So the other week late on a weekday evening when it was still light out, I finally went to this (black) bar that I've seen forever but has always scared the sh*t out of me, this one on a bad strip next to a liquor store in the city's most violent neighborhood.
I locked up my bike to a door grate at the nextdoor mechanic's, said hi to the (older) (black) (female) junkie who was standing out by the bar door, and headed in, only to find a low-key place with tons of older people (which figures, since most bars don't want young people, who just cause problems, though a couple times I had biked by there late at night and there were long, long lines of young people waiting to get in, like for a nightclub or something).
Anyhow, I sit down, and when the (older) (black) female bartender comes up, she asks me my age, then my birthday.
She doesn't believe me (!), and when she takes my license, she looks at it close, and says it doesn't look like me.
Finally, she calls over this (old) (black) guy, who picks up my license, and is like, "That's him!", and then goes back and sits down.
"If the boss says it, it must be true," she's like, then asks me what do I want do drink.
When she comes back with my beer, I asked her old she thought I was, and she said that if she had to guess, she'd say 20 (!!! - I'm 35).
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