The story is just like any other, except people eat each other. Packer was hired in Bingham Canyon, Utah, to lead a group of miners to Breckenridge, Colo. Well, along the way they got a little lost, got a little cold and then, one by one, got a little dead. Come spring thaw, the only one to emerge from the dreadful cold was Packer. Lots of questions ensued, and finally Packer admitted that he and the men had resorted to cannibalism, and that he had been forced to kill the only other survivor, Shannon Bell, in self-defense.

With a plot like that, how could you not make it a musical?

And with the story beginning in Utah and Mr. Redford being an alumnus of CU-Boulder, how could they not send it to Sundance? So they did, and then the wait began. In fact, the wait never ended. No one at Sundance even sent them a rejection notice.

But you know what? They didn’t care. They didn’t have “Citizen Kane” on their hands. They took a long shot and missed. So, with nothing to lose and lots of experience to gain, the crew drove up to Sundance hoping to hold a guerrilla screening of “Packer”: a raucous midnight event held under much-less-than-ideal technical circumstances.

Well, if you want to hold a screening, you need to get the word out. And if you need to get the word out, you call on one man: Jason McHugh. Yes, one of the founders of CrapTV and the Lapdance Film Festivals (more on these in a bit) was a producer and star of “Packer.” So there is Jason, roaming Main Street in Park City, tacking up makeshift posters, when suddenly he’s attacked! The official Sundance Nazis have accosted him in the street and torn down his posters.

“You can’t hold a screening here!” screamed one. “Your film wasn’t chosen!” yelled another. “We want you out of here!”

What’s this? What of the independent spirit? What of the “Packer” crew’s ingenuity? The problem that film festivals such as Sundance claim to address is that Hollywood studio productions are prohibitive because of the scale of their +/- columns. Sharpen your eye on quality, say the independents, and money doesn’t matter nearly as much. I agree. But prohibiting “Packer” from being shown because it wasn’t chosen for the festival? Kick me out of your stodgy private party because I’m rowdy and I like to rock — I can live with that. But tear my shit down on a public street and try to stop me from exercising my legal right to hold a screening in some shitty rented hotel anteroom — fuck you, I say.

And that’s what Trey and Matt said. They held the screening anyway, which was a huge success, and now Trey, Matt and the “Packer” crew are credited with helping start Slamdance, the first “official” film festival other from Sundance in Park City, which premiered the following year. (Later came UnDance, JamDance, SlamDunk, Lapdance, et al.) Slamdance was founded by two guys who happened to be at the “Packer” screening and thought that the idea of saying “fuck you” to hypocrisy kicked ass.

But if you’ve been to Sundance, you know the sweet irony of it: It’s not about the movies, it’s about the parties. Just like Hollywood! On ice! It was at one of these Sundance parties that Trey and Matt met both Kevin Morris, the most badass lawyer in the City of Angels, and George Brandon, superman of the stock market. Well, Kevin and George loved “Packer,” and encouraged Matt and Trey to head west.

They did.

Kevin made the guys some pivotal contacts, and George (and his family) let them sleep on their couches for a few months. This is the way things get done. (Today, Kevin is their lawyer, George their stockbroker.)

Then followed another long mac and cheese period and, again, a fungus.

Fast-forward to the 1996 Sundance Film Festival: the powers that be want to show “The Spirit of Christmas” in the animation section of the festival. They come to Matt and Trey and ask for it. This is after “Spirit” is already huge, and the guys have been picked up for the “South Park” pilot plus six episodes. In short, once it looked as though Trey and Matt were going to be a Hollywood commodity, Sundance started licking its chops.

Also during that second fungal phase, Trey and Matt kept busy making another movie. It was called “Orgazmo.” Trey again wrote, produced, directed and starred in the picture, while Matt produced and acted as well.

Once the film is complete, they submit it to the Toronto Film Festival, and it gets accepted. Toronto ran early September 1997. I know this because I was there. I moved to L.A. in August, totally green, and by September was sitting down to casual scotches with Russell Crowe, Kevin Spacey and one other guy from “L.A. Confidential.” I ran into Danny DeVito, too, but he was a dick to me.

After “Orgazmo” screens, October Films snatches it up in the lobby. Now shit is really going down for Matt and Trey.

About two weeks later, the phone rings … Sundance on the line.

The point is, don’t be fooled. And don’t think you have to travel all the way to Sundance to get fucked over, either. Just pick up Bob’s Sundance catalog and buy an authentic Sundance lamp for $4,000. You’ll feel good and fucked, I’m sure.

And yet, although the story of Trey and Matt’s Sundance experiences had been trickling in over the years, I felt I should see it firsthand before passing judgment. So, I went for the first time in January to help Jason and his hot sister Brody set up Lapdance 2000. (Brody and I went out for dinner once. Not a super-serious date, although I did take a shower. It was a nice time, but I think she was a little wary of me. Still is. No matter how sincere I’m being, she always has a twinge of distrust in her eye, like I am up to something. Very smart.)

And just the kind of savvy woman you want to throw a rocking party. Lapdance 2000 was the ticket. (Last year saw the first Lapdance party, and when asked about it in an interview, Robert Redford called it “the lowest of the low.” Needless to say, no one could wait until this year’s.)

There were drinks and dancers and video links and short films. And unlike two nights earlier, when I’d walked into the same space and suddenly found myself forced to endure Third Eye Blind, CrapTV put together the hottest musical ticket in town for Lapdance 2000. Vinyl, a Bay Area funky reggae band got everyone groovy. And DVDA opened with their freshly penned “Robert Redford Fucks Babies,” and turned the dial to full on. And finally, the coup de grbce was delivered by Les Claypool and the Holy Mackerel. They are fronted by the eponymous Les, who can also be seen and heard fronting a cute little rock ‘n’ roll band called Primus.

Overall, there was much to excite the senses, including the little pierced nipple show I got downstairs and a simultaneous sister make-out.

But those are two other stories.

Love,

David.

A girl named Kristin Prete came closest to catching me. Her legs were long and powerful, but my little stubby guys took quicker turns. I’d let her get close, then duck a U-turn. She didn’t stand a chance. None of the girls did. That is, until the end of the school day when they could go to the drugstore and look up the address themselves. (No one would believe I had it unless I told them where I got it.) But knowing they could get it later the same day made them no less anxious to tear it from me in the meantime. I felt something at recess that day I had never felt before: power. I had something all the girls wanted.

And now, 18 years later, I find myself in the same position, but not in the same way you think. Yeah, I’ve got the goods on Trey, I have gone to the next level. I was lucky enough to arrive at the “South Park” office to discover in my mailbox a message from none other than Rene Auberjonois.

Kids today might recognize him as Odo on “Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.” Others may remember him from the “Love and the Spaced-Out Chick” episode of “Love, American Style,” but I will always remember Rene as Clayton Endicott III on “Benson.”

Now, I grant you this phone number might not bring me the same screaming crowd of delirious hotties that Trey’s number would (though Rene is a very classy gentleman), but it might bring in some bank on eBay.

Picture it: Filthy rich CEO of a computer company lives secret double life as nerdy Trekker who spends weekends wandering through Renaissance Festivals with a band of like-minded geeks in too-tight Star Trek bodysuits and faux tricorders, never breaking character.

(Apparently this actually happens. Neither the Star Trek people nor the Renaissance people will break character even though everyone knows what’s up, so you get a lot of this:

Festival Jester: “Odds bodkins! What a strange manner of costume you wear!”

Trekker: [moving tricorder around in a deliberate way] “Captain, from the nature of the clothing and speech patterns, I believe we have arrived in 17th century England.”)

How much do you think said filthy rich CEO would pay for such a phone number?

The eBay idea came to me after Trey got a complete set of “Crossbows & Catapults,” a game we played as kids (around the same time we used to watch “Dukes of Hazzard”) through the online auction house.

While I love that game (and anything else involving catapults), what I really want to find is an old helicopter flying game I played at a neighbor’s house when I was 10. A small plastic helicopter was attached to a central base by an 18-inch metal rod. Also attached was a control console used to fly the helicopter. You’d increase the rotor speed until the copter lifted off, then you’d change the pitch angle to fly it in either a forward or reverse circle. A hook on the bottom could be used for picking up various objects, but only a delicate, practiced touch could master the hover.

Trey has also been getting back into Legos, and now every flat surface in the house has either a Lego Ice Fortress or Lego Ninja Dojo on it. Which is not such a bad thing, so long as he doesn’t clear off the Scotch shelf.

And Legos make great gifts, too. Trey and I went to Beck’s birthday party out in Silverlake this past weekend. He seemed genuinely pleased when Trey handed him the Lego Ice Speeder. In fact, I think he wanted to put it together on the spot, but Gina Gershon walked up. He immediately lost interest in the Legos. I don’t blame him. She is something else. After I whispered to Trey who she was and that she was hot (it was very dark and he hadn’t really seen her yet), he got her number and they made a dinner date. I mean, I was going to ask her out myself, but I thought Trey looked a little down and it might do his confidence some good. So I sent her his way, you know? That’s the kind of guy I am.

Plus, I was busy holding myself back from mussing Crispin Glover’s hair, which appears not to have moved since he played the high school version of Michael J. Fox’s dad in “Back to the Future.”

The party was held in a sprawling house that overlooks downtown L.A. Trey had been to a couple of parties there before, including one for Virgin Records. That’s where he first met Nick Rhodes. After they had chatted it up a bit, Nick suggested they go up to the VIP area. Trey followed. But when they reached the bouncer, he wouldn’t let Nick up. Gave him all sorts of shit for trying to fake his way into VIP. Real assholey in that way bouncers can be when they feel you’re trying to put one over on them. Then he saw who was behind Nick and waved Trey through. Now, Duran Duran has made almost half a billion dollars for Virgin, so Nick wasn’t really pleased with this guy. “What’s your name, so I can have you fired?” he sassed. “You can’t have me fired,” the bouncer shot back. “All right,” Nick said, “what’s your name so I can have you killed, then?”

Talking after the party, Trey and I agreed the main drawback, despite the beautiful surroundings, were the shuttle buses. They’re a kill switch. You go from dancing around, drinking and laughing, to sitting quietly with a bunch of strangers, wanting desperately to be home already.

Speaking of home, one night I came home to find him and Jun both building separate Lego projects and I felt so lame I pulled out the Lego Boba Fett ship Jun had bought me several months earlier and snapped it together. It was eerily soothing.

Love,

David

Now, this was not my first encounter with star power at the gym. Several months earlier, I had seen David Hasselhoff in all of his glory, sort of. I was heading out to the balcony for a stretch in the fresh air when I ran smack into a view of some guy’s ass as he leaned over the railing, chirping into a cellphone. Not unlike a Randy Johnson brush-back pitch, his jeans were riding unfathomably high and deep. They formed, in fact, an unspeakable crevice, shadowy and strange enough to possess a magnetic power all its own. I didn’t mean to look at his ass, I had no choice. My eyes were literally sucked in.

Thank God he turned around. The spell was broken, only to be replaced by my incredulity at discovering the identity of the possessor of said crevice. Then, before I could get a handle on the situation, he was gone, and I was left with only a vague, nauseated, empty feeling.

Experience has taught me that star sightings, like jetliner accidents, happen in threes. Now that the Messrs. Hasselhoff and Richards had been spotted, I wondered who would be next. So, armed with Walkman and towel, I hit the stairs with a little spring in my step. I had decided, you see (it’s my fantasy world, after all), that the third star I saw at the gym would be a young, beautiful, single woman wearing a form-fitting workout number. She would be at the top of those stairs on that very same day, and she would be really glad to see me.

But I was wrong.

I set the pace on the treadmill a little higher than usual in order to get the whole thing over with. It didn’t help; I just sucked wind all the harder. Then, just as my anguish plumbed new depths, she plopped herself down on the stationary bike right in front of me — Stevie Nicks!

OK, Stevie Nicks was not exactly who I had in mind, but still, I found myself wanting to buckle down for Stevie. After all, she had given me “Landslide,” so she deserved better than to have to suffer through the pitiful sound of my gasping. So I started humming “Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around” and ran like a man.

Is that ludicrous enough for you? I’ve done worse. Case in point: Bernie Taupin’s birthday party. Matt, Trey and I had met Bernie, who is Elton John’s lyricist, at a recording studio when he and Elton were recording a song for “South Park’s Chef Aid” album. This was just what I tried to remind Bernie of as I shook his hand at the party in the packed Sunset Room, with the music blaring. He immediately cut me off by introducing me to his daughter and her friend. As a guest of a guest at this hoedown, Taupin does not care about me, nor should he. I am an idiot. But part of me wants to connect with him, hang out, be cool, have a story to tell. It’s just that my story sucks.

To make matters worse, I run into Davey Johnstone, who has been playing guitar for Elton for about 30 years. We had met at the same recording studio, and again backstage at a concert he and Elton played at the Anaheim Pond two years ago. So, of course, I try to remind Davey that we’ve met, because I don’t learn. He cuts me off by introducing me to his girlfriend. Trey and I stand with them for a few awkward moments before I get up the courage to ask Davey what he’s up to these days. He tells me he’s been teaching guitar. This response opens the door for me to say perhaps the stupidest thing I have ever said.

“Do you find it rewarding?”

I can’t really blame Davey for the look he gave me. Finally, he laughed, said “Yeah” and walked away.

What I had meant to add to the end of the sentence was “… or do you want to get back to touring?” which would have made it a different question entirely.

I was feeling pretty stupid when I climbed back into the trusty A4. The fact that Trey was following his own Scotch-fueled agenda suggested he had not witnessed the gaffe. He slid the Kottonmouth Kings into the CD player, rolled down the front windows and cranked the volume, eager to see the looks on all the stodgy old faces as we pulled away. The ubiquitous glares of condescension boosted my spirits, and by the time we hit Sunset, I was pounding on the dash screaming “Bump! Bump-bump! That’s the sound of the ’50s while they’re hittin’ in my trunk!” Whether Trey saw me bonk with Davey or not, my boy always looks out for me.

Love,

David.

That’s how the evening went. You never knew what was coming next. And after several carafes of vino, my eyes were even less attuned to the world around me. No matter, it made the magic much better.

After a sit-down dinner and magic show, we were led off to see several other performers. First was Sophie the fire-eater. Dressed in what would best be described as a Roman bikini, she did much to boost our morale. But then she accidentally spit her flame goo onto Kyle.

The next act was a snorefest — a guy in a tux made apparently unbroken metal rings attach to and detach from each other. Plus, he didn’t have a hot assistant. The last act, however, did.

Her name was Stacy, but I shall always call her Dream Stacy. Although she never responded (in words) to my shouted proposal of marriage, nor to my cries of warning as she climbed into various contraptions of magical apparatus with the prospect of being cut in half and run through with swords, I would like to believe she was comforted hearing my sweet voice calling from the darkness.

Needless to say, all this magic gave the group a powerful thirst. But before we could reach the Forum bar, we were cornered by Apollo, an employee of the Magical Empire who, although he had the night off, was hanging around at work. Once he found out who we were, he tagged along until after the show and then did some tricks for Pam on her special day.

Well, I had been watching the other magicians closely, and my eyes were quick enough to figure out the tricks. So I thought catching Apollo would be easy, since we were standing in a circle around him. I was wrong. Each new trick baffled us. Finally Pam shouted, “Apollo, stop fucking with my head!”

Trey Parker was also blown away and quietly asked me to get $200 out of his wallet — a tip for Apollo. I took out two Ben Franklins and folded them in my palm. Then Apollo did some amazing trick, and we all howled in disbelief.

“Noooo!” Trey shouted. Then he leaned over to me: “Make it $300!” Another great trick. “Noooo! Make it $400!” And on and on.

Let’s just say Apollo had a pretty good night.

But the chaos had just begun. After retiring to the Forum bar to recover from the mind screwing Apollo had just given us, we slowed things down with a traditional gift exchange. However, a new zenith of mayhem was just around the corner. After the last package was opened, a squeaky little song began to play over the bar’s P.A. system. It started in low, then it started to grow.

It was a birthday song for Pam that Kyle had recorded and sped up so it would sound like Alvin and the Chipmunks. Pam looked around in a daze, not certain what the song was or where it was coming from, but certain from the looks on all the faces around her that shit was about to go down.

Pam scanned the room, nervously anticipating whatever it was we had up our sleeves. Then she caught sight of it, and her head fell off. From behind the bar came a dancing midget in a panda suit whom Trey had flown in from Los Angeles. Everyone but Pam knew it was coming, but no one could believe it when it actually happened. Around and around the Panda bear danced as Pam held her head in disbelief.

Well, that’s where we all figured the night would peak out, and we breathed a collective sigh of relief as we dabbed away the last tears of laughter. However, Mr. Parker was just getting started.

Trey had put away some scotch throughout the evening and was feeling particularly saucy. So when someone from the band performing at the Forum bar jokingly asked if anyone in our group could sing, Trey jumped onstage and whipped out Neil Diamond’s “I Am, I Said.” I laughed so hard I had to turn away, only to see the entire casino floor gathered around the bar to watch.

Love,

David

P.S. I think I got the whole “girl, boy, dating, love, relationship” issue resolved. Trey and I were watching an HBO documentary called “Hookers and Tricks: Trick or Treat,” which detailed the lives of several prostitutes and regular johns. Frankly, it was the last place I expected to find such a nugget of wisdom. But sure enough, a little over halfway through, the filmmaker is in a strip club doing some interviews and asks this big black guy in dreads and overalls, “What’s the difference between love and love?

Without missing a beat, the guy replies: “Love is a motherfucker. But love, that’s butt naked and a cheese sandwich!”

Truer words were never spoken.

At first, you love the Type II girl. You think, “She is the perfect woman. She gives me space; she’s easygoing. I don’t have to call her all the time.” So what do you do? Because she’s so great, you spend more and more time with her, thinking all the while that she knows the score. And does she? You bet your ass she does — better than you. After several weeks of thinking you have beaten the system, she says to you, “It’s about time you took some emotional responsibility.” And you say, “Baby, I thought you didn’t want a boyfriend and all that nonsense.” And she says, “I didn’t, but then we started spending so much time together …”

Gotcha.

So what’s a man to do? Perhaps I could learn a thing or two from Matthew McConaughey.

You see, we had a little going-away party for one of the editors for “South Park.” His name is Gian, and he loves Hooters. In fact, he loves Hooters so much that although he is not a small man, he custom-made himself a disturbingly form-fitting Hooters girl outfit for Halloween. So, in Gian’s honor, we had the Hooters girls in their skimpy outfits come to the office with a bunch of chicken wings, and it all made for a swell goodbye.

Of the three Hooters girls working the party, two were cute and the third was hot (hotchkey is the preferred term). So who should Trey have under his arm at a party later that evening but hotchkey Hooters girl No. 3. And there they are, chilling on the sofa, when who should come strolling by but Mr. Nude Bongos himself, McConaughey. Well, he spots the little hotchkey, stops, turns to face her. He steps in front of her to be certain she is paying attention to him. She and Trey look up. Then Mr. M. pulls what I can only imagine is his patented move: Without saying a word, he cocks his head suggestively, then runs his hands through the air down either side of his body as would a model presenting the dress she has on. That’s it. He simply believes the silent presentation of his Matthew McConaughey self can lure her away. Well, wise, young hotchkey is not having any of it. With a look of disbelief at the utter lameness of what I shall henceforth call the Matthew McConaughey maneuver (3M), she turns back to Trey, and they immediately pick up their conversation where it had left off. Then, as a dejected M.M. walks away Trey shouts, “You’re all washed up, Matthew McConaughey!”

And he’s really short.

Ask yourself, how can a man ever read a woman? A man who thinks he can is a man who knows nothing.

— Robert Evans, “The Kid Stays in the Picture”

Here we go. Here’s some advice on women I can sink my teeth into. Either way, I don’t know anything, so the pressure’s off. And who better to get it from than the Hollywood bad boy himself, Robert Evans. (Evans, in case you don’t know, ran production at Paramount Pictures for many years and produced, among other things, “The Godfather” and “Chinatown.”) This guy’s autobiography is gripping, and his exploits make McConaughey’s naked bongo incident seem like afternoon tea.

On the other hand, he hit 4 for 4 in divorce court.

So maybe he’s not the guy one should look to for advice on relationships, either. However, if you want to know something about Hollywood and the way things work, read his book. Better yet, listen to the tapes. Evans’ voice will haunt you in your sleep. I got the tapes last week as a gift from “South Park” writer Pam Brady. (We call her Pam Gravy ’cause she goes good with everything.) Within two days I was on the phone with her, demanding a copy of the unabridged book, which I couldn’t find in any local bookstores and didn’t want to wait for on order.

Did she have an in? You bet she did. A few months back she and a friend had approached Evans with the idea of doing a documentary about his life. Well, from all indications in the writing, Evans is a pretty reclusive guy. But he can smell talent a mile away. In one story, he tells of looking at some film of an actor his head of talent was trying to persuade him to cast in “On a Clear Day You Can See Forever.” But Evans didn’t bite on the lead guy. He wanted to meet the unknown kid in the background who didn’t even have a line. Just the smile. The kid’s name? Jack Nicholson.

So, as hesitant as Evans may have been about a documentary, Pam must have buried the needle on his talent detector. She’s funnier than any woman I know. And equally sweet. And crafty. And she rides a Vespa scooter. So it was no surprise that when I met Pam at Factor’s Famous Deli for a writers meeting last Friday, a fresh copy of the book was sitting in my place at the table.

“After you read it I’ll get him to sign it for you.” I love you, Pam Gravy!

It really is who you know. But the happy who-you-know stories are rare. It’s a small town. Play it out and eventually some who-you-know will lead around to someone-who-doesn’t-like-you. A friend of mine signed with a new agency and started taking meetings all over Hollywood. She was pitching her latest project to a producer and went on to explain how it would be different from all the bullshit movies that fell into the same genre. She tore into one movie in particular, performing a step-by-step evisceration of the film.

The producer’s wife had written it.

Luckily, he appreciated her sense of honesty.

Well, I’ve gotten away from my original topic a bit. Or maybe not. Hollywood is a strange town. Trying to have a relationship out here is difficult because the whole place pulses with an anticipation of what’s coming next, not what’s happening in the moment. By the time the Oscars air, those films have been wrapped for a year. Everyone is on to the next thing. After watching Matt and Trey go around and around with Paramount producer Scott Rudin for months, it was difficult to get my head around the fact that, by the time the “South Park” movie premiered, Scott was already halfway through producing “Sleepy Hollow” (and certainly had several other projects in the works).

Maybe I just need to slow down a bit.

Trey’s neighbor on Kauai, Kenny, and his wife moved there in 1970, lived in a tent under the bridge down the street for two months. Then they roofed a house for $2,000, bought a speedboat and began giving water-skiing lessons on the river. Thirty years later, they live in the same house, do the same thing every day, and they’re as happy as clams.

Sounds pretty good. I don’t mind camping, I’ve roofed a couple of houses and, with a little practice, I bet I could teach someone something about wakeboarding.

Nah. Who am I kidding? Gotta go, go, go.

Perhaps what Foucault says about sex could also be said about a relationship in Hollywood. Or a movie. It is always better tomorrow.

Love,

David.

So it’s June 1998. My buddy Eric and I have both registered our cars, but have put off dealing with the driver’s license — mainly because of the test. By all accounts, it’s tricky. Not “two trains leave Chicago traveling in opposite directions” tricky but, rather, “Can you park your car at a white curb if you’re a veterinarian carrying a dying raccoon?” tricky. You can get only three wrong. And who wants to study? I mean, I’ve been driving for 13 years by this point. However, if we get pulled over with California tags and out-of-state licenses — so busted. (I have three friends who are police officers. They have assured me that this is a particular pleasure.)

So, after steeling ourselves for the worst (luckily, you get to fail the written test twice before having to call it quits and return to fight another day), Eric and I hit the DMV. I hand over my New York driver’s license. The woman types in my name and birth date.

“I’m sorry, sir. You have outstanding tickets on your license from the state of New Jersey. You’ll need to get a letter of clearance from them before we can process your California driver’s license.”

None of this is true, of course. But she’s not having any of it.

“Are you sure it’s the same exact name? Same birthday? Same Social Security number? Same address?”

“I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to work it out with New Jersey.”

Little did I know, standing there in the Washington Avenue DMV, that my life was about to change forever.

The biggest mistake you can make at a DMV when you are certain they are wrong is to walk out the door. Of course, they don’t make it easy to stay. Instantly they place the burden of resolving the issue on your shoulders. And so you schlump away with your broken spirit and your meager resources and make a few phone calls. But the whole thing’s incestuous. The New Jersey DMV told me I had to contact New York. New York told me I had to contact New Jersey.

So, naive fool that I was, I returned to the California DMV and told the new woman my whole story all over again, including the parts where neither New Jersey nor New York would help me, and do you know what she said?

“Why don’t you go to New Jersey and resolve it.”

“In person? You mean fly there?”

“Yes.”

Clearly, this woman didn’t want to help me. So I called New Jersey again and made a bit of progress. The DMV there sent me copies of the two tickets on the license. They were for a David Goodman, birth date 3-12-70. That’s me, all right. But then they listed a New Jersey driver’s license number, New Jersey address, New Jersey registration, different car, different license plate number. This was not me.

I returned to the DMV with the printouts of the tickets and explained very slowly and succinctly how, despite the odds, another gentleman and I shared the same name and birth date but clearly not the same driver’s license or driving skills. The woman would not even look at the documents.

“You need a letter of clearance!”

“How can I get a letter of clearance from a state where I don’t hold a driver’s license?!”

“Figure it out!”

I was furious. “You mean to tell me, if two people have the same name and same birthday and one happens to be a crappy driver, the other one has to suffer for all eternity?!”

She nodded.

OK, I know I should have gone to a supervisor. I know I should have stayed and yelled and screamed until someone helped me. But I am lazy and don’t thoroughly enjoy confrontation.

So next I decided to take the backdoor route. I sent New Jersey a detailed letter filled with various photocopies that combined into a point-by-point refutation of any worthwhile correlation between myself and the defendant. They weren’t buying that day. I sent a second letter two months later. Their letters back were masterpieces of ignorance. Every keystroke of my missive was dedicated to explaining how I was not New Jersey Driver #G8964 etc., but how I was New York Driver #479 etc. At the top of both letters, I put: “David Goodman, re: New Jersey Driver’s License #G8964″ etc. Not even a photocopy of my current, still-valid New York license nor a printout of my (clean) New York driving record for the past four years made a dent.

Fucking furious.

Well, that was it. Fuck them and fuck you, California. I drove on my New York driver’s license and never got pulled over.

And a lot of cool shit happened. I’ve written you about most of it. Met Clint Eastwood. Partied at Penny Marshall’s. And all that time no one knew I was livin’ on the edge. No one knew I was just a few short steps away from the big house. But you know what? No one would have cared. They’re all my friends. They don’t judge me. Unlike the state of California, they accept me with my New York driver’s license. I never have to get a renewal with my friends. No one says, “Sorry, Dave, you can’t come into the party until I see your letter of clearance from New Jersey.”

But all good things must come to an end, especially when the DMV is involved. My New York license was due to expire on March 12, 2000 — I couldn’t blow it off anymore. So I buckled down, gathered my various sheaves of paperwork and went lookin’ for a fight.

But then something magical happened. I handed the woman my license and she said, “Twelve dollars, please.”

What’s this? I couldn’t speak. I wanted to cry. But I didn’t want her to wonder why I was so happy in case that would prompt an investigation. So I calmly wrote her a check for 12 clams, passed the written test and strolled my happy ass out the door.

WOOOOOO!! You cannot imagine the weight that had been lifted. I was so relieved I didn’t have to have it out yet again with the Man. But what had happened? Could it be that the evil cock Goodman born on my birthday had gotten his life together and paid the lousy $50 to reinstate his New Jersey driving privileges? I guess so.

(That’s right. I could have paid the $50 and been done with this whole mess. But you know what? That would have meant they won. And I was never going to let them win.)

So it was off to lovely Europe to celebrate while the DMV witches waved their craggy wands over the lamination machine and made my California driver’s license come true.

But then something else magical happened. Witchy magic. I returned from Europe to a letter containing this exact sentence: “We regret to inform you that the state(s) listed below have reported that your driving privilege is suspended or revoked in their state. As a result, we are unable to issue your driver’s license.” Now, bear in mind, California already had my New York license and had given me a flimsy piece of paper with a barely discernible photocopy of my face in return. It was due to expire at the end of April.

It looked like the DMV was going to have the last laugh. They let me get all excited only to screw me all the harder. I was livid. I was ready to throw myself down and do the time.

Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. The woman I explained the story to took some pity on me, actually looked at my paperwork, saw the discrepancy and said to me, “You need a letter of clearance from New Jersey.”

The counters at the DMV are quite wide, but I felt myself nimble enough to get over it and my hands around her throat with enough time left over to make it worthwhile.

“But,” she said, “you just told me you tried to get a letter of clearance twice before from New Jersey and they were no help, right?”

“Right.”

“Let me see what I can do for you.” A princess. A goddess, this woman.

What she did was get me the phone number of the California problem driver pointer system (916-657-8849, in case you ever need it). That was the best she could do, she said. It was so much more than anyone else had done that I nearly dampened her desk with my tears.

Well, one phone call later and everything was fine. My new driver’s license was on the way. Why so easy? Well, despite my repeatedly asking every cranky, unfriendly, unwilling soul, “Are you sure?” and “Can you double-check?” they all overlooked one small fact: The criminal David Goodman in New Jersey has a different middle name.

Love,

David.