Nicely done, Superbad. Even though your best joke happened in the first five minutes, you had plenty of well-deserved laffs (and one very overwrought and confusing menstrual blood joke that I think you could have done without, like, seriously, it took five minutes just to set it up, you guys, professional criticism free of charge, I have a lot of other opinions about a whole bunch of stuff if you’re interested. Hey Technorati: Judd Apatow, Michael Cera, Jonah Hill, Knocked Up, iPhone, Cable Guy. That should do it. Welcome to my diary, Judd Apatow.)

I remembered after watching this movie that I had once purchased a fake ID, which is a weird thing to remember because it means that you forgot, and it is a weird thing to forget. So what. Me, China Jet, and The Shark went to Detroit to this hole in the wall business where crackheads and illegal immigrants could get “Certified Identification,” if by “Certified” you mean “laminated” and by “Identification” you mean “your name misspelled in crayon on a piece of construction paper.” I think the place was called Tony’s ID’s. Seriously. The best part about us getting fake ID’s is that we were sixteen and all we wanted was identification that said we were 18 so that we could get into 18-and-over shows at St. Andrew’s. (Man, wasn’t Pulp so good, though?) For the record, China Jet is an actual homosexual, so this behavior is to be expected of him, but the rest of us have no excuse.

That same summer, Sloan’s “One Chord to Another” was released in Canada, so we figured we would take a little day trip up to Windsor and buy it months before it was going to be released in the US, because that is the kind of thing people would do back when you still had to pay for music and before YouTube’s “Funniest Trampoline Accidents” made leaving the house unthinkable. It is me, China Jet, and R&B, and we get to the Canadian border and they make us pull over and get out of the car. Four policemen begin searching the car while they take us inside and into an interrogation room. It was China Jet’s car, so they take him into another room and make him strip to his boxer shorts. R&B and I are in the first room, where they are going through all of our stuff. They make us take off our shoes and tap on our shoes looking for false bottoms. I was chewing gum and one of the cops turned around and said ‘HOW’S THAT GUM TASTE, PRETTY GOOD? WHY DON’T YOU SHUT UP.’ They were going through our wallets and one of the guards held up my fake ID. “Look what we have here,” he said. “Fake ID.” They confiscated it. The fake ID that said I was 18 years old. Never did get to go to that Superchunk show.

The border guards claimed to have found marijuana ash in the back of the car. I’m not sure this even needs saying, but teenagers who drive up to Windsor to buy a new Sloan CD the weekend it comes out don’t do a ton of weed smoking. I mean, I smoked tons of marijuana cigarettes every second I wasn’t binging on all the snacks I craved from being so high, but we were like “Um, no, you didn’t.” Eventually they let us go, everyone was very upset but we somehow still managed to find a record store, buy the album, and hurry back to the United States, where there is no police.

It’s just kind of weird when you see a movie about nerds in high school who were still cooler than you were in high school. It is also weird how if this had happened a few years later I would be writing this from Guantanamo Bay (everything else about the diary would be the same, though.)