(Me, arriving at rock club in the mid-1970s. A large Bouncer is sitting on a wooden barstool at the entrance to the club.)
Me: (trying to seem aloof, handing bouncer ID card)Hi.
Bouncer: (takes card from me and stares at it, then looks at me and frowns heavily)
[note: This terrible, terrible card was purchased from a ad in the back of CREEM Magazine, made from an ungodly awful Polaroid photo I had to send in with my $14.99 or whatever it was and my signature. It looked absolutely NOTHING like a real Wisconsin state ID.]
Me: It's my work ID. I don't drive.
[note: This was reasonably true -- I sometimes did work at school, and I didn't have a driver's license because I was too young to get one.]
Bouncer: (frowns, massively rolls eyes, hands me back the card and waves me in)
Me: (internally ecstatic, externally aloof, takes card back, nods at bouncer with slight smile, slinks quickly into the darkness of the club.)
Terrible. But funny.
© Copyright 2008- Marianne Spellman