustrations, get me NASA 3D technology, write it in simple steps even a 2nd grader could understand, and I would still hang the picture crooked. Probably backwards, too.

I am such a tool, I at least try to dress the part. I go in wearing old jeans, workboots-untied, of course-some ratty ass hoodie. Aw, who am I kidding? I might as well go in there in a tux or a sombrero. Hell, if I wore the sombrero, I could probably get some day work from the contractors in the parking lot.

Sigh, I have procrastinated long enough. Time to bite the bullet. Now if I can only find my hat with the propeller on top….

My First Real Writing Gig

There’s big news here today at Kev Theory. Friends who read my Leap post a few weeks back might remember. I had sent some of my Klogs to various sites. It took a while-a long while, actually-but I am glad to tell you today, I am a published music critic.

Put the world on alert, my slow path to world domination is starting to roll.

This wouldn’t have happened if not for the few brave souls who read my stuff and occasionally send me comments. So I thank you. And tell you I still need your help. No, no I am not asking for monetary donations (but I wouldn’t turn them down, either). We all know how popularity is measured on the net; it is measured in clicks. So I kindly ask between your normal Internet viewing of kids falling off skateboards and gnarly MMA leg breaks, to go show my review some love.

I am lucky in that the site I am doing this for wants humor in their reviews. There are some really funny, talented writers there, so I know I will have to raise my game a bit. Some of the reviewers got over 2,000 hits, and I don’t want to be the pathetic soul who gets like 17. Also, no one uses their real names on the site. We all use fake names. I have the link for my brilliant review below. If you don’t get the joke behind my name, you haven’t been reading me too much.


http://godonnybrook.com/home/?p=2294