The California Department of Motor Vehicles sent me a notice to my new address in Michigan letting me know that I needed to submit a change of address form for the same new address.

I have trouble picturing the genius at the other end.  I wonder where he or she goes for lunch, what type of footwear he or she has selected for the day, and how many other decisions he or she is arbitrarily deciding based on a game of ‘we have too many of these forms, let’s send some out arbitrarily to draw down the pile.’  How can the genius send me an address change form that clearly, I’ve submitted already, if the notice is coming to the new address?  Are all of his or her life choices based on similar logic?

“I have a whole container of baking powder in my cabinet. I think I will turn on my car.”

“My face has a nose.  I should drink salt.”

I’m currently caught in DMV purgatory.  My rusty, trusty 1996 Jeep is stuck in a loophole.  I went to register my car at the Michigan DMV, which, fantastically is called the Secretary of State – SOS!   For some reason, I don’t have a copy of the title to my car.  I don’t know where it is; I looked everywhere. It’s just not here.  Unfortunately, this four by six scrap of paper with dot-matrix printed personal information is the only thing that proves vehicle ownership.  How is this possible? My Jeep has an unmistakable ‘barrRUUUUUUga’ call that only it can make upon acceleration.  My friends know I’m coming because they can hear me three blocks away.  It has a folded up towel crammed into the crack of the driver’s seat to provide the perfect amount of lower lumbar support.  The left side of the hood is more rusted than the right, and I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: my car turns on a dime!  Why is it then, that all proof of ownership resides in that scrap of missing paper?

I sent in the correct form to California to get a duplicate copy of my title over two months ago.  The genius had no problem cashing my check within a week, but three weeks later I still didn’t have a duplicate scrap of paper.  One evening I decided to play chicken with the DMV and I called the automated version of the genius that told me the wait time for my call was over 20 min. and I should consider calling back.  I wasn’t going to fall for that trick- oh no.  I put my phone on speaker, sat on the couch and watched two and a third episodes of Modern Family before the voice of the human genius squeaked through the line.  After typing in my personal information to his or her futuristic computer, I was told that my case needed to be handled through the DMV headquarters.  YES! Genius base camp.  Bring. It. On.

I called the number that the genius gave me and it went straight to a busy signal.  I tried again. Busy. BUSY! Who has a phone that has a busy signal? Could it be that the genius’s were trying to fake number me? Would they dare? Game. On. I Googled the first three digits of the broken genius base camp phone number and searched the results until I found my way to an inner phone directory for genius base camp.  The number I’d been given wasn’t listed.  I decided to try a different tactic.  I called the number for a group that I figured didn’t get many customer calls but would have to be nice to me: human resources.  I launched into my story about needing my duplicate scrap before the genius cut me off to let me know I’d mistakenly called human resources.  He or she would transfer me to the right department.

Ten minutes later, I was on the phone with a human genius at genius base camp in the correct department that told me that everything was alright with the processing of my duplicate scrap, he or she could see it all right there in his or her futuristic computer, but it would still take another few weeks to arrive. He or she ended the call by asking me how I got the phone number.

The information about everything being all set: lies. All lies.

On Monday, I checked my mail and a fat fat package from team genius was waiting.  Instead of inserting my duplicate scrap, they inserted all of the forms I’ve sent in already, a second duplicate address form, and a document written in genius code telling me that in order to get my duplicate scrap I needed to appear in person in California. I live in Michigan.

Incomplete - see above? To what? The bar code? Worst design ever. Worst experience ever. I do not know what to do. Please help.

Why is there a budget crisis in California? Let me see. At a minimum, four geniuses have interacted with my file in one way or another. Nobody helped me.  My case isn’t complicated, but not one genius is empowered to solve my problem and move on to a new one.  A direct quote from a co-worker when I worked for the government in Colorado applies here too: “It’s my job to make the problem, not to fix it.”

California is paying state employees to be the opposite of creative.  As Joey Tribiani famously stated before launching into a set of lunges wearing all of Chandler’s clothes: “Opposite means opposite!”

The alternative to appearing in person is to do the process through an insurer.  I went to my insurer in Michigan last Thursday. As perplexed as me, they called my former insurer in California, and it turns out he passed away.

I need your help.  My CA registration has now run out, my car is currently illegal to drive, and I can’t head to the SOS for a Michigan version without a copy of my title.  Can you send  or tweet this post on to one other person? If the person you send it to knows even the slightest bit of information on how to get me closer to a copy of my title, you’ve helped.   I need to get to someone on the inside, and I need my title. It’s rightfully mine. I’ve paid my dues for needing the duplicate copy, and I’m at my wits end.

Someone, somewhere, will be instrumental in putting the scrap of crap back in my hands.  Whether it’s through a connection, a song, a flash mob, or picketing Arnold’s offices, I don’t know.  To this person: as a reward, I will buy a MI vanity plate with a message of your choosing. I will install this plate on my Jeep with pride, and then turn donuts on a dime on the streets of Holland, MI.