A few days ago I caught the Parking Insurrection Guard giving me my third ticket in as many days. Scooter, my ‘79 Toyota can’t pass the smog check, has been labeled a “gross polluter” and the registration has expired. The Smog Check Uber Mensch says it needs a new carburetor, but the car itself has 190,000 miles on it and leaks every conceivable fluid. Like many Southern Californian’s my car is an extension of my self. I need to disconnect from my self. I can hear the fans in NYC and San Francisco thinking “Just get rid of the damn thing.”

 “Tell the Revolutionary Court to Hang the Metermaids First” is a pamphlet I created in the early 90’s which needs to be reworked from a more feminist perspective. The narrative basically describes a man who incites an army of homeless people to violently murder a metermaid. She becomes the “flag of human flesh” a symbol of everything wrong with contemporary society. I was worried that the text might be interpreted as misogynist. Then I remembered that the leader of the revolt tries to prevent the angry mob from raping her because he doesn’t want his cause sullied with sperm.

 I have moved temporarily to a quiet urban-sub-urban neighborhood, on a street with houses, as opposed to the street I lived under the jet roar that featured many apartment buildings. This means that most people have driveways. Since I’m renting a space in the back of one of these houses, I do not have a driveway. There’s tons of parking on the street, especially compared to the old neighborhood where I sometimes had to park three blocks away. The property I’m staying at has five adults, each with one car. Do the math: Two cars in the driveway, two on the street in front of the house, the last car to park has to park in front of a neighbor’s house. I’ve never seen the neighbors. I imagine this to be a very white neighborhood, with the mentality of fences and the home as an enclave, rather than say the Mexican barrio where everyone is grilling carne asada in the front yard or walking around. Kids don’t play in the street here, because there aren’t many kids.

Unseen Neighbor Note #1

Hi,

Can I get you to do me a big favor and park in front of your residence. I have no parking for my guests in front of my house. I sometimes like to park here and find no place to park.

Technically, under the law, you are supposed to be provided off street parking. I keep trying to be a quiet, considerate neighbor. In the spirit of cooperation could you do me this big favor.

Thank you....S.W.

Reasons the note inspires my animosity:

1) I’m new on the block and S.W. wants to intimidate me. Why not introduce herself? (We’re in the 5th week, 3rd note, and I still haven’t seen her.)

2) The note doesn’t consider where I came from, a street with absolutely no parking.

3) It doesn’t consider that we have five cars, and that our driveway holds two cars (specifically the owners of the property.)

4) The legal threat “under the law…”

5). It’s not true. My parking in front of her house leaves one more spot for this mystery “guest” besides S.W.’s driveway hold four or five cars. Hmm.

 My car is vulnerable without a valid registration. A few days later a meter pig happened down the street (we have no meters on our street) and put a $25 ticket on the window. To me it's an example of the poor being punished for being poor. People close to me tell me I’m nuts. I should have "taken care of the problem before the registration expired."

Unseen Neighbor Note #2 found on my sister’s car suggested that guest parking wasn’t the problem at all, but that S.W. “didn’t like to look out her front window and see cars.” This note levied the same legal rejoinder.

 I was running late for work at the Museum of Death. The bus takes an hour, driving takes 3 minutes. So I drove downtown and parked on a street with no meters. The Parking Insurrection Guard must have been scanning for expired registrations because they caught me again-- $25. “Hang the metermaids from posts, stuff tickets in their enflamed anuses and light them on fire…” lines from the pamphlet rang through my head as I found the ticket, like the note from my neighbor under the windshield wiper.

 This ticket coercion forces me to consider my options. Fix the carburetor, get another smog check and pay the late fees on my registration, leave the car near the border, or sell the car to the government for $450. Note: You can’t sell a car in CA unless it passes the smog check.

 “Excuse me sir? But you just gave me a ticket, two days ago. I'm aware that I need my car fixed and registered, I’m saving money for the smog check.” The P.I.G. was keying my license plate number into an electronic ticket book. He didn’t respond at first. “Hello, I’m trying to take care of this.”

 “You have to park this car off the street,” the Parking Insurrection Guard said.

 “I don’t have a driveway.”

 “You must put it in storage, I can give you a ticket every two hours.”

  To tell the truth my famous patience had ebbed before I attempted this dialog with the P.I.G. and I lost control. “You fucking heartless piece of shit!” I yelled. “Fuck you and your job to hell!” He put the yellow envelope with the ticket on the windshield, got in his little electric cart and motored off. So now I owe $75. Every day I leave the car parked on the street the government may exact another $25 discount. What should I do?

A) Start a punk band.
B) Egg my neighbor’s house.
C) Sell my car to the government.
D) Fortify a militia compound in Idaho.