I NEVER HAD A FAKE ID. THERE WAS NEVER REALLY ANYONE
who looked enough like me to be able to source such a collegiate luxury, though knowing the rule abider I once was, I probably wouldn’t have been slick enough to use it anyway.
My drinking life began, therefore, not in bars like a civilized human, but in dorm rooms where we drank from waxy paper cups made for dining hall coffee, not the inevitable bottom-shelf vodka that must be drunk, funny that the dreaded two fingers of room-temperature swill we knocked back in a fluorescently lit freshman dorm (after a toast with and to the girls) shares fundamental DNA with my now—perhaps I should say ?—favorite drink: the uninterrupted hard liquor of the martini.
