One evening during my stay with Miss Kate in Vancouver last week, the topic of discussion had veered toward my, err, rather memorable twenty-first birthday party…
Yea, that’s the one where I ended up getting married the morning I turned 21, thus topping a week-end that would make any Hunter S. Thompson’s story sound like a Nancy Reagan biopic in comparison…
Though that story is for another day…
Anyway, Angelique then naturally asked me how old I was now. And she was quite puzzled when it took me a long while to formulate my answer. Granted, none of the people present were exactly at their top neuronal speed that evening, and a bit of hesitation when quizzed about the intricacies of deoxyribonucleic acid’s synthesis would have been somewhat understandable in such conditions… but, no matter how strongly you have been indulging, remembering your age is not supposed to require intense concentration from any individual with basic shoe-lacing abilities…
And the sad truth is, I’m seriously messed up about my age. I mean: really messed up. To the point where I do need to think twice to remember the correct year I was born in and how old that makes me.
And these inane US drinking-age laws are the reason…
One thing I really hadn’t taken in consideration the day I jumped in a cab to Heathrow to take a break from Swingin’ London’s slightly overwhelming club scene, was that, the second I landed in San Francisco, I became, for all purpose, very much underage. And, as I was to learn quite soon, California doesn’t joke with underage drinking laws.
Hell, when you’re 17 in San Francisco, it is thousand times easier to buy a pound of crack and some weed to smoke it with, than getting served a glass of fuckin’ red wine in a restaurant.
It’s not the liquid you miss really, it’s the social life:
Along with the liquor, all places where it was served were off-limit to me: pubs, bars and, of course, clubs.
Once I finally got tired of rehab and ready to follow friends into nightlong club-hoping binges, this did turned into a bit of an issue.
Trust me, no matter what kind of perfectly imitated ID you are holding, the kind bought in the Mission from professional immigrant smugglers who barely speak a word of English, with lamination, hologram and fake stamp… you better be damn convincing to even stand a chance to set a foot in a club.
When your pupils are the size of saucer-plates and you are making your way between two rows of cops to get into an after-hour club, you better be the Harry Houdini of age impersonation. In fact, learning your fake birthdate well enough to give it back instantly upon demand is not enough: you must absolutely convince yourself that you are indeed five year older than you remember your mom telling you. Just in case your subconscious has to do the talking (it often had, back in those hazy, hazy days)…
Not only do you have to give that fake age to every single bouncer and waiter you ever encounter, but also, because paranoia is your only option, to anybody else you ever bump into.
For all practical purposes, this becomes your real age…
And this is how, still to this day, merely asking when I was born is the surest way to plunge me into abysses of perplexity…
The horrors of self-inflicted brainwashing on drugs…
Guess what?
I was thinking I didn’t know your age a few hours before my agregator tells me you had posted.
Life is funny sometimes.
A very similar thing happened to me the other day. I was on the phone to my dentist and the receptionist needed to know my age cause I was asking if I needed to pick a prescription and age is one of those importat drug variables.
I swear I wasn’t trying to be “I’m so cool that age means nothing to me so I never think about it” types. I just actually blanked. Couldn’t remember how old I was. This happens all the time. I do the same thing with phone numbers, including my own. Always embarassing when I order a book or CD at Barnes & Noble and they need my phone number to call me when the order arrives and I have to pull out my Palm or iPod to check what it is.
By the way, I’ll be 28 next month. Took most of the writing of this comment to be sure on that one.