Denison and Rosie in concert

It's not very often that an opportunity arises for a fairly inexpensive trip to the "big city" to see some of your favorite musicians. A few weeks ago, Cat invited me to a cheap show of Denison Whitmer and Rosie Thomas in Chicago at the Beat Kitchen, a cool bar/music venue, that was taking place last night. Instantly, I said yes. I didn't care if I had anything planned - seeing these two along with Cat and her friend and Mike (who I quickly invited) was sure to be the highlight of my spring semester. Cat's friend was driving, so all I had to do was show up.

We arrived in Chi-town a bit early, met up with Stephen for some Chipotle, and proceeded to the venue a bit early. The show was rated AA or All Ages, and therefore the bar's bouncer was tagging wrists for the "of age" crowd and marking others, who would have to stay in the back/music room.

As we entered, I whipped out my Arizona driver's license. It's a long story, not worth the space here, but it always causes whomever is inspecting it to pause, and it always brings about a comment. Most of the time, because it expires in the year 2047, rather than a normal 5 or 10 year span, like normal state licenses.

The bouncer was out to get people last night. He was looking for trouble, in the form of underage people. The thought never once crossed my mind, being that I'm 24, that I would fall victim to his overzealous duty to his job. He took my ID, squinted at it three times, flapped it against his hand a couple of times, turned it over and rubbed the scan-strip. This process took a full three minutes. Then he blurted, rather rudely, "You got any other ID?"

I stared at him. Any other ID? This was my driver's license. This IS my identification card. Perhaps he was thrown by the expiry date of 2047. I couldn't even answer him. I just stared.

"I'm skeptical because the holograph here is supposed to be clear. Not supposed to have a color. But I can see it." He then drags out the official Book of State Licenses from a corner nearby and flips to Arizona and proceeds to READ THE ENTIRE 1-page section about what AZ id's are to look like.
"Maybe it's bleached by the sun," he said, "But I'm not going to let this work for you."

I continued to stare, speechless. My mind, however, was racing. He was about to tag me as an underage person. He's accusing me of lying, of sneaking, of having a fake ID. I was appalled. I have no interest in a fake ID, mainly because I'm TWENTY-FOUR, but it's never appealed to me. I'm not one of those people...

"Fine," I finally managed.

He took out a black permanent marker and commanded, "Right and Left hands." Upon which he drew the largest black permanent X's I've ever seen - one per hand. "Back room only, no re-entry."

I walked away, dazed. Did this really just happen? Am I being suspected of possessing and trying to use a fake ID to get into a bar? Cat and Ben balked when I showed them. Mike followed up behind me - with his dog-chewed and mangled ID and his over-21 wrist bracelet. The guy had given him strict instructions, "Your friend may very well be over 21, but don't buy her any drinks here."

All night, despite the near pitch-darkness that swallowed the back room to which I was confined, I was embarrassed of the Double-X, as I began to call it. I was afraid of being judged an under-21-er. I tried to hide them with my long shirt sleeves, but at times forgot, only to glance down and be confronted with "X X" bleeding into my pores.

After standing for three hours watching the performers, being pushed and prodded on every side by people eager to get to the front near the stage, and moving several times farther back so I could breathe (it was an extremely claustrophobic night), all I wanted was a glass of water and a seat. My back was in excruciating pain, as I've found out in the recent past that one of my legs is shorter than the other and standing for excessive periods of time is not optimal. But drinks and seats were available in the front room, where I was forbidden to go. And the headlining musician still had another hour to play.

I was lucky to have my good friend Mike with me, though, I must say. He stuck with me the whole time; pretending, in essence, that he, too, had the Double-X. He was thirsty, too. His back hurt, too. But he stood there with me, moving with me when I started panicking as the crowd closed in on me a couple of times. As he's a head taller than most people, he also helped me find Cat and Ben so we could stand near them for a few songs.

The concert on the whole--especially seeing Denison and Rosie in such a relaxed and friendly environment--was amazing. It was such a small venue that you felt close to them wherever you stood. You could hear, see, and get the feel of their funny personalities. I discovered that Rosie is a comedian on the side, and she and her friends (Denison and Sufjan) interact in the same ways that all of us do. They think when they're all together, that they're hilarious. They laugh - even when performing - endearing them in the hearts of their audience. They're just like us, only, they're talented.

The night was long, but the traveling, the Double-X, the sheriff we met at 2am on the drive home, and everything was well worth it. I find it quite funny that I am doing crazier things now, as a working professional, than when I was in college. I was so uptight, then, it isn't even funny. Thank God I've lightened up. As I sank into bed at 4:30 this morning, my ears ringing and my hair smelling of smoke, I was delighted to have taken advantage of this somewhat spontaneous, musical adventure.

I shall never forget the night of the Double-X. The night I was essentially accused of breaking the law, of cheating, and lying, and being that underage delinquent...at the age of 24.