Time To Move to New Zealand?

Ruth Ginsberg, Supreme Court Justice, gave an interview this week, and said that if Trump were elected it might be time to become a Kiwi. She's old, and probably behind the curve -- the time to do this is probably here. I base this upon my experience yesterday, in which I had to interface with the federal government. We're leaving in October for a cruise to celebrate Wifey's () birthday. I use brackets, since she has made it clear I must stop always telling everyone she is going to be () years old. I became particularly obnoxious about this, as her friend Edna is also turning (), and I started calling the cruise our () trip, which is () times 2. So it can't be mentioned, this number, about the two best friends who were born in (( )). Anyway, we submitted our passport info to Earl, Norman's brother in law, and our cruise concierge travel agent. I thought this was silly, as we're only stopping in Canada, which I thought had become a 51st state. I'm mistaken, apparently -- it's still technically a DIFFERENT country, and if I want to get off the ship and finally bring true my 3rd grade dream of seeing the Bay of Fundy (I was captivated by a film strip production of the place with its enormous tide changes), I needed to have a valid passport. I did, or so I thought. Mine expires in March of 2017. Earl pointed out this was a problem -- the passport must expire SIX months AFTER the trip -- which would be April. So my passport wasn't valid for the trip. It turns out that passports aren't really valid for 10 years -- it's 9 and a half. Whatever. No big deal. When I renewed in '07, I visited a company near my office that, for an extra $125, expedited it and did it for you -- photos right there. They were closed, but there was a company at 1444 Biscayne, across from the Omni. I drove there, found parking north of the Dade School HQ, stepped over a few homeless guys (not a shining advertisement for Dade Schools, I thought), and walked into the building. It was a strange place -- art galleries, phone offices, and a for profit college called Atlantic Something or other. There was no guard to direct me to the passport company. A young, strapping, girl was walking around with papers in her hand, and I asked if she were looking for the passport place. She was, she answered, in I think a Swedish accent. My mind reeled, but I stayed on task... I followed her onto a hot elevator to the second floor. We asked a UPS guy -- no -- back on 1. I asked where, as I had already searched the first floor. "Inside the college" he replied, as if any fool would have known that. Inga and I followed directions, and sure enough, right after the glass door of the college, was the office. Inga had an appointment, and I waited, as a "walk in." The young clerk with the heavy Spanish accent called me to her cubicle, and asked when I was traveling. I told her October. "Ay -- no good. We can only help you if your trip is within one month." Ok, I said -- changed my mind -- I was heading to Montreal in a few weeks. And then the interrogation started -- where was I staying -- did I have my hotel and plane itinerary with me? I started shucking and jiving -- no -- I was just going to go there, and drive around, like a draft dodger in the 60s...She said she wold prepare and affidavit for me to sign, and then I got real -- NO -- that's ok, I said, I'll just go to the post office like everyone else. I saw myself sitting in a Federal jail cell, charged with Passport fraud, just because I was a spoiled rich guy looking to pay more for expedited service. I left, walked back to my car, gave the really scary guy leering at me for disturbing his urban campsite a $5, received the blessing of Jesus for that, and drove South. I went to the CVS in Sunniland, and got a passport photo. My shirt was askew, and the dude asked me if I wanted a re-shoot. No, I told him, but how was it possible I sat for the photo, and my Dad, who had died 34 years ago, appeared in the image. He laughed -- he was of a certain age, too. I took the photo next door -- post office. Big sign -- "Don't FREAKING BOTHER us about passports -- go the the office next to total wine." I complied, and did. I walked in, and there were 3 female clerks, and the supervisor -- 40 something Cuban guy. I asked about renewing my passport. He answered, and I knew immediately he was the typical manager dickhead -- just in his tone. "We can give you the application, you fill it out in black pen, and return it here." Nah -- I was going to buck his authority, and ask to fill it out RIGHT THERE. He nodded and guessed I could. I asked the Asian woman clerk to borrow a pen. She clearly was following the stereotype and was the sharpest one there. She handed me a pen, and I stood at the glass counter next to the door, filling out my form. I got bumped a few times by folks pushing carts with heavy packages. It took about 15 minutes, and then I proudly returned to the Asian lady, like a Third grader who completed his exam. She looked. No, she said in her accent --"this blue ink." Mr. Dickhead leaned in "Sir -- I TOLD you it was to be black ink." I purposely chose my words to this son of exiles: "Well, your COMRADE here gave me the damn pen -- I assumed it was correct!" Dickhead and Asian clerk actually looked cowed (vaca-ed?). They actually said "sorry." I was handed a black pen this time, and went about contributing another 15 minutes of my life to American incompetence. I went to write out a check, and nowhere on the 5 page form was there an amount. But Asian clerk knew -- it was $110. I packed the check, my old passport, and the application into a priority mail pouch, and paid $7 to mail it. I figure I have about a 50-50 chance of actually seeing my new passport in time -- the elusive, and exotic Bay of Fundy may remain only in my dreams... So people are afraid of Trump. This current confederacy of idiots are chargeable to Obama. All I could think of was meeting him and saying "Heckuva job, Barry." I wonder if the Canes broadcasts make it to New Zealand.