Wednesday, May 22, 1996
Fake IDs will get you past the bouncer before you reach legal
drinking age
I was having a great deal of trouble getting started with this
column. I knew I’d better come up with something, however, because
as usual, I put it off, and this one was going to be another buzzer
beater. Birkenstein hits the print command, he snatches the final
copy, drives the lane in a full on sprint to his editor’s desk. The
clock winds down, three, two, one, ooohh and he slips it onto the
desk just as time expires. Another close one fans, here in
Westwood.
I decided to turn to my favorite writing tool for a little
inspiration, the Bible. Yeah that’s right, you read correctly, Gary
Reagan’s "The Bartenders Bible." I found a drink called a "Once
Upon a Time:" crushed ice, two ounces gin, one ounce apricot
brandy, and one ounce Lillet. In a mixing glass half filled with
crushed ice, combine all of the ingredients. Stir well. Strain into
cocktail glass.
Seeing as how lots of stories start with "once upon a time," I
thought I’d give it a try. Unfortunately, my liquor cabinet was not
up to par (shouldn’t the saying be not down to par?) from my last
Tupperware party. So I had to alter the recipe just a tad. Twelve
ounces gin, large glass. Pour gin in glass, drink really fast.
Flipping through the bible got me thinking about some of the
times I’ve had in bars. Six years of going to bars, having some
really great times and some really lousy times. But you’re
thinking, "Wait a minute." And rightly so. I’m only 24 Â how
could I have been going to bars for six years? I tried to check
with my lawyer before admitting in this public forum that I used a
fake ID, but he hasn’t been paroled yet, so I’ll just take my
chances.
You probably missed it, so I’ll back up, for those of you who
are a little slow. Fake IDs, that’s my topic. Just in time, too. My
editor said if you don’t do it by the third paragraph, you lose
them (them actually referring to you, yeah you).
Fake IDs (good or bad) are a large part of the college social
scene (sorry, I forgot to mention ugly). When you think of the
definition of a college town, I would say bars definitely are
included. Kol ij toun: (col/lege/tow/n) n. 1. A community in which
a university is located. 2. Area in which merchants are fortunate
enough to capitalize on the business of thousands of college kids
toting daddy’s credit cards. 3. Because I can’t think of what to
write, I find myself taking breaks in which I clean my bathroom,
something that normally only gets done when flies pig out. 4.
Streets lined with bars sporting loud music and drink specials to
lure students looking to drink midterms out of their heads. Lets go
to the kol ij toun and run up a huge bill for drinks on daddy’s
card. We’ll just tell him Maloney’s on Campus is a book store.
Unfortunately, however, most people finish the majority of their
college career before they turn 21. The phrase "most people"
obviously does not include myself. So college students under the
age of 21 are left with little choice but to get themselves a fake
ID.
The way I see it, there are four forms of false identification
that have been attempted over the years. To be able to distinguish
between these methods for all you planning to use this column in
future papers, reports or masters theses, I’ve given them all
names. Since I have the bible out, I’ll give them all biblical
names.
1. Bloody Mary: referring to the best method, economically and
logistically. Finding someone who is over 21 and looks like you,
preferably an older sibling. Of course, this requires that you
remember all the information on the other person’s drivers license,
which again, is easier if it’s an older sibling. Let me clarify
sibling in case any of the slow people I mentioned earlier are
still with us  boys use older brothers and girls, older
sisters.
Of course, the key is to make the information sound unrehearsed.
Try to avoid answering the question of when your birth date was
with a reply like "My name is Calvin A. Hobbes I live at 12346 Mari
Lane Los Banos California 93467-0945 I’m a male I have brown hair
blue eyes 6-feet-7-inches 108 pounds and I was born on September
seventeenth 1974 (deep breath) oh yeah and also I turned 21 in 1995
and I possess a class C license." No commas were inserted to show
that rattling the whole thing off in one rehearsed sentence without
breathing is a mistake.
What you need to do is stay relaxed, breathe and use commas when
you answer the bouncer’s questions. Let’s try it again. When is
your birth date? "I, (deep breath) was, born, (several quick
breaths) on, September (more breathing) seventeenth, 1975 … uh I
mean ’74." See, you blew it, but keep practicing.
2. Gin and Tonic: The purchasing of a fake driver’s license from
some guy named … well, I probably shouldn’t reveal his name.
Even though they came out with those new holograms several years
back in order to make driver’s licenses impossible to fake, darnit
if someone didn’t just put good old American know-how into beating
the system again. This is a pretty good way if you don’t mind
parting with up to $200. The good thing about this is you can put
your own info on the card, and there’s not nearly so much to
remember.
Sometimes those bouncers are sneaky though, so watch out.
Instead of asking you your birth date, the may ask you your sign.
Being your actual sign, you should be able to handle this, but you
may get nervous and freeze up under the pressure. As a Virgo, you
might stammer out something like "uhhh virgin" instead. And again
you’ve failed, but maybe third time’s the charm.
3. Rum and Coke: Buying some other form of ID that is legally
recognized by almost nobody, but you don’t have to show proof to
get an age printed on it. The problem with this is that obviously
it doesn’t really do much for you. But you can always find that one
liquor store that will sell beer to anybody over the age of 12
presenting some form of ID. You know the one, with the old guy
named Bud that’s almost blind and always wants to reminisce about
the county fair of ’37, or was it ’38, no it was ’37, I remember
because that’s when my Emma May bought that new summer dress that
cost me a week’s pay, or was it two week’s.
Yeah, just sell me beer please. And you probably don’t realize
it but you’ve blown it again. You see Bud doesn’t really care that
you’re a minor and he’s selling you liquor. He just wants someone
to listen to him about the time he built that boat out of a ’53
Chevy, or was it a ’54.
The best thing about these IDs is coming up with silly names to
make your friends laugh, like Jonathan Upton Sinclair, Ferren
Christianson (my high school’s Dean of Sending Brian Birkenstein to
Detention), Enrico Pallatzzo, or my personal high school fake ID
name Dick Miles. Many of you may not know it, but Dick Miles is a
real person, a world class ping pong player. If you don’t believe
me, I’d be more than happy to show you one of his balls, which he
autographed for me. And please keep your mind out of the gutter.
There’s not enough room there for yours and mine.
4. Sex on the Beach: This form is fairly effective and very
inexpensive, however it doesn’t seem to work if you happen to
possess something that excludes you from capitalizing on this form
of ID. That something being of course a penis. Yes, it sounds
sexist but we know it happens all the time. Pretty girl flirts with
bouncer, bouncer lets pretty girl into bar without seeing any ID.
Another example of the way women only want convenient equality.
After using the fake ID for a while, you become sort of attached
to it, and sort of cling to the identity like some sort of alter
ego. It’s sometimes hard to see it go. It’s especially hard because
it has to be retired in a difficult Fake ID retirement ritual,
known as the 21st Birthday. I’m convinced that 21st birthdays
aren’t for the enjoyment of the person turning 21, rather for the
enjoyment of that person’s friends. The sole purpose of the evening
is to make the person consume to the point of vomiting. Sounds
wrong, sick and disgusting, I know, but it sure is fun when you’re
the friend. Just remember please, DO NOT DRINK AND DRIVE.
Birkenstein is a UCLA alumnus, class of 1996. On certain nights
he used to go by Jonathan Harlam Gordon, born June 5, 1969, weight
175 pounds, height six-foot-one-inch.