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Stories are wily. They twist and splinter, twinkling as they refract and bend truth through the retelling. Such is the case with the tale of how I got this cut on my nose. There are two accounts of the event. I will recount them for you, and allow you to sift the truth from the muck.

Account #1: I was minding my own business at the bar, when a brute with disproportionate shoulders decided to engage me in some verbal fisticuffs. His motivation in this regard was unclear to me, but I was certain that he intended to solidify on public record certain facts about my loved ones and, indeed, my momma, to which I took exception. Bars are busy places, and in the aftermath of the scuffle it was not agreed upon who swung first. I maintain that this ruffian, upon hearing the entirety of my disagreement with him, struck my nose with his fist, cutting my face with his ring. After a moment’s shock at having been so shamelessly assaulted in public with no warning of the kind that would be expected of a gentleman intending to challenge another man’s honor, I responded in kind. The ensuing brawl took as casualties a couple of pint glasses and the majority of a young man’s martini. I was left the victor, with no further injuries past my initial cut. My opponent stumbled out, bleeding and beaten.

Account #2: My friend accidentally let go of his paddle when we were playing doubles ping-pong and hit me in the nose. I fell on my ass, mumbled I was fine, and went to go find a band-aid.

I leave it to you, dear reader, to discern the likely reality.

In the mean time, Comprehensive Exams are going. I’ll leave that sans adverb for the time being; I won’t know for a while which ones I passed. I’ve taken 4, and I have 8 more to go. I’ve purchased tickets home for Thanksgiving break, which is nice. I fly to Boston the 17th and return the 25th. Someone mentioned to me that my five year high school reunion might be that day, but there’s not much I can to do remedy that unfortunate timing conflict. My round trip tickets cost me a whopping five bucks, thanks to frequent flier miles accumulated through school visits and conferences. Going to Japan didn’t hurt.

Lastly, I wanted to record for posterity that I am basically no longer carded for proof of age. In particular, I have apparently reached an age when I will actually be singled out from the group as someone that need not be carded. It happened most recently when I was having a drink with Daniel in San Jose while he was here interviewing with Yahoo. We ordered beers, and the waitress asked for Daniel’s ID. Given that we are the same age, I was perplexed. The first time, however, was in Vegas. Several of us wandered into a casino and a couple among us decided to feed the gambling machines. A waitress approached us and asked for other peoples’ IDs, but not mine. “Don’t you want to see my ID?” I inquired. “No,” she responded, “I can tell. It’s in the eyes.”

Do my eyes betray the residue of experiences beyond my years? Are they sagging with the burden of a thousand memories too heavy for younger mortals? Perhaps the years of bar fights have finally begun to show, etching in my eyes, and on my nose, the lines and creases characteristic of a watering hole warrior, squandering away my time in Northern California’s seedy underbelly.

This entry was posted on Thursday, November 3rd, 2005 at 1:57 am and is filed under School. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.