I had to go to the dreaded D.M.V.—which, in the United States, ranks right up there with war crimes and dental surgery without anesthesia.
Let’s be honest: the DMV should be preserved only as an exhibit in the M.B.B.—
The Museum of Bureaucratic Bullshit—
a place where future generations can study exactly how not to treat each other as human beings.
But this time, I came prepared.
I brought a secret weapon.
My guitar.
While everyone else in line was glued to their phones, I started strumming and singing—on a mission to break the monotony and have some fun.
I started with the classics: a little Beatles, a little Nat King Cole, some Eagles.
I call these my musical foreplay songs—familiar and non-threatening, designed to loosen people up gently.
Heads began to lift.
Smiles started to bloom.
Phones started going down.
Then came the requests.
Someone asked for Bob Marley’s “One Love.” We sang the chorus together like a mini reggae revival.
Then someone else asked for Sinatra. So I belted out “New York, New York.”
Phones? Forgotten.
Toes? Tapping.
And then, the real magic:
I invited the crowd to help me write a blues song—“The DMV Blues.”
I asked them to shout out their complaints.
They did not hold back.
“Inhumane service!”
“Endless waiting!”
“Pointless paperwork!”
“Fees for breathing!”
I turned their grievances into gritty lyrics and sang them back, bluesy and raw—
but with enough humor to keep the whole thing light.
By now, we weren’t strangers in line anymore.
We were a band.
We were a movement.
We were a therapy group with a killer soundtrack.
It was 7:55 AM.
Five minutes until those sacred DMV doors would open.
Not that I was counting.
So I wrapped it all up with my parody song, “I’ve Got the Whole World in My Phone”—
a lovingly sharp jab at our screen addiction.
It got laughs.
It got squirmy recognition.
It got people feeling something other than dread.
And when it was finally my turn to do my DMV business…
I was told I couldn’t actually complete what I came to do.
Not until the following week.
But by then, I didn’t care.
I felt too good.
I’d already accomplished something far better.
So often, we think waiting in line sucks.
But what really sucks is being surrounded by humans and acting like satellites—
spinning in our own orbits, faces buried in glowing rectangles.
What sucks is believing we’re “stuck”—
in traffic, in lines, in life—when really, we’re just stuck in a story that says we have no choice but to suffer.
A stranger is only someone you feel strange with.
And let’s face it—that could be your spouse.
Or your therapist.
And you can feel totally at home with someone you just met in line at the DMV.
What if we stopped feeling stuck and started waking up?
What if we focused on what Steve Winwood suggested back in the 80s:
“Bring Me a Higher Love”?
Homework Assignment:
Next time you’re in a line, talk to the person in front of or behind you.
You don’t need a guitar.
Just a little kindness.
Maybe a dash of daring.
A pinch of playfulness.
Find your own way to connect.
It’s far more satisfying than checking your email.
And way more powerful than complaining on Yelp.
