Shaken, Not Stirred

My brother Rob is 2.5 years older than me.  On February 10 of 1989, he turned 21.  When Rob turned 21, I turned 21.  On February 11 of 1989, I walked into the DMV with his birth certificate and walked out with a fake ID.  I had an honest-to-goodness, government issued identification that said I was of legal age.  I couldn't wait to try it out!

I slinked into TGIFs and bellied up to the bar.  Having never ordered a drink at a bar, I wasn’t sure what to do.  Eventually, the bartender sauntered over with a skeptical furrow across his brow. “What’ll it be?” 

I froze.  What'll it be?  I didn't think I'd make it this far!  What'll it be??  I blurted out the only grown-up drink that came to mind... “Martini!”  Yes! A martini. James Bond’s drink. A man's drink.

“Can I see your I.D.?”

The moment of truth.  Apprehensive, I reached into my wallet and brandished my shiny new ID.

He studied it, studied me, and handed it back. “Gin or Vodka?”

I was all at once elated (because it worked) and terrified (because I was not expecting a follow-up question). “Gin or Vodka?” I thought. “No one ever asked James Bond that question!”

I leaned on the bar, attempting to look as casual as possible, and calmly declared, “Gin will do, thanks.”

Much to my chagrin, a series of follow-up questions blasted across the bar, “Straight up or on the rocks? Clean or dirty? Olives or onions…?”

My head spun.  “Whoa!”  I waved my hands in surrender. “Shaken, not stirred!  That’s all I know, man!”

I drank my first martini that day.  Up until that point, the law seriously hindered my ability to drink.  Now the governor was off.  Nothing could stop me from drinking WHENEVER I wanted. 

That martini was the worst thing I ever tasted and marked the beginning of the end for me.