Make It Montana: The D.P.T.

One of the things that drove me to the edge in San Francisco was the DPT, the department of parking and traffic, and its roving brigade of relentless interceptor mobiles.

So deplored are these little vehicles that San Francisco had to start slapping bumper stickers on them imploring the city's denizens to be nice to the drivers and remember that they're just doing their jobs.

"Good people. Tough Jobs: Assaulting a parking control officer is a crime we will prosecute.”

Even though we lived in a part of town where the roads - one or two still dirt - were so narrow, steep and windy, with intersections where five roads converged and street signs meant nothing, it was impossible to avoid the wrath of the DPT.

Didn't turn your tires in toward the curb? $100.
Parked with two inches of your car in the red zone in front of my house? Hundreds more.

One of Stella's first complete sentences was, 'I see a parking spot!'

While parking citations are the nemesis of car-owning San Franciscans, moving citations are a close second, mostly because often, it seems like the only to get from here to there is to flip a u-turn or do some other questionable maneuver.

During his visit to Bozeman, Balboa spent a good deal of time preparing for his upcoming visit to traffic court, where he planned to protest a ticket he'd received.

"You know that freeway access off Cesar Chavez, right next to Vermont street where everyone does a u-turn so that they can get on the highway? I got a ticket there, even though it should be totally legal!"

Yes, I know that freeway access and that trick. I did it every day.

Just to confirm that I knew what he was talking about, Balboa pulled up a photo of Vermont street on Google maps.