The Guest List I thought was a magical thing, a key that would unlock the door to adventures when I was eighteen and worshipped at the alters of guitars and drums.
The music store where I worked allowed me access to the guest list. All the guitar and drum brethren were there and some who worshipped the keyboard and the bass. Better, some of the chosen played and happily would place me on the list.
I, full of excitement each and every time, put out on the wire to all friends: we are going to a club. The gang dressed to the nines, a dead giveaway, and headed for the club where the barrier awaited us.
The bouncer, the one man who never understood that we held the key: we were on the list. The doors should spring open and let us through, shouldn't they?
They never did. Not even when I was a forty year old woman three inches shorter with blue eyes or so my ID told these paragons of bouncerdom.
I would turn away, denied what I thought was mine, heading with friends to some all- ages place.