/ HierCon (Hierarchy vs. Conviviality) / Bureaucracy /
September 01, my birthday, I went to renew my drivers license: took me a while to locate my original birth certificate, they wouldn’t accept photocopies. Cute clerk, Valerie, accepting my flirting unflustered, told me Florida couldn’t renew my license, New Jersey had a scofflaw block on me in the National Data Base.
Well, when I got out of jail, November 2007, trying to reactivate my car registration, the clerk told me that New Jersey had a scofflaw block on me in the National Data Base. She gave me an address in Trenton NJ to contact. I saw a cop on the road, went over, begged him, Please don’t arrest me, I just got out of jail: just tell me: if you pulled me over, and I showed you this drivers license, would you extradite me to NJ? The cop ran my license, said, No, I don’t see anyting, and handed me my license back.
Good. I wrote NJ, asked about the block.
Trenton replied, 2007, with a bill for $100: citation in the mid 1980s, 1985 say, scofflaw penalty.
Then it came back to me: I’d been driving in NJ, cop gave me a ticket, I think it may have been for exceeding a 25 mph limit on what looked to me like rural road: rural meant 55 mph. But it was narrow, I was probably going 40.
The ticket gave a court date. At great inconvenience (explanations below) I attended. I sat in this awful court house till the judge was shuffling his papers while the janitor was sweeping the floor and turning off the lights. I went to the bench, Judge, when do I get called? I handed him my ticket.
The judge glanced at it, saw that it specified this court at this time, but answered that he couldn’t hear my case, I wasn’t on his docket!
I said, What should I do? He said, Write the court for another date.
I’d said, Judge, just listen, the cop doesn’t have to be here, I’ll concede anything he might testify; just hear my explanation.
No. I’m not on the docket.
That was say 1985. 2007, I wrote NJ, explained that I couldn’t owe a fine, I hadn’t had a trial, hadn’t been found guilty. I never heard more from Trenton. I never heard more from the court in 1985. But these bureaucrats have a fixation: I got a ticket, I must owe them money, and penalties. Thugs, fleecing the public, destroying the earth: blind kleptocracy.
Now I have no license. On the merry-go-round I write Trenton again. I expect they’ll respond with the same demand, who knows yet how inflated. Driving home from the court house I was driving illegally, going shopping, I was still driving illegally, going to the dance, again, I was driving illegally. When I get stopped I won’t pay the fines, I can’t pay the fines, the US destroyed me decades ago, the whole culture sabotages me every day, No employment of mine has ever sustained, I haven’t had even a pathetic income since 1969 … But the tax thugs don’t care, they’re just there, like termites, fleece the world.
Money and good behavior do not go together.
They’ll put me in jail, again. They’ll listen to me this time exactly the way they listened to me last time, and the times before: not at all. The judge won’t listen, won’t hear, the public defender understands that his livelihood depends on his not understanding me, then, now, ever. The kleptocracy will commit itself to muscle flexing. By the time the judge sees the insane expense of persecuting me it will be too late, the juggernaut of kleptocacy will be stopped only by the fuel running out. No more gas, no more money. No judge, no cop will come to work, ever again. Then we’ll murder each other, tapering off, the last few humans will be hard to kill, impossible to find. The biosphere will transform, recover, but without big mammals, without big socializing brains.
I told Valerie the story. Ditto! I could see (from her nervousness) that she understood, every word, but it didn’t matter: she wanted her job, her job was not to tell the Nazis they’re killing Jews, they know that they’re killing Jews: her (termite) job is to collect the money, and pretend that the Nazis are smelling the flowers, spreading Christianity, sheathing ritual in gold …
Once upon a time Al Capone’s hoods would deliver twenty barrels of beer to some tavern, demand cash payment. The tavern hadn’t order the beer, the tavern had it’s own brewery, it didn’t matter, the tavern had better pay: or the thugs would bust the furniture, bust the owner, break the windows, burn the tavern …
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