Hello. It's been a minute. And it will be even longer the next time as I'll be on vacation here pretty quickly.

I have two weekends to get through, one of which is a doozy. You see, someone recently tried to peg me as the next Harvey Weinstein, one who subjugates women in the name of power.

The man goes on to label me as irate and insensitive after I asked to see the second form of ID on a girl's 21st birthday. The girl couldn't wait to drink with her friends. And in her lack of patience she handed one of her drinks across the gate (and into public). Once that happens she forfeits her privilege to be in the bar, which also includes the right to drink her drink. 

Supposedly I mistreat women this way. 

So I need to correct the record. 

I treat people this way, who precede with events in an unbecoming manner.

If A hadn't happened, then my B wouldn't have had to follow.

Cause and effect.

I didn't touch the girl, nor her friends. I took her drink and threw it away. Told her to get out. Confused as she was, I may have added a flavorful word, albeit at least 5 feet away.

And once she was out, her friends started to step up to the plate.

"You can't do that! I work in a bar, I've been a bartender for three years, and you can't just kick someone out for no reason! I need your names, and your manager's name."

We have the right, federally. Unless, of course, it's based on race, color, religion or national origin. And contrary to administration standards that last one still applies.

And she got kicked out because of a simple rule - don't pass your drink to someone that's not in a bar. There are only, like, 13 places in the United States where you can drink in public without penalty. My city is not one of them. 

Giving someone a drink, who has not been verified to be of age, in public, is bad. 

The father of the girl admitted she screwed up. 

We can be done, right?

Why can't the conversation end with, "I messed up? I understand. Can I have another chance at a later date?" Well, maybe less robotic. 

Don't take things to the edge. The father wasn't present. But many other people were, including staff, bystanders, and other customers. Oh, and surveillance cameras.

This is indeed a matter of fake news.

Not the political fake news we hear about from the guy who is fatter than 239 pounds. But the social commenting gurus that line our Facebook feeds. 

He wasn't there. He admitted his daughter broke the rules, and possibly the law. She wasn't touched or harmed in any way. 

Oh, and she was back in the worst bar, that mistreated her so badly, about a week later. 

So, am I a monster? If the father and I were to meet on the street, having never have met before, and in the light of day without any branding, what would happen? Thank you, William Stafford, for already putting it into context for us.

“They miss the whisper that runs
any day in your mind,
"Who are you really, wanderer?"
And the answer you have to give
no matter how dark and cold
the world around you is:
"Maybe I'm a king.”

430: Twitter Game Weak

"Oh, I don't have a second form, but here's my Twitter profile pic with me and three other dudes. Oh, I'm following this guy? Yeah, you can follow yourself, right? No, well, shit."

"I may be drunk, but I'm just here to play darts."

431: Will the Real Slim Shady Please Stand Up?

He probably can, but his real name is Justin and he's roughly 300 miles away.

432: Age is Just a Number

Yes, but I need to know that number.

"Ummm ..."

"I'm actually going to stop you there."

433: Methods & Madness

I went to an entertainment attraction not too long ago with my family, It was fun and friendly, but everyone there gets checked with an ID scanner. A handheld device that scans the back of the ID to verify age and capacity, and some other things.

I have been here before. Carded by the man who carded me again, which isn't out of the ordinary - after all, I recard people all the time. 

But he made it a point to ask me how I was doing since the last time I was there. And yet I still had to have my ID scanned. 

Other than a scanner in a police cruiser or station, handheld scanners are useless for high-quality fake IDs.

Use. Less.

Case in point, the ID checker told me he rejected the ID of another man, one with a Connecticut ID minutes before me. I looked at the man. He was easily in his 30s. The problem with his ID? Not the picture or the would-be crease, but the degradation of the barcode on the back. 

But, I have to go back to the establishment has the right to refuse service. 

The main reason I hate the reliance on a scanner is how lazily it makes checker and bouncers assess situations. The primary instance: what if someone is using a real ID of a sister, brother, or cousin. The ID will scan, the semblance may be close, or possibly near perfect. 

Do they get a pass? 

What about the fakes that cost north of $150? 

Most scan.

The people are paying for it to scan, after all.

Are you going to look up at your scanner long enough to make the correct assessment?

I can.

Which leads me back to 433. A Connecticut with bad Photoshop.

No scanner necessary. 

434: Sister, Sister

Her ID would've scanned. It was a real ID. But it was her sister's. A sister who was five inches taller than her. Miss Scarlet is getting away with murder because sometimes the man in the venue with the scanner on the barstool isn't looking up at what's right in front of his face.

435: Lanyard Girl

The school lanyard was a nice touch. Not many go the extra mile with a fake from another state, but you did. It's too bad it was a bad fake that looks like you took a summer selfie and sent it to China.

The last story before I go to my concert destination vacation is about the perils of being a dumbass.

Let's say you go out walking, alone, in a shady neighborhood because that's all you can afford. But unlike other nights where you're walking with groceries or from the bus stop, you're walking in your Saturday Night best and looking for some kind of entertainment downtown under the city lights.

You see yourself in the mirror before you open the door and you think to yourself, "Damn, I look fly." And you do.

But where there is one fly, others will swarm. 

Suddenly, you're being followed. That phone in your pocket is worth more than your car, and the cash meant for drinks is making your wallet extra fat, like a pig plumped before slaughter.

You see a shadow, but think nothing of it. 

Then you see another.

And another. 

And now a swarm of darkness against the light.

What do you do, wanderer? Perhaps they think you're a king.

And a king's reign is rarely long.

You get jumped. The first hit is a surprise. The second is harder and more direct. First your head. Then knee, jaw, neck. Bloody, you swing wildly, phone sliding out of your pocket. You reach down in a fit of panic, and now you meet the ground faster than expected.

A kick to the head. 

The swarm is gone. With your precious mobile device, money and what little self-esteem you started.

You get up, bruised and bloody, meandering to your original destination. You reek of copper and saline secretions. 

Finally, you reach your destination.

"Oh, no! Poor baby, what happened?"

"I got attacked. They took everything."

"Oh my God, who did this to you? Let me call the police."

"No. It's cool. It's cool. I ain't no snitch."

All the heavenly prose in the world can't save you from being a complete idiot.