I can remember a number of events that have marked my passage from childhood into the adult world. The first was certainly beating Super Mario Bros.

Outside of perfecting mental character maps and sinister hand-eye coordination, there lie two additional benefits to this particular gaming challenge. Firstly, Super Mario Bros. appropriately introduces young boys to the distressing reality that their princesses will perpetually be "in another castle." Secondly, it makes Dad, who never beats world 1-3, look really stupid. This is important.

After demonstrating that I was smarter than Dad was, I waited a number of years before encountering the next milestone on my road to adulthood. This second landmark could have been either my 18th birthday or my first sexual experience. My 18th birthday was thrilling. Suddenly I had the newfound luxuries of being able to procure my own Lucky Strikes and Playboys, and I could vote too. I have never done any of these things. Though my first sexual experience was not as exhilarating as my birthday, it was as memorable as it was pleasurable. I just wish somebody else could have been there.

Last Monday I discovered perhaps one of the final preludes to adulthood. The day began as usual. I woke up. I shaved. I downloaded. I showered. I dressed. I watched. I brushed. I flossed. I watched again. Then I got my books together, peeled yesterday from the calendar, and happily drove off to class. After class, I went to get groceries from the local "Hometown-Proud" IGA. I tossed a few bottles of Rain and a few bags of Combos into my red plastic basket and then headed to the back of the store, straight to the beer. I stood before the highly organized library of alcohol for a moment before selecting a good read. Then Corona, my basket, and myself all marched back up front to the check out counter. I found an open cashier and placed my items onto a soiled conveyor belt. I said a pleasant hello to Agnes, who very politely swiped my snacks and Snapples, but stopped abruptly when she got to the beer. "Do you have ID young man?" "Certainly." I handed her my license. Agnes took my license and stared at it for some time. She wrinkled her eyes and her nose and her mole. Finally she gave up on the arithmetic and handed me back my ID. "Paper or Plastic?" she bellowed.

I cannot explain the trouble Agnes had in verifying my age. It clearly states on my license that I was born on October 29, 1980. To make matters simpler, in neon red, right by my photo, my ID announces that I am UNDER 21 UNTIL 10/29/01. "Paper's fine." I replied. I felt bad for Agnes. If she were sharp, she might have expressed wishes to the tune of 'happy birthday.' If she were competent, an innocent smile would have sufficed. As it turned out, her mental faculties were comparable to those of zwieback. Apparently "Hometown Proud" also means 'Dumb as F-k.' I pocketed my ID, picked up my groceries, and headed home to begin drinking Monday out of town.

The night began as usual. I drank a few beers. I watched Britney Spears. I took some beer to a piano and practiced. I pounded out Scriabin and coaxed out Chopin. When I ultimately decided that Monday was indeed the worst possible day for a birthday-that is-when I was completely plastered, I headed home. On my way back to my room I realized that my friend, Sarah Madsen, was still awake. Sarah was kind enough to let me in. We sat and talked for a while about music and dating and college-life in general. Then we did it like bunnies. Honest. I staggered back into my room sometime after two in the morning. As my head hit the pillow I realized that I was now aged 21 years and one day. I laughed, knowing that Sarah and Scriabin and Agnes and beer would all find me in my dreams. They did.