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It’s one of the most successful rackets in Angeleno culture, and I dare to expose the unlovable nature of the P.V.B.’s minions:uniformed, unfeeling robotrons on a daily mission to fulfill quotas of pain and suffering. It is my plea for a citywide embargo on sex with all meter maids in an effort to prevent further reproduction. If any one group should fall victim to unified forced celibacy, it is certainly this one. 

Seemingly extreme, my reaction is well-earned. Paying no less than $15,000 to the sultans of swindle and losing four cars in ten years to the graveyard impound of neglected vehicles has taught me NOTHING. My glove compartment is still overflowing with foreboding red and white envelopes. I WILL NOT pay a parking ticket. Simply put, the punishment does not fit the crime. I pay dearly for this act of civil disobedience, but I refuse to obey. 

Some of my Parking Violations Bureau’s Greatest Hits include: 

Towing my Nissan Pulsar (“T” top, of course…) with my band gear in the back while I was getting my hair cut, hours before a big show. 

Booting my Volkswagen Bus on my 26th birthday. Oh, you shouldn’t have. Really. 

Towing my Chevy Van from Sunset and Stanley while I still had time on the meter. This prompted me to react in the only way a reasonably law-abiding citizen would. I chained myself to the parking meter, called the Channel 11 News, and staged what anchorwoman Christine Devine called a “one-woman protest”. 
This production number involved declaring (in a most convincing revolutionary delivery) that Los Angeles needed a wake-up call against the unscrupulous practices of the P.V.B., and that anyone heeding a call to arms should donate to the Mz. Moxy Parking Ticket Fund. I felt the need for extra flare, so I threw in a ‘hunger strike’ angle for dramatic value…until the news van pulled away and I dashed across the street to Denny’s (a Grand Slam breakfast, please). Thanks to my parking ticket drive, $37 later, I felt like Che Guevara for taking a stand. 

The Parking Nazis make the Hollywood struggle all the more grinding. The use of archaic torture devices, shameful metal clamps on the wheels of our beloved vehicles, is nothing short of domestic terrorism - perpetrated by our own home grown assailants. The 8 X 10 sticker, the “scarlet letter” plastered on the windshield, needlessly warning “DO NOT MOVE THIS VEHICLE” adds insult to annoyance. As far as I know, moving a vehicle requires FOUR functioning wheels, and with one disabled by an obnoxious orange boot, I hardly think the warning is necessary – or worth the embarrassing neon paper it’s printed on. 

The latest episode in my torrid P.V.B. love affair transpired just the other day when I found an empty parking space instead of my car. I was praying that sociopathic criminals had stolen my wheels in a depraved murder-for-hire plot, but no such luck. I called Hollywood Tow (in my cell phone contacts), and learned that my Ford Escort (named “Heidi” after Tinseltown’s most renowned escort) was booked on a felony warrant for habitual parking ticket evasion. Whoever wins her at the public auction, take good care of her – just make sure you change her pine tree air freshener every 3000 miles, after all she’s a lady.