When U2 announced extra dates to their Joshua Tree tour and Detroit was among the new cities, I knew I had to pounce. Four tickets cost a total $223, meaning I would need at least 11 IDs to cover the cost. 

The 12th of the weekend was a nice bonus.

My tally is now up to 167 and this past weekend was a doozie. It was magical for my wallet, but not for my ears. There's nothing quite like a dozen strangers yelling that you suck at the top of their lungs. I mean, I'm used to it by being a Wisconsin fan in Michigan, but they didn't know that.

Full disclosure: I forgot one of the IDs I confiscated on Saturday because soon after I put it into my pocket, three men asked for a favor.

Where they came from, I can only guess. Out of the shadows perhaps. 

They approached the other door guy first and asked him their question.

"We're celebrating this guy's bachelor party and we're looking for a bouncer to arm wrestle. Can you do it?"

Michael declined. These weren't our typical customers. In fact, they never entered the bar to drink, they just wanted to arm wrestle. 

I threw my forearm into the ring.

I stepped in and said I'd be glad to. I checked their IDs, cleared a patio table and got ready. The bachelor's crew looked as if they had just clocked out after 8 hours fixing junkers, took a quick shower and went out on the town.

Bachelor was wiry, 140 pounds and sinewy. Buddy No. 1 was the money man. Taller and stockier, but clearly meant to control Bachelor. Buddy No. 2 was along for the ride, possibly Bachelor's brother or cousin. If he said a word I never heard it.

There was already a group sitting at the table, but they were more than happy to accommodate the match. 

The gated patio painted black was our arena. Cast-iron furniture, also black, hot from the summer season settling in, was cooling with each passing breeze.

One man sitting to my right, two sitting across from me. My opponent, the Bachelor, and a member of the accommodating group. Three men and two women behind them. Two men standing to my left. Michael at the door, 200 people in the bar. 

Music blaring, mixing with the chatter. The unmistakable scent of domestic light beer, the river, the road. Simple perspiration. I place my elbow on the table. Arm extended with my black-glove laden hand open and waiting.

Potential energy, waiting to erupt.

Welcome to Thunderdome.

Bachelor started strong. He was more than what he appeared to be. Must be the constant turning of wrenches and gaskets. But I know how to play the game, too.

Wait. 

Buddy Nos. 1 and 2 are cheering, and the Accommodators are throwing out tips.

"Turn your shoulder!"

"Squeeze his hand!"

"Turn and squeeze your hand! More!"

I waited.

"This calm thing is all an act, you got this," an Accommodator said.

"Come on, push him!" said Buddy No. 1.

It started to hurt. Not my hand, my elbow. The problem with arm wrestling someone significantly shorter than you is the downward force being exerted on your own arm. The movement is no longer leveraging your arm from right to left. It's forward, then down, then right to left. The pattern in our patio tables was waffle ironing my elbow. I needed to end this.

After more than 90 seconds, the match ended and I was victorious. Bachelor and I ended it with a handshake. As did Buddy No. 1, who slipped me $6 and then another $5 later in the night.

"Have you got weights in your gloves?" asked an Accommodator. 

No, I'm just bigger and stronger than most people. My lack of arm wrestling experience notwithstanding, I am glad it was over. My elbow hurt like a mother and I still had over an hour to work.

On his way back in, an Accommodator in a white shirt said I reminded him of a basketball player on the Washington Wizards. The player is Marcin Gortat. He is also a Polish Hammer.

The legend grows. 

Friday Fake No. 1 (156): Jaws

The first ID of the weekend came from a man who looked 20 trying to pass off as 29. To be honest, I didn't discover the age on the ID until I clocked out, but this kid's jawline and chin would give Jay Leno a run for his money. The ID was a Johnny Carson at best.

Friday Fake No. 2 (157): New York, New York!

Words to the wise, minors. I have Google, too. This New York ID was foiled by checking the holder's name revealing he graduated from a local high school two years ago. He sighed and walked away.

Friday Fake No. 3 (158): Stuck in the Middle with Ewe

A very sheepish girl came up with a group of friend with a genuine ID. The group was full of 21, 22 and 23-year olds but this ID belonged to that of a 30-year old. I asked her to spell the middle name. She got it wrong three times. Hint: if I'm asking you something more than once, odds are you got it wrong the first time. The group leader hung around for 10 minutes trying every so often to get the ID back.

Friday Fake No. 4 (159): Runt of the litter

At first sight, I wasn't going to let Runt into the bar. He kept stumbling and dropping his wallet. He offered me his ID and lo and behold, it was already creasing. 

The Illinois Identification card also featured the words "Secure. Secure. Secure" as its hologram wording. I've never seen that before. 

Thirty minutes later Runt and his friends -- who were already inside the bar -- tried to see how they could get his "passport" back. 

"It's not his passport. It's a fake ID."

"But he needs it to fly back out of the country next week."

"But, again, it's not a passport. It's a fake Illinois ID. I don't think you're getting it."

"So, if we just bring another form of ID tomorrow and call the police, we can get it back?"

I am flabbergasted at this point.

"By all means, if you want to call the police to get back your friend's fake ID I'll dial the non-emergency line right now. Can you wait for 5 minutes?"

At this point, Runt starts throwing out F-Bombs like there's no tomorrow. Over and over and over again. "Fuck you. Fuck you. Imma fuck you up man," said the 5-foot-4 drunkard.

One more plea from the friend falls flat.

"You're more than welcome to call the police and have all of you get fined in the morning."

Another barrage of F-Bombs and they went away. They did not come to the bar the following day.

Friday Fake No. 5 (160): Affluenza

I took a rich kid's ID. Google revealed he was a Trump supporter so I was merely getting him used to a person with his own branding screwing him over.

Saturday Fakes Nos. 1 and 2: (161 & 162): Two-for-One Special

When one in your party sees the sign on the door and says "I can't get in," because they aren't of age, you shouldn't try to pass off your fake as genuine 10 seconds later. But, not being the brightest bunch a Pennsylvania and Illinois were added to my coffers. Awareness people. Look around you. The giant man has ears, too.

Saturday Fake No. 3 (163): My Old Kentucky Home

Is not where this girl was from.

Saturday Fake No. 4 (164): Commercial Driver's Loser

If you're trying to get your ID back from me, please don't ever utter the words "I was just trying to do my buddy a solid."

Doing your buddy a solid is picking him up from the airport or being a wingman. He lost his CDL and ended up doing the opposite of a solid. He did his buddy a liquid, gas or plasma.

Saturday Fake No. 5 (165): I plum forgot. I think it was something to do with the man's height. But unsure. One in 167. It was bound to happen.

Saturday Fake No. 6 (166): Too short, different eye color and wasn't 30 years old in a group of 22-year olds.

Saturday Fake No. 7 (167): Birthday off by four months.

I know this one was long, but I only have three more working days as bouncer between now and July 21.