A License to Ask Silly Questions

How dumb do they think we are?

I ask this because of a Virginia driver's license renewal application given to me by my colleague Jeff Baron. It's a form that allows you to get a new driver's license without schlepping to the Department of Motor Vehicles.

The form has spaces for your telephone and credit card numbers, and a box to check if you want to be an organ donor. It also has this section:

Check ONE statement below that best applies to you when driving:

- I do not need to wear glasses or lenses to drive.

- I wear glasses or lenses to drive.

- I need glasses or lenses to drive but I do not wear them.

I need glasses to drive but I do not wear them?

"We do realize it could be a confusing question," the DMV's Marcia Meredith said.

Oh no, it's not confusing. In fact, it's refreshingly clear. But why would anyone ever answer it? I mean, if you check the box next to Option 3, aren't you basically incriminating yourself? Is it a trick question, a way to weed out the hopelessly feebleminded?

"No," said Marcia. "It gives customers an opportunity to be forthcoming about their vision, so that we can determine if they're safe to drive."

And what happens if they are forthcoming, if they admit that they are a public menace? Well, then they have to visit the DMV in person and take a vision test or bring a note from their eye doctor.

"It's pretty much a mechanism to identify people who may not meet vision standards and who represent a safety hazard on the road," Marcia said.

Marcia said the DMV doesn't keep statistics on what percentage of Virginians renewing their licenses tick that choice. I asked her if it would be fair to apply to those people a word that seems to have fallen from favor: dumb.

"I think a person that answered that would be a very honest individual," she said.

An honest dumb individual.

How Dumb Are We? Part 2

We Americans are forever being reminded that we are idiots when it comes to geography. Not only can't the average American find his state capital on a map, he can't find the map. And even after he's found the map, he can't fold it back up again so it will fit in the glove compartment.

I was reminded of this by a newspaper clipping that Barbara Nuss of Woodbine sent in. It was a column by the Albuquerque Journal's Jim Belshaw, who wrote about a woman from Washington, D.C., who tried to register her car in New Mexico.

Janelle Conaway is the woman. She's from New Mexico, works here and, a couple of years ago, built a house back home that she retreats to whenever Washington is too much. Janelle decided she didn't need her car in the District, so she drove it out west. When she presented her D.C. documents to the clerk at the Motor Vehicle Division in New Mexico, the clerk rifled through them then asked, "Do you have the customs paperwork to go with this?"

Janelle was confused. Customs paperwork?

"Yes. For the District of Columbia."

"I just stared at her," Janelle told me. "I just couldn't believe it. I said, 'Well it's in the United States.' "

Both Janelle and columnist Jim Belshaw said the irony is that people from New Mexico are used to suffering a similar indignity: Many Americans fixate on the second word in the state's name.

The Associated Press ran a story in 1996 about a man from Sante Fe trying to buy tickets to the Atlanta Olympics by phone. The ticket agent told him she couldn't sell tickets to someone who lived outside the United States. So did her supervisor.

The man, Wade Miller, insisted that he lived in the United States, in New Mexico. No dice.

"She told me: 'Sir, New Mexico, old Mexico, it doesn't matter. I understand it's a territory, but you still have to go through your nation's Olympic committee.' "

He finally gave them an address in Phoenix, which they had heard of.

Said Janelle: "I'm living my life in two places with an identity crisis, I guess is the bottom line."

The same motor vehicle clerk who gave Janelle such a hard time might have enjoyed meeting a bouncer at New York City's Bottom Line nightclub. In 1987, I was living in the District. On a trip to the Big Apple, I presented my D.C. driver's license as proof that I was of drinking age.

"Where's this from?" he asked, as suspicious as only a man who has seen countless fake IDs can be.

"From Washington, D.C.," I said.

"Washington, D.C.?" he sneered. "What's that stand for?"

"District of Columbia. You know: the capital. Where the president is? Congress?"

"Never heard of it. What state is it in?"

Ah. That's where it gets tricky.

Do as I Say, Not as I Do

Lowell F. Padgett of Manassas was on the Prince William Parkway not long ago, pulling into a left-turn lane, when he was suddenly cut off by a white pickup, which zipped across Lowell's lane to get even farther left.

"I stood my car on its nose to avoid hitting the pickup," Lowell wrote.

When Lowell pulled up next to the offending vehicle, he saw these words painted on the truck's door: "SAFETY OFFICER."

"I'm so thankful it said 'SAFETY OFFICER' on the door," Lowell wrote. "Goodness knows what would have happened otherwise!"

The safest thing for you to do would be to join me at 1 p.m. today for my online chat. Go to www.washingtonpost.com/liveonline.