So, I go into an Exxon, looking to buy a pack of butts. (An evil, nasty habit I am trying to quit, but the demon weed still has its claws in me.) I ask for a pack of what they had that was closest to my brand, and it was slapped on the counter. Then the clerk asked for my ID.
O.k. Tobacco, along with pornography, beer, and sometimes phen-phen, is an age restricted product available at some convenience stores/gas stations. Despite my advanced grizzledness and paunchitude, and my sincere doubt that the woman behind the counter was trying to flatter me by insinuating I could be mistaken for a teenager, I complied.
And I was ready. I had recently traveled by air to San Francisco, renewed my license, but still had the printed paper companion from the DPS to accompany my laminated driver's license with an older, but still somewhat grizzled image of my mug on it.
No dice. My license was expired, therefore I was probably under 18. The fact I had renewed my license was no good. "Policy," the woman said. "But....But..." I objected. "Policy."
In my nicotine deprived state, muttered my way back to my car, curses ranging from Kip Hawley to Captain Hazelwood. And of course, the X-Ray Spex wormed into my brain:
IDENTITY IDENTITY IDENTITY