The very first week I was in Madison, I felt out of place. The issue, not surprisingly, was drinking. I went to a few house parties, watching my fellow freshman swig Beast from clear plastic cups. Inevitably, a person with a house cup (such as a vase) would walk over, pockets bulging with crumpled dollar bills.
\You need a cup?"" they'd shout.
""Do you have any whiskey?"" I'd ask.
I quickly learned Madison is a beer drinkers' town. I was on the out. At parties, my taste for straight booze was catered to about as often my taste for Merle Haggard, and only slightly less often than my taste for pain.
Four years later, I enjoy a tall, frosty brew. It's not simply the college drinking atmosphere that's changed my mind. Parents of my Wisconsinite friends bring cases of beer when they visit. Summer on the Terrace is slow and sweet, with a beer garden ambiance. In short, I've come to think of beer as intrinsic to Wisconsin culture, like iced tea to the South, or pills and vodka to Heaven's Gate.
Saturday was a perfect example. My friends and I trekked a good five blocks to a party, and it seemed a nice enough affair. All present took off their shoes in the entranceway to keep the apartment floor dry. The music wasn't too loud or too bad. No one was overly perfumed.
We skirted conversations and then jokingly presented, but accurately performed MTV dance moves, intent on the keg. There was a mass of people in the kitchen. A donation bucket sat on the counter.
But there was no keg. There was only a large open cooler filled with cheap liquor, juice and sliced fruit. I tried some. My stomach burned, possibly with rage.
I felt again what I'd felt that first week. I would have liked a drink. It was cold out. I was thirsty. We got Saddam. Everything was in line for me to kick back, sip thoughtfully and listen to my friends' biting commentary on the other partygoers. Why, O Lady Justice, why should I be relegated to the fringes, unable to imbibe while others chug with abandon?
My friends felt similarly. Well, I don't know that they felt oppressed, but they didn't want any juicy booze fruit either. We left. Late night winter walks are frequently contemplative, even with a group. People's scarves and hats and hoods inhibit talking and hearing.
How had my feelings shifted so? At what moment did packing my gut with beer become the norm? Where was God's hand in all of this? Was that supposed to be God in the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel? How does that fit with no idolatry? Should I try growing a beard for a while?
I grappled manfully with these questions. My friends were smart enough to point our path to the Silver Dollar, the gem of the State Street taverns. Another friend was there, waiting with a full pitcher when we arrived. The mood was celebratory, the beer was New Glarus, and I pushed all questions aside and bellied up to the table. Someone reached over to fill my glass, and raising it to my lips felt as natural as cheering for the Badgers, walking up Bascom or drinking nothing at all.
Louie is a senior majoring in journalism. He doesn't know all the answers but welcomes your questions. He can be reached at chunkkick@yahoo.com.
