My Fake ID (Thank you James Darren Lascot)

[Dear Booze]

ser•en•dip•i•tous
n. pl. ser•en•dip•i•tus
1. The faculty of making fortunate discoveries by accident.
2. The fact or occurrence of such discoveries.
3. An instance of making such a discovery.

“Perhaps it seems odd that a casual meeting on the street could have brought about such change. But sometimes life is like that isn't it” ― Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha

There were only a few times in my life when I felt truly free. I think I can count them on one hand: learning to ride a bike without training wheels, going to summer camp for the first time, getting a driver’s license, moving out of my parent’s house and into my first apartment. The memories of each of those moments are so clear to me that I can easily play them back in my mind and relive them, recalling every detail as if it was yesterday. Each of those events had a profound impact on my life, but none quite as grand as the day I received the fake I.D…

When I was in high school, I was envious of many of my friends with older siblings who would let them use their I.D.s for a night of drinking. In some cases, we even had older friends who looked similar to my underage classmates who would share their I.D.s from time to time. I only had an older sister, and couldn’t seem to find anyone who either looked like me or was willing to hand over their ID. I was stuck with having to wait outside the liquor store playing “hey mister”, while my more fortunate friends enjoyed the inner sanctum of a bar. Drinking, playing pool and eating free pretzels. Not being able to gain admittance made me believe that a bar is the most sacred of all temples.

The summer between high school graduation and my freshman year at college, a couple of buddies and I spent a week in Santa Cruz for one last adventure before we headed off to college. We spent our time wandering around the boardwalk, hanging out on the beach, and listening to street musicians.

That was when my life changed. Forever.

One afternoon, my friends and I were sitting on a bench on Pacific Avenue listening to a fairly good guitar player when a stranger approached us. He had an open wallet in his hand that he kept looking at. Then he would look at me, then back at the wallet. I really didn’t pay any mind to the guy. This was after all, Santa Cruz. Weirdo capital of the world. Finally, he finally spoke to me. “James?” was the only word he said.

Being a little curious, I answered him. “Yes, but it’s pronounced Jaahms.” First of all, that's not my name. Second, to this day, I have no idea why I answered him in such a way.

“Err.. okay, Jaahms, I found your wallet.” He held it out and I took it.

I swear to God, the clouds parted, I heard angels sing and a golden glow appeared as I opened the wallet to take a peek inside. The first thing I saw was a brand new one hundred dollar bill, a concert ticket… and then, the Holy Grail: a valid California Driver’s License.

Looking at the photo, I could understand why the stranger thought it belonged to me. I strongly resembled the true owner, one James Darren Lascot from Felton, California.

James was of drinking age. This will work, I thought. Fuck yes, this will work.

From that very moment, nothing was the same again.

My friends and I headed straight to the nearest grocery store to see what it felt like to buy $100 worth of booze, beer and wine coolers without having to ask someone to buy it for us.

I remember feeling a little scared when the clerk asked to see my ID. What if she doesn’t believe that it’s me? What if she calls the cops? What if she knows the real James Darren Lascot? But she casually glanced at it and continued placing the bottles in a paper bag. No questions asked.

Over the course of the next two and a half years, only one person questioned the validity of the ID. It happened very late at night at a 7-Eleven in Van Nuys, California. The clerk said loudly “THIS ISN’T YOU!” But the store manager quickly intervened, snatching the id from her hand, looking at it, then at me, and saying: “It’s him,” as he handed it back to me.

I quickly became a valuable friend to many people. I was the guy who could supply a party with a case of cheap beer. I was the guy who could buy Absolut Vodka to replace the bottle from Jenny Smitcamp’s father’s liquor cabinet after she and her friends took it to the drive-in movie theater. I was the guy who could purchase a bottle of Rootbeer Schnapps for Robbie Greenwood, so he could take it with him to his older sister’s wedding; and I was the guy who could buy a four-pack of wine coolers for Danny Adams so he could impress his date as he lured her to the 16th fairway of a local country club at 3:00 AM. I was the guy to know.

Within a couple of months, however, I felt as though I wasn’t using my new ID to its fullest potential. I had grown bored with my peers and knew it was time to move on. That little card was more than James Darren Lascot’s California Driver’s license. It was a passport to a different world. A beautifully dark and dank underworld with distinct, almost edible smells. That’s when I became a student of bars. I began to learn about drinks, studied the dusty bottles sitting on the dimly-lit back bar, and discovered people with colorful nicknames like “Lefty”, “Slick”, “Big Rick” and “Bird”.

I stayed away from popular nightclubs because of the bouncers. I always felt that they were better trained to examine an ID. I favored dive bars and neighborhood pubs. Sure, the salty old bartenders would look at my ID, but these places were always dark and smoky, so I felt I stood a better chance. Plus, I doubted if they truly gave a shit as long as I behaved myself and tipped well.

I selected a quiet, unassuming neighborhood bar as my home base. This would become the place where I could start the night, end the night, or even spend the afternoon. The Stardust Room was a logical choice for several reasons. First, it opened at 6:00 AM and closed at 2:00 AM, so I could show up at ANY time the law allowed bars to be open in California. Second, it wasn’t anything but a neighborhood dive bar. This meant that there were never any bouncers, door men, or cover charges, which meant that as soon as the bartenders remembered my face, I wouldn’t have to show my ID again. This greatly reduced the chance that somebody would figure out my game.

I began to spend most of my free time playing a variety of dice games with a group of old codgers as I listened to their stories. Their words were poetic and prophetic. I felt as though I was gaining an education every time they spoke, imbibing their wisdom. In print, their words would be red.

At first, I answered only to the name Jimmy. But a few months after becoming a regular at The Stardust Room, some friends from one of my college classes showed up and called me by my real name. After that, the other regulars and the bartenders started calling me by my real name too. I was a little disappointed because I always wanted one of those cool nicknames but never got one.

I studied for midterms and finals at that bar, forged long-term friendships with other customers, impressed girls by taking them there and introducing them to the seedy side of life, solved all my problems and created many more. All at the Stardust Room.

Then, I turned 21-years-old. I became of legal drinking age. And I celebrated at the Stardust Room.

The bartender, Kingfish, even gave me a special shot glass to commemorate the milestone. As I had long suspected, he knew my true (approximate) age all along.

It’s been many years since that afternoon in Santa Cruz, but I can still remember every detail as if it was yesterday. I’m still a faithful drinker. I drink for fun. I drink to old friends, and always drink to James Darren Lascot.

[oldsmartskunk]

Beautiful story. Very well written! A drink to James Darren Lascot!

[oettinger]

What a great read!
Dear Booze is very active on the boards lately, another reason to check in more often!

Still can`t get over this ID crap though. Don`t know who I`m exactly quoting here and the wording might be off but: Someone mentioned the hilraity in sending 18 year olds to war but not allowing them to have a good time. Feel entitled to correct/help me out on this, my brain is not working in undrunk manner anymore, whch is good I say

[Dear Booze]

Thanks Oldsmartskunk and Oettinger. I wrote and posted this story about a year ago. Since then, I've tried finding the real James Lascot through Facebook and Google. I thought it would be cool to send him a hundred dollar bill and a copy of the story....

Well, I think I've located him. If it's the right guy, he's an arborist living in San Jose (about 45 minutes north of Santa Cruz) but I haven't acted on it.

Not sure how I want to do it... or if I should.

[mistah willies]

Kind of like an orphan seeking his father.

Go for it. Only one asshole would be possible in such a tale, a bad ending, and it won't be you if that happens.

[booznik]

oldsmartskunk has dug up some gold buried in the board!

Dear Booze did the dictionary thing before I did, complete with dots. Well done! Keep on writing, you booze animal. You're good.

Still can`t get over this ID crap though.

It's a ridiculous situation that no weak-spined politician will ever vote to change, as long as the iron grip of MADD and the Dry Caucus hold sway.

[Palinka (RIP)]

...Not sure how I want to do it... or if I should.

First, you should definitely do it.

Second, once more fake ID will be your friend. Simply print up some business cards in the name of, "John Sheridan, P.I." (for example). Then go and call on the guy and after handing the guy one of those "Business Cards", begin by stating that you have been hired to find a particular, "James Darren Lascot". Ask him a few question, to ensure that the ID card that you used was his, be sure to throw in some "Red Herring" questions, to keep him off the scent, stuff like, "Sir, have you ever owned a Red Mustang?", "Were you ever familiar with a lady call Agnes Schmutter but is more widely known as "Red"", "Did you eat a 3-alarm chilli in the "Wagon Wheel Diner" in Brentwood, PA, on the evening of February 15th, 1992? And if so, can you descibe your server, plese, sir?" Stuff like that.

Once you have confirmed that he is your guy, give him the hundred bucks and a handle of Evan Williams. If he asks why, just say, "Sir, I am not a liberty to divulge that information, at this time. Client confidentiality. You know. But be assured, sir, that if you are visited again, your "Vetting" will have come out positive...In the meantime, sir, it would be best if you told no-one anything about this meeting." then make to leave, stop and tirn back and say, "I can tell you this, sir. If you are approached again, to save time with the questions, simply say, "Hari Krishna Penguin!" Can you remember that, sir?"

Then walk off, comfortable in the knowledge that not only will you have paid the fellow back for the use of his ID card, you will also have increased his "interestingness" by miles. In years to come he will dine off that story. And you'll have given him an awful lot to think about. Who knows, it may change his life, immeasurably, for the better.

Go to and good luck!

[oettinger]

My take is a bit shorter than Palinka`s awesome tale above.
By loosing his id and the hundred bucks he failed to go shopping for eggs which his wife recommended for dinner that night as she was preparing a brokoli casserole with mothers own recipe.
Mother and father were invited later that night and were hungry as fuck, having played golf the whole day while staying at the clubhouse enjoing tea with milk and rum, only one cube sugar please.
That got the wife so animated that she got into some temper tantrum throwing plates and other memorabilia in the near direction of the husband.
Mother arrives, sees daughert starting a hissy fit, calls ambulance on the spot, fed up with her like you are with the bum gulp out of an almost empty beer can.
Later that night our hero arrives at the mental hospital, only to be asked for his id.
Well, they never returned the wife and later that night he met the women he truly loved burying sorrows in a bar.

[Dear Booze]

My take is a bit shorter than Palinka`s awesome tale above...
Later that night our hero arrives at the mental hospital, only to be asked for his id.
Well, they never returned the wife and later that night he met the women he truly loved burying sorrows in a bar.

Okay. We have two very solid scenarios here. Both of which can be written into a very nice screenplay. Kind of like "Go" or "Sliding Doors". Both of which movies, by the way, are about as underrated as they come.

It's too bad we don't know someone with a magazine of some sort who can cover this detective portion of the tale and, in turn, get Today Show coverage and generate a shit load of exposure for said publication. But alas, it's too bad we don't have those connections.

[oldsmartskunk]

I'm so glad my post relighted interest in this story. This deserves a freaking movie based on it! It's like a modern day fairy tale ... In real life!
It's is so different here, in Europe. You can legally buy and consume any alcohol at the age of 18! I can only imagine how troublesome it can get when you are just under 21, you got a place, you got bunch of people and ... No way to get drunk :)

[booznik]

...I can only imagine how troublesome it can get when you are just under 21, you got a place, you got bunch of people and ... No way to get drunk :)

Therein lies the stupidity of the law. Of course under 21s get drunk here. Irresponsibly, and emboldened by the "forbidden fruit" factor to overconsume til the point of coma.

Ambulances have traditionally been a standard fixure at university dormitories here, carrying away the young wounded.

No culture of teaching children how to drink responsibly, a silly-high drinking age, and the "cool factor" from acquiring forbidden booze, all lead to tragic consequences. The prohibition of alcohol has left a scar on this country that would confound its founders.

[Patchez]

. The prohibition of alcohol has left a scar on this country that would confound its founders.

The founders, many of whom did enjoy and even make, a tipple or two. I still want to find Washington's rye mash bill. I got a buddy that I want to run that one past.

[booznik]

...I still want to find Washington's rye mash bill. I got a buddy that I want to run that one past.

The Mount Vernon distillery claims they have the mash bill. It sounds believable enough.