IDENTITY CRISIS

"Relax folks--we just want to see your ID..."

When my ex-girlfriend (hereon referred to as “Angina”), left me for a sinewy, urban-fixated muscle boy (hereon referred to as “Peter Prisonmuscles”), I became determined to work out. I had never lifted weights, apart from the clunk of my own ego, and my cock. But I was dead-set upon giving it a go. I would not be one-upped by some jock douche again, I said, resolute within. No; I will, one day—with God as my witness—only be abandoned for men with money, or a future…none of that “rippling muscles” crap. So I joined a gym (Bally’s, to be precise).

Being new to it all, I was in a swollen world of pain from the first day. Wisely, I compensated with blind, unfounded optimism, and Vicodin ES, which only added to my optimism. Of course, I exuded a general aura of incompetence in the gym. People avoided me at first. There was also the issue of the painkillers: Vicodin ES can make a Chatty Cathy out of any Sullen Frank—they’re really great big Happy Pills, and for a skuzzy-looking, long-haired, gothed-out headbanger like myself, it was a twisted change of pace. I certainly wasn’t in any pain. I doubt I would remember if I was; I took a bit too much sometimes. I was suddenly outgoing, boisterous, and possessed a tendency to gab incoherently at total strangers. (Ah…the magic of drugs!)

One such total stranger that I assaulted with vernacular was a conservative-looking business-type named Mark. I have no recollection of anything I said—only that I said it often, without pauses. In retrospect, he probably thought I was gay. But upon further conversation, determining that I was, in fact, quite heterosexual (and did not, as it turned out, wish to oil him in any manner), he seemingly decided that I was just insane enough to be interesting. A (perfectly straight) friendship developed; often, his encouragement kept me going to the gym long after my Vicodin ran out. And we got to laugh at old fat guys in towels.

One night, we went up to Bally’s, only to learn that they were enforcing a new “checkpoint” policy. Not only did they need to see our Member Card, but they also asked to see Photo ID.

Being permanently disheveled to some to degree or another, and perpetually broke, I didn’t always have my wallet with me. I was fortunate enough to remember pants most days. My Member Card was in my gym bag…but my wallet was at the house. By my reasoning, if you don’t drive, and you have no money…why do you need your wallet, anyway?

The hypercephalic oaf at the desk stood firm, arms crossed. He shook his head. “I need ID.” Mark protested. “This is not a checkpoint society,” he roared. It was also not a foreign land—we had walked past these same wall-eyed goons every day for the last eight months. Not only should they have known our faces, but they should have known our names, routines, and favorite Marx brothers by now. We left, opting for Amber Bock and a crappy film. As I kicked back another beer, I wondered…what about the place I bought my beer from? I purchased cigars (18+), alcohol (21+), and Mini-Thins (18+) there at least twice every week. Each time I was carded, though the clerk remained the same. If I failed to show ID, would the snot-nosed clerk refuse me on the 87^th sale? Checkpoint Charlie rides again…

But remember: we are in a “post 9-11 society.” Right…think about that for a minute. You see, any time a public figure—in particular, a lawmaker—evokes the 9-11 Terrorist Attacks, it’s never to raise a toast to the victims. Have you ever noticed that? It’s never, “We are in a post 9-11 society; so let’s raise a glass, and drink to all who lost their lives that day.” Nope…never. Instead, it is almost always a preface to justification of some sort. It means they need the emotional vulnerability of those affected by the disaster, or afraid of its reprisal, to justify some pet “must-pass” legislation that they’ve been cock-blocked on the last 17 times. It worked with the USAPATRIOT Act. It works with a lot of things. Know only that when you hear the words “in a post 9-11 society,” that whatever else they plan to say will not be good. And they can use it with just about anything, and get away with it:

Cheney to Majority Whip, eyes ablaze with lust: “You know, in a post 9-11 society, you have to expect that sometimes men will viciously sodomize other men. We must be flexible for the challenges ahead.”

Rumsfeld at Press Conference: “Look folks, in a post 9-11 society, you have to expect that, occasionally, Congressmen will walk into a random supermarket, naked and covered in grease paint, and open fire on the 10-items-or-less lane. We can’t live in the past.”

John Ashcroft to Sean Hannity: “Listen,” (makes emphatic hand motion) “in a post 9-11 society, the people must be realistic, and prepared to give up some lesser liberties, like private defecation, or shoes. And Congress must have the tools at their disposal to fight the fallen angel Satan, as well as take a concubine—one each. We must continue looking forward.”

And my favorite…

Congressman Jim Sensenbrenner to Random Shadow Government Operative: “In a post 9-11 society, people needn’t worry themselves when we tag each man, woman, and child in America like some sort of rare species of moth. We must move with the times.”

Sadly, the last quote hits damn close. You see, shortly, the President will sign the REAL ID Act into law. Real ID, which has been resubmitted to Congress—in one form or another—since 2002, is the fruitcake that gets passed to different in-laws every Christmas. Someone wants this badly. It is “must-pass” legislation. And like “must-see” TV, it blows. Real ID, like the Real Doll, is expensive, lifeless, and will lead to someone getting fucked.

For starters, it means that the United States can now join the proud historical ranks of Nazi Germany and Communist China as a nation with a National ID Card. Secondly, it requires a house address (no PO Boxes) among the information on the card. Sucks to be a federal agent, or an undercover cop, eh? It also sucks to be among the nations millions who don’t want our name, address, and personal info sold to Info Brokers.

True Story: A friend once made an online order for me, when my own card was maxed out. Weeks later, he received a phone call from the same company, asking if he’d like to reorder. The scary part is, he never entered his phone number.

With the nature of just what will be contained within the National ID’s built-in chip somewhat obscure, just imagine all the fun spammers will have. (Conservative or Liberal, love ‘em or hate ‘em—you MUST see this ACLU cartoon. It is essential, and upon us).

You will be cataloged; and your data will be harvested by the private sector, who are always on hand to do what the government would like to, but cannot.

For instance, unless you’re on probation, the government cannot demand you take a urine sample. But any privately-owned company can; it’s their right. Currently, the government is working on legislation to outlaw any drugs or devices that might help a person foil those tests (such as the hilarious Whizzinator, a prosthetic penis/filter). Again, your privacy is at stake, and funny that you didn’t read about it in the papers?

So Uncle Sam wants to know what books you read? He calls his little brother, Private Sector Hector, in. Hector mines consumer data from receipts. He has your name, and payment method; he knows about your love of drag musicals. Expect a visit soon.

The Real ID will make this all much simpler.

Of course, its proponents (which exclude the American public, thus far) say that this will stop illegal immigrants. Of course, we know it won’t. Our nation is not overrun with illegal aliens because of fake ID’s, or even lax security. Illegal immigrants thrive because they are sheltered by small business and poor local economies that have become dependant on cheap labor. I have seen this with my own eyes. And with the economy flailing like a wounded bird, the thought of getting a full day’s labor for a stack of warm tortillas and a sixpack of Corona probably seems like a pretty sweet deal to the average Southern American businessman. And Real ID will not solve this.

So what will we do if this passes? I say be enthusiastic. When you go to get your respective Mark Of The Beast, bring in a container of your urine (or even semen, breast milk, and stool samples). Insist that the poor wretch at the counter take them, because—since this card will potentially contain your background information—it is important for them to know that you pissed clean. Don’t take no for an answer! Also, bring in one of those huge genealogy charts, and document your linage to the clerk, loudly. And don’t forget medical records! Anything embarrassing like vaginal polyps, testicular torsion, or even a cat with syphilis? These people gotta know. Loudly. While people are in line.

If the government wants information, I say give it to them.

Give them way too fucking much.

Oh, and don’t fill out the organ donor option, lest Acxiom get wind of it, and arrange for you to wake up crudely stitched and naked in a tub of ice.

The last thing you can do—which I’d recommend you do today—is go to this website, and read more about this. And then go to this website, and fill out a ready-made protest letter to the Suits. (Will the Real ID’s data chip contain information that we protested against it?)

Failure to do this will result in a bleak (but well-documented) future, wherein you can’t even cross state lines, buy prosthetic penises, or even laugh at old fat guys wearing towels, without some jackboot fitness center goon asking for papers.

You have been warned.

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