As noted in my last post, I’m reasonably good (especially while drunk) at passing myself off as Australian. It’s a hard-earned talent, certainly, though one I put to good use for years, while under-age, drinking on an Australian fake ID.

For any underage drinkers reading along, it’s an approach I heartily endorse, as it left me with scores of entertaining experiences, from berating liquor store clerks who tried to look up the ID for verification in their US license picture books between Arkansas and California (“You fucking American twat, it’s a country, not one of your little ‘states'”), to waxing philosophic about the Australian public transportation system (something I’d never actually used) in conversation with a cute grad student in Cincinnati writing her thesis on subway systems of the world.

Women, it seems, love Australians, though explaining the lack of accent the following morning can be a bit tough. And while bartenders are happy to spot such out-of-towners a round of drinks, the round is usually comprised of Fosters. (Bartender: “Here you go man; it’s Australian for beer.” Me: “More like Australian for watered down piss. Aside from Victoria Bitter, I wouldn’t even rinse my arse with the swill Fosters bottles.”)

Throughout my years of being part-time Australian, though, there was only one fake ID experience that left me feeling a bit guilty about it all. Right around the corner from Yale’s dorms was a small liquor store, Quality Liquor, that was notorious for being brutal on fake ID’s – the wall behind the register was lined by at least a hundred confiscated fakes. So, in part because they really did have New Haven’s best liquor selection, and in part because I wanted to see how well my accent and ID stood up to the test, I headed in the first week of Freshman year.

Not only did I pass with flying colors, I quickly became a favorite of the owners, who referred to me as “Crocodile Dundee”, and gave me free liquor and significant discounts. Over the years, I got quite friendly with them, regaling them with tales from the Outback. But, then, the summer after my Junior year, I turned 21. And I was faced with a dilemma: do I keep pretending to be Australian so as not to offend them after years of friendship under false pretenses? Or do I come clean? (In my native California accent: “Sorry about that Australian thing, dudes, but an alcoholic’s got to drink.”)

Not really life-and-death, I know, but honestly something I worried about for a considerable amount of time. So, when I returned after the summer to New Haven, my sadness was tinged with considerable relief when I discovered the store had closed. I was spared the chance of revelation altogether, and, at least for two fat middle-aged Italian guys, will forever be as Australian as they get.