Part 3: Adventures in beer: The High School Years.

High school is one of the worst times that a person can experience. You are starting to be old enough to be somewhat independent, but you are still young enough to be subject to the limitations of parental supervision, oversight by high school teachers, and other authorities whose sole purpose seems (from the hormone-addled brain of a teenager) to be to destroy any sort of fun that might come with the increasing independence. The glory and folly of the teenage years stems from the yearning for freedom, without any sense of personal or social responsibility. I imagine that it must be how it is to be a Republican, or Libertarian. All the liberty and none of the social responsibility!

Anyway, one of the consequences/opportunities of these years is that many teenagers are very creative in finding alcohol and other substances for personal enjoyment. The number of things that were available is actually kind of frightening in retrospect. But, I had certain parameters for what I considered possible.

I’d read enough about the various illegal drugs and their physiological effects to know that several of them were not for me. I was deeply suspicious of anything created in a lab, so no LSD (even if the idea of hallucination was attractive). Also, nothing that would cause permanent damage, particularly to my heart muscle (so, no cocaine). And nothing that was distilled and addictive (no opiates or narcotics). So, of the illegal drugs, this only left plant-based hallucinogens. Yet, I didn’t want to try any of them until I’d graduated from high school (I’d read an article on the effect on brain development, and I am very fond of my brain, such as it is). So, no marijuana or mushrooms until at least college. The one substance I was willing to partake in was alcohol, especially if it came in beer form. It had, after all, stood the test of time.

The first opportunity I had for extralegal drinking came at the beginning of my sophomore year. There was a party down the block from my house and there were a number of people I knew who were going, and several juniors and seniors that I knew by sight, but didn’t know. On the up side, there was beer. On the down side, it was Schafer. What to do. I did have one, but, well, it was Schafer. In a can. So much badness. One was enough, and by being willing to drink, I proved myself cool enough to be allowed to hang out. But, I didn’t need or want any more. Shudder . . .

And then, I was introduced to an interesting tool: the beer bong. For the uninitiated, this is a device that is used for drinking very bad beer very quickly. It is a funnel attached to a piece of flexible tubing. It works in the following way: Step 1) crimp off tubing near the connection to the funnel; Step 2) open and pour a beer (or two) into the funnel; Step 3) place open end of tubing in victim’s mouth, while standing on a chair so as to elevate the beer and funnel above said victim; Step 4) release crimp to allow beer to flow freely down the wide mouthed funnel through the tube, and straight down the victim’s throat. For the slow-throated, this ended in gagging and beer all over the place, and much merriment on the part of the crowd. For the quick throated, it meant imbibing 12-24 oz. of beer in about 4.5 seconds. Luckily, I am of the fast-throated variety. Others were not so fortunate. Much merriment ensued for all concerned (except, of course, for the slow-throated victim).

Going from having limited beer in one’s stomach, to several beers occupying the stomach in virtually no time certainly is an experience that one has to go through to fully appreciate. This was the first time I got truly inebriated and it was the first experience I ever had with the spins. While I encountered the spins later in life, it never was as pronounced.

Somehow I got home and to bed without any obvious suspicion on the part of my parents, but when I got into bed, the room became detached from the floor and began to spin at an ever increasing rate. Yet, no one else in the house seemed to notice the sudden rotation of the entire house while our beds remained stationary. I know that on some level, the Schafer company was to blame.


Beer Bong Schematic

Part 2: Teenage Beer Snob

Part 2: Teenage Beer Snob:

So, thus exposed at age 10 to what the world of beer could be, I grew more disdainful of American beers. If the Germans could produce a tasty amber lager, there was no excuse for American brewers not to do the same. But, no. They seemed willfully committed to producing thin, watery, almost flavorless swill. Why do that to beer!?!  It made no sense to me.

Fortunately, enough European commentators made similar conclusions about American beer, to reinforce my perception. My favorite was a sketch by Monty Python in which an Australian jokes: “Why is American beer like making love in a canoe?” Answer: “Because it’s f@#$ing close to water!” Prejudice, confirmed.

Still, since I was too young to drink regularly, I suppose it was a moot point. And yet, my youthful sensibility was still offended. Not willing to suffer silently, I began to lash out at poor unsuspecting victims. Since my dad made an effort to at least make the best of a bad situation by purchasing the more tolerable offerings the northwest could produce, I couldn’t really go after him.

Instead, my favorite target became my Uncle Kirk. Uncle Kirk is a good-natured, pun-enthusiast and academic, and he had a robust enough ego to accept my beer rants with good humor. While I would issue the occasional barb over the presence of Miller or Coors in his refrigerator, my most scathing critiques were always targeted at the more typical presence of Budweiser.

From the age of about 13 onward, whenever we visited him I would make a point of looking in the ‘fridge to see what was on there. I think that at times when he knew we were coming, he would intentionally purchase a 6-pack of Bud, just to rile me up. Occasionally, he’d even offer one, knowing that I would refuse with a hearty scoff.

This kept up through my teen years. At some point in my later teen years, I think that my condescension began to get to him.  In an effort to shut me up, he proposed that when I turned 21, we would have a beer tasting contest to settle the matter once and for all. The prize: bragging rights for life. Even if it meant  a concerted effort to engage in extensive extralegal drinking, I vowed to be prepared.

Part 1: A boy who liked beer.

I like beer. A lot. I know that isn’t profound and I sort of assume that everyone likes beer on some level. I have always liked beer, ever since before I was legally able to have it. My parents were great at demystifying alcohol and would allow me and my siblings to have sips of various drinks (mostly beer or wine) to see what they were like.

As I was growing up, the only beers that were available were pretty bland and uninspired. Outside of the national brands like Budweiser, Miller, Pabst, or Schlitz, there were regional variations like Coors, Lucky Lager, Olympia, Rainier, and Henry Weinhard’s. Since we were in Oregon, my dad generally had Lucky, or Olympia, or Rainier. Later it was mostly Weinhard’s.

The first beer I was allowed to have to myself was a Lucky Lager. The great thing about Lucky Lager was that its bottle caps were unique. On the inside of each was a pictograph, so you could decode it while sipping on your beer. After a day of helping my dad move rocks in our garden, I asked if I could have one. After a moment of thought, he said, “sure, why not.” I was only 9, and I finished maybe a quarter of it before deciding I was done. But, having my own beer made me feel pretty manly -- like I had contributed to the work of the day and that I was respected. Oddly enough, while I continued to like beer and would regularly ask for a sip if my dad had one open, I didn’t ask for my own again until sometime in my late teenage years.

It was the summer that I turned 10 that a new world of beer opened up to me. My dad was in the process of leaving his job in Portland to work in Central California, and we took the interlude to go to Europe. My parents bought an olive green Volkswagen Camper Van and we toured around Europe free camping for about 4 months. One of the stops was Munich, where we went to the beer garden at the Hofbrauhaus. The beer was served in liter glass mugs and they were everywhere. And, since we were in Europe, I was allowed to have a few sips of the dark amber lager my dad ordered (I’m assuming a Marzen). As much as I liked the beer my dad usually had, this German beer was a revelation.

So, from the age of 10 onward, I was a committed beer snob.

Lucky Lager Beer