No power; 77; "The dashes are not uniform"; Puffy white clouds

All during the week, I had intentions of making another entry. But time kept running out each eve. So I didn't.

The week has been hectic. But I can't say it was any more or any less hectic than any other week. I was sick three days last week, and I was behind at work even before then. Tuesday was Veterans' Day and a holiday. But I worked part of the afternoon and got a few items completed.

I thought I'd be able to catch up even more today. But at 10:15, there was a power failure. I kept thinking that it would kick back on in a few minutes, but it didn't. There are three sections to the building, and the oldest can receive full power from a backup generator. But the two newer parts, where my office is, only get enough power for emergency lighting.

Around 11, I left for lunch and came back at noon. But still no power. So I decided I'd take care of a couple of chores and give it one more chance. So at 3, I returned again, but the building was as dark as before. When I walked into the lobby, I was told there had been a major problem at the power plant for the complex. And it would be at least 24 hours before power would be back.

The last time I got a renewal, there were only two people in front of me, and I was finished in about fiften minutes. Not so today. As I entered I tried to read all the signs tellimg me what to do. One said take a number and have a seat. I pulled the little yellow tag from the dispenser, and it said 77. Next I slipped over to about ten or twelve rows of chairs and sat down. There was an electronic display suspended from the ceiling that told the ticket number of the person at the counter. The little diodes glowed a bright "23." "Holy Shit," I said. "23! I'll be here for hours," my brain muttered.

Whenever I have to wait, I try to find some some socially-acceptible way to entertain myself. My initial effort was to examine the building. The plaque at the entrance said it was build in 1955. And it indeed has the institutional look of a place that has far outgrown its original intent. And it was fairly obvious that it has been renovated multiple times.

One side of the entry is enclosed by narrow floor-to-ceiling glass sections fixed between columns encased in field stone. Which is a continuation of the field-stone-clad exterior. It always reminds me of Frank Lloyd Wright. My guess is that when it first opened it was a very striking structure.

Having completed my pseudo architectural critique, I moved on to examine the expectant crowd. It was a mix of ages, genders and races. I wondered if it was always like that. Were there periods when it was mostly female? Or mostly oldsters? Would a graph of ages create a bell curve?

Two women passed along one wall, and I noticed they were wearing white shirts with the word, "Convict" on the back. For a second I wondered if the front said "Return if lost." Then a short bald man on steel crutches appeared from my left and pushed himself across the room and disappeared through a door. A large man in a wheelchair cycled to the front when a number was called. A question popped into my brain about how could he get a license. But then I remembered that I've frequently seen men in wheelchairs in vans parked at the post office.

I noticed that frequently when a number was called, no one responded. Then a tiny internal voice asked why. Maybe someone pulls a ticket, notices the number being serviced, then runs out the door. Or it could be that one person grabs several numbers by accident. Could it be that a number holder was suddenly kidnapped by aliens?

As I waited, the crowd got larger, And from overhearing tidbits of conversations, I discovered that the numbers started afresh after 99. As my numbered approached, I was tempted to jump up, yell the number out, and say that I was taking bids starting at $100.

A voice cried "77," and I strided to the counter. Handed over my ticket and fumbled for my old license. The voice said, "That'll be $20." (Seem a tad steep to me. Talk about a cash cow!) "Stand in front of the blue curtain and look at the orange dot on the camera." I moved to the side to wait for my brand new piece of plastic. In a few minutes, my name was called, and the new license was placed on the counter.

My! My! The license has a background of very tiny dashes which in turn form columns. The colors are dark gray at the top but fade to light gray at the bottom. There are three rows of cool-looking holigraphic images. The top and bottom rows contain the state seal, and in each row the seals alternate between vertical alignment and horizontal alignment. And the two rows are staggered so that no two seals are in the same vertical. The middle row has the letters "DPS" that switch from vertical to horizontal placement.

(In looking at the license as I'm writing, I noticed that the dashes are not uniform. So I pulled out my magnifying class and discovered that the dashes are actually images that indicate the state's name. All in all, this is one serious effort to impede counterfeiting.)

Oh, I forgot to mention the photo. I stared at it for a while, turned it to the left, then the right. Held it close, then further out. Standing next to my car, I glanced to the puffy white clouds, and they began to take on the shape of words. I squinted and peered, and the words became "Turkish Cabdriver."

This was not a shot that would launch a thousand ships. Sink a garbage barge is more likely.

PAX!