Clear your plates

Eighth grade. Science class. My teacher, one of those delightful educators who’d happily go off-topic at the slightest provocation, was telling us about vanity license plates he’d seen that he considered more clever than most. On the chalkboard, in big loopy letters, he wrote “MDMD” – one of his favorites – and tasked us with teasing out its meaning.

 

We were in middle school, so most of us hadn’t yet developed the kind of boldness required to jump in with a guess. Mostly we looked around at each other helplessly and shrugged; one student wore the puzzled expression of a kid who’s just been yelled at in a foreign language.

 

One brave girl raised her hand. “An M.D. is a medical doctor...” she offered timidly.

 

“Right,” our teacher said. “And what would you call two doctors?”

 

Silence.

 

“A pair o’ docs,” he said. “Get it? Paradox.”

 

We got it. Only somehow, the answer wasn’t very satisfying. Apparently there’s only so much wit you can cram onto a license plate.

 

We kinda knew that already, though, didn’t we? I mean, vanity plates are a great idea in theory, but they tend to fall far short of their potential. I swell with minor excitement whenever I spot a plate that’s obviously not of the generic, state-issued variety; each one is an opportunity for creativity and individualism, and I think, “All right, let’s see what kind of vibes Ms. Chevy Impala is sending out into the world with the butt-end of her car.”

 

But inevitably, it’s something boring (SOXLVER), something groan-inducing (L8R G8R), or something that teases us with a phrase that’s really the beginning of a larger thought, like “MYKIDS.” On the surface, “MYKIDS” seems like a rather obvious expression of love and dedication for one’s children, but what if it isn’t? The character limit on these plates doesn’t allow for the sentence to finish itself. “MYKIDS” what, exactly? “MYKIDS have been convicted of larceny and are serving time?” “MYKIDS soil their pants every time a ‘C’ note is played on a Bolivian pan flute?” 

 

Too many possible avenues. It’s a shame both the front and back plates have to be the same; otherwise we could put the subject part of the sentence on one and the predicate on the other. “MYKIDS R GREAT.” Or maybe, “MY KIDS DO METH.” Hey, something to be said for a little honesty.

 

While they lack any sort of cleverness, one of the few types of vanity plates that are consistently passable are the ones indicating some kind of nickname, like “SPARKY,” or “BONEHED.” That’s the route I took when I was a college freshman and decided I wanted to make my car stand out – which is a tricky prospect when you’re driving a 1997 Oldsmobile Cutlas, a car which, even then, seemed perfectly suited for an eldery woman driving to the optometrist to pick up prescription bifocals. My reasoning was that a vanity plate would be an ironic  splash of frivolity; a way to advertise, with a wink, that I knew my car was lame and I was totally okay with it. Which I was. Although a Cadillac with hood-mounted laser guns would have been just peachy.

 

Problem was, I had no nickname at the time. To get one, there were two routes available to me. I could have done something to earn it, like eating nothing but steaks (surely someone would have started calling me “T-Bone”), or acquiring a mean-looking facial scar (“Hey Mugsy, what’s happenin’?”). Or I could have invented the nickname myself. So I invented one.

 

I know, I know. You’re not supposed to do that. It’s the mark of the lame, the pathetic. But my excuse was simple: I was both lame and pathetic. I wanted a plate that popped, something that would spark conversation, and this meant reaching deep into the creative well and wresting something out of the sludge. (Eww.) 

 

So I came up with “Gassman.”

 

This had a few things going for it. It’s seven characters long, perfect for a Maine license plate. It’s a play on “Lagasse,” but without being too obvious about it. And – this is a plus – it’s totally weird. It also had the intended effect of initiating conversation, although it quickly became apparent that people were reaching their own conclusions as to its meaning. Most seemed to think that I was flatulent and proud of it. They weren’t wrong, but that was beside the point.

 

The point was to be noticed. Mission accomplished, success achieved, pass the cigars, Bogey.

 

The nickname stuck, surprisingly, and so did the license plate, at least for a few years. When it came time to renew it, though, I let it gently expire like a wilted flower – a ridiculous analogy in light of the fact that we’re talking about a piece of tin covered in road grime, but its retirement, unexpectedly sentimental, was necessary. Because as successful as the plate seemed to be in garnering comment from folks in my general circle, as time went on I began to see it more objectively, the novelty having worn off. I could easily envision people staring at it in confusion. Like most vanity plates, really.

 

Curious to see what was out there, I Googled “funny vanity plates” the other day, hoping that perusal of the search results would cause me to double over with riotous guffaws. Granted, there were some amusing ones; I don’t mean to poo-poo the entire concept. “MMMBACON” was amusing (a New York plate, with an eighth character available, was perfect for this); a white Ford Bronco with the plate “NOT OJ” was a nice standout. My personal top pick is from Iowa. The owner has a plate that simply reads “BLOND,” but they screwed it onto their car upside-down. Well done, Nissan Centra, well done.

 

What bugs me is not the concept of the vanity plate itself – I had one, so of course I dig it on some level – but the many missed opportunities I see zipping around the roadways. The best ones, or at least the most consistent ones, are exercises in pure simplicity. Nothing vague, no overreaching attempts at highbrow yuks. Just a stripped-down statement of individuality, clear and free of artifice.

 

“LUVMYKIDS?”

 

Dang. Too many letters.