Dispatches from Remedial Driving School

(On location- from the Blackberry- expect spelling and grammar errors)

This brisk May Saturday morning finds me sitting in a makeshift classroom on Lorain Road in West Park, taking one of my last steps towards reclaiming the privelege of being a licensed driver in the great state of Ohio.

Before class begins, for which I was of course unfashionably early, I stood outside and watched the cavalcade of suspendees enter the storefront. John Edwards, when he wasn't banging that frumpy TV lady who was still way less frumpy than his super-frumpified wife, often spoke of "two Americas," and I think he was speaking of class division, the rich and the poor, that stuff. I'd like to revise this notion of two Americas, and since I'm not banging anybody and instead am thinking very deeply right now, I believe there is retarded America and other people. And I don't mean this as a dig at the fine people afflicted with mental retardation. I'm speaking of the retards that got DUI's and find themselves in this class.

Alas, that includes me.

The first woman enters the classroom on her cell phone, speaking to (presumably) her boyfriend, or (possibly) her pimp. "Hey stupid ass how coulds yous let me drives to this motherfucker. Yous was sposed to wakes da fuck up." I would say that she was somewhat attractive, if not for the fact that she was not attractive at all, and had a tattoo of a rose on her neck.

After registering, I am greeted by the grizzled veteran of suspended license driving class, and it's already clear he has more war stories than Oliver Stone. His license has been suspended for 17 years. He tells everyone that enters the room that his license has been suspended for 17 years. In case you were wondering, this bad ass former marine with a musclebound son has been driving on a suspended license for 17 years. His name is John, but it might as well be Suspension. It seems as if he's found his niche in life, as that of the guy who tells stories about his license being suspended for 17 years. I feel like he'll be akin Brooks from the Shawshank Redemption when he got out of the pokey. Life is too crazy on the other side, john, just stay suspended brother, you're home. "Either get on with driving, or get on with suspendeding."

Fast forward several minutes and I think the class is fully assembled. Lots of visable tattoos. Ooh, there's a well-crafted pencil beard. Hey, nice blue nail polish. Well what do we have here, it's an actual decent looking woman that my GEDar indicates most likely graduated from high school. Sit next to me, tootsie. She sits one over, one up. Close enough.

20 people are taking this class. At $60 a pop, that's a cool $1200. I estimate $1000 a month to rent this storefront, $500 in utilities and maintenence, and $500 grease money to the state of Ohio so they can mutually maintain this racket. That's $2800 left to pay $300 a day perhaps to the instructor. There's still $1600 left over. I like this business model, I may be opening Haganational's Remedial and Retarded! Professional Driving School soon.

Organ donation video time. If Johnny Suspended man was worth a shit, he'd be recycling the Henny Youngman line, "take my wife, please," right now. He's letting me down. C'mon, children of the Greatest Generation. I know Tom Brokaw would have come through there.
Now this video exercise has me thinking, what organ would they take from me? I feel as though I'm like the Pondorosa steak that's in the picture when you walk in the door. I look pretty good on the outside, but you can be fairly certain there's a lot of crap that's gross on the inside.

OK, Matt, keep writing this blog and refrain from staring at the one educated looking lady to your right, one seet up. She's taken off her sweater, revealing a large back tattoo. I will not change my initial diagnosis, this woman has a minimum of a high school diploma, can hold court on politics and sports, has a fine sense of humor, and will be a fantastic mother to our children... Here's my first organ donation baby, I give you my heart... Fuck, it's only 10am and I am going crazy already.

The attention span, collectively, of our group is very poor. I would hate to be a teacher in any class that has such sub-human vermin. Of the roughly 200 questions asked of the instructor lady, two of them sounded smart. These questions were asked by immigrant natives of Syria and Kenya. The other 18 of us from the US of A aren't bringing much shine and floss to this great land of ours with, "so you mean if I don't take the test, I won't get my license?" Is that a question or a confirmation that you are a complete idiot?

And just when my faith in the general population seems irretrievably shaken, cutie with the back tatty quotes "The Breakfast Club," and in context! She is my ice cube in the hottest recesses of hell.

Break time is approaching. I wouldn't let most of us drive either. Despite feeling terrible about driving on work priveleges for a year, I'm begrudgingly willing to admit that they've probably got it right for most of us. The BMV should be renamed Beauracratic Automotive Darwinism, the BAD.
Video 2: "the backseat is the safest place in the car." That is kind of awesome, because I've had a recurring dream that I've had to drive Dave Gifford's old Cadillac from the "bitch" position (center-rear) behind the bench seat. I wonder if my Toyota dealership can retrofit America's car, the Camry, so that I can drive it from the rear... Hey you, magna cum back tatty beauty, I'd like to drive you from the rear... My devolution continues.

If I'm doing crystal meth and giving handjobs for $10 when this class is over I will not be happy with myself nor the BMV-BAD.

Well, it's only like 11:05 eastern, and while I'm sure the next six hours will be action packed and filled with informative lessons re: life, love, and defensive driving, it is time for me to bid you adieu.

The two most glaring morals of the story are apparent, however. Number one, don't drink and drive. Number two, baby doll with tat-back is a lovely woman and we'll soon be honeymooning in a Swine Flu-less region of the tropics. Just when life puts on the brakes, the muscle car of Americana redeems itself in such fine fashion!

Goodbye license suspension, hello white-trash love!