Liquor Store

Tried to go to the liquor store tonight at 10:05pm. Nope. Can't do that. God (Joseph Smith) forbid I might want to have a drink in the privacy of my own home. I mean, we all know that makes you an alcoholic. The liquor stores are owned and operated by the State of Utah. Yeah, you read that right. And not only that, here are the hours: 10am to 10pm Monday through Saturday.

Image courtesy of The Payphone Project website.

Just in case you thought this was America

I came upon this story today. Apparently the Mormons bought a section of Main Street from the city several years ago and made it part of their Mormonland Temple Funzone (TM), or whatever they call it. I guess since they own it you're not allowed to do anything there that they don't approve of, like kissing a dude on the cheek. I don't know about you, but it seems a bit overkill to ARREST someone for having a gay kiss on the cheek--and anyway, is a kiss on the cheek even gay? I mean, yes, these dudes are gay but I unless they were humping on the lawn then I doubt there is any way the guards could have known that before the kiss on the cheek. No matter though, the cops still picked them up because the Mormons told them to stop being affectionate on their lawn.

How the DMV works

In an effort to blend in more readily with the locals, and to try to stop all the road rage I have been getting--I figured it might ease up if I had Utah plates--I decided to go and get new license plates and a new driver's license. After looking up the DMV location online I discovered that there were only two DMV branches listed for Salt Lake. I chose the closer address and headed down.

As I walked in the door I was immediately confronted with three foot high cubicle walls arranged in some sort of corral. As there were no toddler office workers around I guess the point was to form a line. Of course, there were no people in line, so I had to do that awkward zig-zag walk you do through maze lines when there are no other people there so that when you finally get to the person who works there you feel like an idiot. After I had worked my Indiana Jones magic on the toddler cubicle maze I was confronted with what I can only assume is the hostess for the DMV. She was in her 20s and sitting behind some sort of hostess stand with a computer that she was clearly not using. As I approached she said nothing, just stared (I am noticing that this is a trend out here, but more on that later) and after a second I said, "Yeah well I just moved here and I need to get new plates for my car and a new driver's license." She was already looking at the papers I had with me, then asked me what year the car was. When I told her it is a 2001 she told me I needed to have the car safety and emissions inspected and directed me to a garage next door.

I drove next door to the garage, which was a small mechanic shop that clearly has the best location in town, parked in front, and started to get out only to discover that a car had quickly parked next to me with a red-haired older woman in the passenger seat. We waved to each other to give each other the right of way to get out first and finally she accepted my invitation. After getting out she stood next to my door for 2 or 3 minutes making it impossible for me to get out of mine--though she did twice look at me through the window (to make sure I was still trapped inside I guess). Finally we all go inside the garage office and I learn that she is the mother (mother-in-law?) of the shop owner. As I waited for them to inspect the car, Red, as we'll call the older woman, sat across from me drinking what I can only assume was straight vodka, maybe gin, with ice from a clear plastic insulated cup. She sat and made odd remarks while the shop owner's wife howled about how "great" all the little objets in the office were. Also, they loudly asked shop workers questions about Willie Nelson such as: Where does he live? Is he married? Does he still tour? "I don't know!" came the frustrated answers which were met, every time, with an intense and loud, "These are things we MUST know!!" [I swear to God]

Out of sheer boredom and the hope that I might somehow engage in this world of crazy, I looked up Willie Nelson on my phone. By this time it was just me and Red in the office. I turned to Red and said, "Willie Nelson is married, by the way." Red just looked at me and gave me the kind of smile you get from polite people who don't speak or understand a word of English. I paid for the car inspection and left.

I went back to the DMV, navigated the baby maze, and met with the hostess again. This time she pressed a button marked "Titles and Registration" on her desk and a piece of paper with a number on it was printed out. She handed it to me and told me to take a seat. So, what is the purpose of the hostess if she doesn't even lead me to my seat?!

As I am getting my plates the middle-aged Eastern European lady helping me tells me politely that they don't do driver's licenses there. WHAT?! Where do I get a driver's license then? "At one of the driver's license branches," comes the answer. Uh, does she know where one is? No, she doesn't off-hand but I could look it up online myself. WTF? So I look it up on my phone and discover that the license branch is conveniently located ON THE OPPOSITE SIDE OF TOWN. What kind of sadistic idiot decided it was a good idea to pay for separate offices for licenses and license plates?
Naturally after driving to the license branch which, appropriately enough, is located at the Utah State Fair Grounds, I discovered that I needed another form of ID I had not brought and had to drive home and back before being told I needed to take the open-book driving exam. Cost? $25. After passing the test (first try!) I got my picture taken and the man handed me a pink piece of paper with what looked like a b&w copy of my new license. I asked what it was and was told it is my new license. What? "They'll mail you the laminated one in two to six weeks, but keep your old Indiana license (which he had punched holes in to make it invalid) because sometimes the cops don't like these paper licenses." What? What? [I should have named this blog 'What?!'] So I guess the driver's license branch doesn't give a fuck. Actually, that's kind of cool, so I'll give them a pass.

Overall I'd give the DMV a C- for inconvenience and confusion.

Off Topic

So I am watching Mtv--cut me some slack it's a new town and I don't have a job yet--when I happened upon a show I didn't know existed. You know how Mtv makes new shows and you think it's definitely a sign that our society has imploded because there is just no possible way there could be a showcase for worse human beings? Well, they've topped themselves again with this one. It's called Teen Cribs. The premise is that they find kids with permissive parents who will agree to let the camera crews in their home and film it while the kids walk around embarrassing themselves. Allow me, if you will, a moment for a recap.

I missed the start of the show, so all I know about these kids is that they're brother (19) and sister (16) and that they live in Dallas. They're wandering around the upstairs of the house talking about how they love playing ping pong in the ping pong room and then showing off their "home theater" room which, for some reason known only to their idiotic parents, not only has the requisite sectional couch but also a bar and bunk beds with full sized mattresses (they make those?). Bro and Sis talk about how many of their friends they love to have over and how awesome it is to party there. One of their hangers on sitting on the couch--a requirement for Cribs is to have random losers sitting around your house while you give the tour, right?--tells the camera that "everyone" comes there to party "all the time". Oh, so they're those parents.

This is followed up by the siblings heading out onto their "private" upstairs covered porch that overlooks the pool. The brother then explains how "awesome" it is to hang out there and relax and says there are "great stories" about the things that have happened there. You want an example? He'll provide. One time his friend dropped his hat off the balcony and reached out to grab it and fell over the rail to the pool deck below and "shattered his leg". I hope this family is well insured. Scratch that, I hope they're not.

Finally we get to go out to the cul de sac...WAIT A MINUTE...they live in a fucking subdivision?! How exclusive is this stupid show?! Anyway, the kids show us their "rides". He has a Chevy Avalanche which he tells us he doesn't take off-road much because he doesn't like to get it dirty--which I think in Texas means you're gay. Sister shows us her Nissan Xterra and tells about how she loves to drive around in it with the windows down singing with her friends--yeah, she's your typical annoying teenage girl at a stoplight.

The best part about this show was how there were interspersed clips from Dad explaining about how he's really glad they "have liked living here" and that he really just hopes that "they have wonderful memories of growing up here". HAHA, take that dose of reality kids, this ain't yo house! You didn't work for it so get out--and I'm pretty sure he's looking at you, 19-year-old deadbeat gay son.

The Move

For the most part our move was uneventful, provided you don't count the one or two or three boxes that didn't make it out here. Among the tragically lost items in those boxes:

• My record collection--including the irreplaceable family heirloom Georgia Bulldogs fight song LP

• A scrapbook I had made when I taught emotionally handicapped children--including my beloved death threats from the kids

• My college diploma (framed)

• My certificate of awesome* from the BMW Driving Academy (framed)

And various other items that I'm sure we will realize are gone months from now when we go looking for them. So far the moving company sent me a "claims form" so that I can request a payment for the items lost...as if that can help bring back my "Fuck you Mr. C, Die Die!" and "I'm sorry I said you should die. You're the coolest teacher ever" scrapbook pages!

*Okay, so BMW didn't give out certificates of awesome, but I am sure that I would an inaugural recipient of such an honor if they did. Provided they didn't try to make me pose for it with an X6 or X6M, because those are just nasty.


[UPDATE!] The movers called this morning and they have our missing boxes, so problem solved!

The randomness of this city is well exhibited by this picture I took today on State Street. Across the street from this spot is a bar called the "Mixed Emotions Club" and a scooter dealership. SLC is definitely a moped-loving place. Seriously, it's like 1992 up in here. At least they keep them off the sidewalk...for the most part. The only trouble for your average scooter rider is that SLC drivers really don't give scooters any respect...well or any other drivers of any other motorized method of transport either for that matter, but the post on drivers is one for another day.

Who tah? We Tah.

Okay, so we've moved here...now what? So far the weather has been nice enough and the people have yet to be terribly rude, so I'd say all-in-all things are going well. Thanks to anyone who cares to check this out. I will try to keep it entertaining.