Feeling It and Finding Purpose Where None Should Exist
Someone came up to me today and told me he lacked a grand motivation - the drive to become the best at something, without knowing first what that something is.
And I thought the conversation odd because I did not empathize with the man. I already felt like I was the best at something, despite years of study, training and a general avoidance of particular lifestyle, or rather, the people those lifestyles drew.
No offense.
The best feeling I have when I'm working job 3 (chronologically speaking) is walking through a crowd while music crescendos in the background.
I feel like James Bond.
For a moment.
And then something astounding happens, or it doesn't, and the music carries onward.
A purpose is found, only to fade on the note.
But not when I work on the weekends.
Then, and only then, I am the best - continuously.
It's a strange feeling. "Feeling it."
Intelligence, knowledge, wisdom and luck are all rolling into one force. And lord help those who dare disturbs such a force.
I saw a concert on Thursday, Future Islands. It was hands down one of the best shows I have ever seen, but rivaling the energy of very few.
Lead singer Sam Herring is known for going all out. Dancing, screaming, or rather, howling, and sweating his ass off for nearly 2 hours.
It's a sight to see, one person putting maximum effort into their craft. He, truly, has found his purpose.
Because I saw this concert on a Thursday night, I was in one fine mood on Friday, even with a 4-hour round trip drive in the rain.
Whoever I met on Friday was flying straight into my positive nature. And that's always a huge negative for those who try to circumvent the law and potentially ruin the lives of friends of mine.
Friday Fake No. 1 (245): Underoos
"Do you serve unders?" he said as his friends all preceded him into the bar.
"No," I said, pointing to the sign that reads 21 & up, No exceptions.
"Right. Right. Where should I go then?"
"There's some benches down there."
And that's where the conversation ends for 30 minutes.
Underoos then claims he's waiting for his girlfriend after he's been loitering by the gate for what seems like a thousand years in bar time.
An odd declaration, out of the blue.
And then the line forms, and lo and behold, Underoos is standing before me, ID in hand.
And it's awful. Painful, even, that I took this ID.
He fights, to no avail, asking how he's going to drive home. The blood pulsing in his head creates a tell-tale sign of nervousness and trepidation. For him, there is no way out but through. But I'm a wall you can't break - figuratively speaking, of course.
And the night ends.
But I'm still feeling it on Saturday morning.
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. That's how Peanut put it to me at 1:40 a.m. on Sunday morning.
Reaching my best of seven IDs in one night for the fifth time, I was tired. The feeling ended, though with my purpose fulfilled for one more weekend.
Saturday Fake No. 1 (246): Rain, Rain, Go Away
If I've said it once, I'll say it a thousand time, you can remember everything on an ID that's not you, but you cannot remember to have different colored irises.
Saturday Fake No. 2 (247): Asian Persuasion
One of my favorite excuses is "It worked at (insert nightclub here)!"
Well, I'm better.
It also flummoxes me when clubs have dress codes about flannel and baseball caps and flip flops but don't care about checking an ID for 10 seconds. How hard is the DJ pumping crap into your ears that it's affecting your common sense?
Saturday Fake No. 3 (248): Duck, Duck, Goosed
One South Carolina ID in a string of in-staters. NEXT!
Saturday Fake No. 4 (249): Maine Distraction
As I'm talking to Peanut and a customer about checking Facebook for a birthdate, which works amazingly well, a woman with a Maine ID is next in line. There is no way she could not have heard our conversation. It was loud and directed at a group.
Sure enough, Facebook, birthday, Maine ID in my pocket.
Saturday Fake No. 5 (250): Not so Cool Runnings
If you look like Rawle Lewis, don't bring Doug E. Doug's ID and expect easy passage to Calgary. I wish my 250th was a better story.
Saturday Fake No. 6 (251): Threats of Violence in the Aftermath of Celebration
One ID taken from one brother, that belonged to an older, much shorter brother, kicking off the violent actions of a third, eldest brother, will get your whole family banned in quick order.
To make matters worse for that hateful family, it was the second time the shorter brother attempted to give access to a minor within the past six months.
Your team won the big football game. Be happier people because of that.
Saturday Fake No. 7 (252): The Long Lisp Goodnight
This girl had everything down. She had the day, month and year. She had the address. She had the height within two inches. She had the hair. She had the eyes. She had the boyfriend's name, the family tree and AAA card to boot.
If not for a slight gap in her smile she would have fooled me.
This one took some time and nearly the rest of my mental energy. Thankfully after I took it she stopped fighting and drifted off into the twilight.
What followed was 30 minutes of desperation and dreams dashed by handfuls of middle-aged men and women coming from a rock show.
And the clock strikes that magical time with me not wanting the night to end.
Not out of intoxication or revelry. Or desire amidst jocularity.
Because I want to be like James Bond just one more time.
