Fake ID confiscation #6 #7 #8 #9

It was a warm night last night. The east village was a bit dead, but there were quite a few people in the castle. You boys must have looked in and seen a bartender serving at a quick pace to people who she didn't seem to be carding. There was no bouncer, and hell, these ID's must have set you back at least a hundred and fifty each- there was no reason not to stop in for a fancy beer in a totally "adult" kind of bar.

The reason you didn't see me ID the people before you was that I had ID'd them on their first round, and of course, their ID's were real. Peter, you were the ring leader, the courageous one, the one who could play it cool and order a round. I asked for your ID's. No problem, you handed me four ID's.

Then there was a pause. I said to you, I don't think these ID's are real. You replied, that's ridiculous, why not? They're all our real ID's.

I said, they feel wrong.

You retorted, Wrong? What are you talking about?Fine! we'll leave.
I said, ok, but I'm not giving them back to you.
What?! you replied outraged.
It's a crime to give them back to you. Sorry.
NO WAY! you have to give us our ID's back. They're real!!

This was the moment I doubted.

I asked you, Peter, where in Michigan is Armada. You said, up north. I said, where up north. You made a thumbs up gesture and yelled, UP NORTH. I replied, you're not from Michigan- anyone from Michigan would have made their hand palm toward me, and pointed where on the mitten map of Michigan the town was. Have you ever met anyone from Michigan, Peter?

If you want them back I have to call the police, and they can give them back to you if they're real.
Fine, call the cops.

So I walkie-talkie to my dude in charge to get the owner. He said the owner had left. I picked up the phone and dialed the cops. You, Pete-y, called to me over the counter with, Hey! Handshake!. And tried to bribe me with ten whole dollars.

Peter, you can't even buy some of the beers at this bar for ten dollars.

Then you, and your three friends who looked pale as sheets, as if they were about to poo in their pants at any moment, ran like baby lambs from the bar.

The cops were called off.

See despite the confusion of some readers of other posts in this blog-- I really am liable for you drinking if you have that ID. What if you came back to the bar another night, when another bartender who didn't know the difference was working? What if a cop came in to check ID's as they do in the east village, and the place where I work was caught serving to a minor? I'd have no job - my co-workers and boss would have to go to court. Do you know how many friends of mine work in this industry? Why would I possibly want you to leave you armed to endanger them and their jobs too?

Peter, drink at home. Drink on your dorm rooftop. Drink in a state that doesn't care or a bar where I don't know anyone. But don't come to my neighborhood and try to get us in trouble. You're not from here. Also, you're not from Michigan.

grrrrr

we're pretty tough. especially as cartoons.

Bamn. and she's off...

The studio deal fell through. In a grave attempt not to be swindled out of the deposit, I should give up hope. The ideal location to give up hope is Atlantic city.

Be back in a day or two.

Wish me luck.

Fake ID confiscation #5

Dear Ashley Hey-r,

There was no way you could've known. You had this really astoundingly good Maryland fake ID, and you were on a date with a boy who was over 21 and would show you the world of beer. Except, one hitch, me.

Something seemed wrong. Maybe it was the way the hologram reminded me of iridescent paper I had used once at an art studio, maybe it was how my old Maryland license had a bump where the rather ghetto real hologram was- and yours didn't.

So I asked you for a back-up ID. It was a NYU undergrad ID. Never the fool I asked, where did you go to high school? You replied, actually I went to school in Iowa.

Iowa.

No one from Pikesville goes to school in Iowa. I know, because I went to school with half of Pikesville. It's a predominantly Jewish neighborhood, which would also bring into question that altruistic organ donor choice. And the road, oh Ash, you couldn't have known that only rural or inner city (DC) roads are labeled like that. You definitely couldn't have guessed that I knew the road naming patterns from Pikesville, because I drove home so many kids from my high school, and developers are never creative.

You jumped to the rescue with, it's the new Maryland ID, and I said, no, it's the old one. I have the new one. You can't drink here, darling, and I'm keeping your ID.

But you went to high school in Iowa. Your father, Bra---y, donated 125$ to a campaign for Iowa State House representative, republican, Carmine Boal. You were a a page at the Iowa State House for a bit too. You did grow up on ---- NW --nd Place-- in Polk City IA 50226.

It does have a very nice photo on it, better than the real Maryland machines take. And you were sweet and sad and smiley, in that friendly Iowa way - even though you're a republican. I'm sure you cursed me when I was out of sight.

Maybe, some day, you'll come back to the castle, when you're 21, with your totally real Iowa ID, and order that glass of Lucifer you so desire. Perhaps we can talk politics for a while. Maybe you'll know how to defend yourself.


*some of the names and numbers have been dashed out to protect this lady from the lunatics who are sending threatening email to me about her. Obviously this blog is good natured, and not intended to wreck lives. Hopefully we can all see the amusement in the small triumphs in life (like being good at one's job- even when it's just bartending), and not create some sinister intent to assign to humor. This blog post is the one referred to on slashdot, fark, and digg. See other blog posts for follow up, and related content.

Also, for those of you who are reading this and accusing me of some kind of stalking to find out about her affiliations, know this: I found it by chance when googling her address to see if it was actually real, and her name, to see if it corresponded to the information I found. If you think I put people at risk by publishing their addresses, first consider that the address was verified by public documents on campaign financing.

missed beats

So somehow I didn't know that Lawrence Ferlinghetti was reading at the Y on monday. Dammit. For years I tried to find that man, but to no avail. Now, he just waltzed down 92nd street and I missed it.

My favorite old beat was a professor of mine in college. He lives a block away. I can literally see the back of his brownstone from the window in my tenement apartment that looks out the back. I saw him on the street once a few months ago. He's one of the few people who recognized me after I cut off my dreadlocks, but still is so overworked and busy that he doesn't have time for lunch. He sent me a photo in explanation, but hopefully will spare some time soon for some coffee at veselka, or his favorite there, scrambled eggs. Maybe he'll come by my new studio?

Alfred is the second in from the left, wielding the crazy pick. I love his guts.

theft, fraud, cocoons, molting

Today I got a letter from a bill collector-- not a bill for something I purchased, used, or forgot about paying-- but the electricity bill for a year of use from 2002-2003 in a house I wasn't living in, in a town I had moved away from, and an account that I had closed-- but seemed to re-open without my asking after the house had burned down, been rebuilt, and someone else was living there.

OH N-Star, how I hate you so. Maybe you provide electricity to Boston and Allston, but you done me wrong, babe. So three years after I last wrote a letter to explain to a collections agency how this isn't my charge, I again wrote it. Only this time I called the boston police first, and reported an identity theft, an unauthorized use of my social security number, a ink-spot on my credit report that six years later isn't close to being cycled through. Maybe they'll realize their mistake now, stop harassing me intermittently years later.

Instead of being stressed about this, I went to the gym-- which made me nauseous. Something about the elliptical machine and I just don't get along. So I rowed. I rowed like there was a river that needed exploring, and I, fabled squaw, was going to find out what was there.

The first big fork in the river led me down a pass where maybe my heart would explode, but I saw butterflies. They were me being nervous. A big one from a dream I had last week landed on the tip of my canoe. This winged silkworm spoke of one fine space:

my new studio. with a little bit of trouble and a lot of fending off creepy old men, I'm probably going to be getting a studio in the basement of a neighboring building. Yes, a painting studio. I'm not sure if I'll be able to afford the rent, but hell, it's cheaper than the grad schools I didn't get into. It'll give me a place to move all my art stuff to, and where I can only work on my work. Not deal with the mail and the mess and the tv and the distractions. I want to log hours in a basement room with a stereo and a cement floor. I want to seal and paint that floor, install shelves, buy a de-humidifier (good idea craig), and make something worth looking at. Hopefully the rest will follow-- curator and critics visits, a gallery deal somewhere.. the future, that lake, those huge eyes flapping in the air.

surviving our youth.

finally, after all these years, I found them again.
possibilities endless.

After a week with my younger brother in town, I'm glad not to be 15. And glad I have really cool brothers. And yes, I find funny photos in the met really amusing. Teenagers should totally be taught to interact with and impersonate the best art.