Boone's Farm
Jun/14/2007
Memorial Day Memories
By Dan Dunn
In
the spirit of the celebratory long weekend just
passed, The Imbiber feels a round of respect is due
the most memorial days of the Drinking Life.
Recall your very first taste of alcohol? Was it Boone's Farm, cheap beer, or a discordant mix of spirits nicked from your parents’ liquor cabinet, the oddly labeled already-opened bottles that you figured were safest on the old lowering-the-fluid-level scale? The latter scenario is nothing to be embarrassed about, mind you. Hell, you’re certainly not the only one whose first bout of bed spins came courtesy of Drambuie and Peach Schnapps cut 25-75 with milk, then smuggled out of the house in a used racquetball can.
Remember the liberation of legally entering a real drinking establishment? No longer were you at the mercy of semi-menacing bouncers holding your nascent nightlife existence in their pudgy hands every time you passed them that flimsy fake ID that said you were a thirty-eight year-old organ donor from Florida. And how about all that time we wasted memorizing useless background information in the event the veracity of our assumed identity was challenged? What could have possibly led us to believe those cretins who got paid to beat up drunken frat boys knew anything about zodiac signs?
Remember your first Mind Eraser shot? Me neither.
And how about the first time you felt financially secure enough to pull out your credit card and buy a $30 round of drinks for you and your mates? Okay, it was only a debit card back when they looked like VISA cards, and it ultimately took seven years and several hundred dollars in interest to pay it off, but at least your friends never forgot your generosity. Unless you bought ‘em Mind Erasers, in which case that money would have been better spent hiring a bouncer to do your horoscope.
Now would usually be the time I’d wax on a bit about early drunken driving adventures, but even The Imbiber realizes times have changed and we don’t do that anymore. Much. And I thought the New Adults were missing out on something until some twenty-something kid from Salt Lake turned me onto long cab rides home with friends with benefits… but that’s another memory, for another day.
By Dan Dunn
Recall your very first taste of alcohol? Was it Boone's Farm, cheap beer, or a discordant mix of spirits nicked from your parents’ liquor cabinet, the oddly labeled already-opened bottles that you figured were safest on the old lowering-the-fluid-level scale? The latter scenario is nothing to be embarrassed about, mind you. Hell, you’re certainly not the only one whose first bout of bed spins came courtesy of Drambuie and Peach Schnapps cut 25-75 with milk, then smuggled out of the house in a used racquetball can.
Remember the liberation of legally entering a real drinking establishment? No longer were you at the mercy of semi-menacing bouncers holding your nascent nightlife existence in their pudgy hands every time you passed them that flimsy fake ID that said you were a thirty-eight year-old organ donor from Florida. And how about all that time we wasted memorizing useless background information in the event the veracity of our assumed identity was challenged? What could have possibly led us to believe those cretins who got paid to beat up drunken frat boys knew anything about zodiac signs?
Remember your first Mind Eraser shot? Me neither.
And how about the first time you felt financially secure enough to pull out your credit card and buy a $30 round of drinks for you and your mates? Okay, it was only a debit card back when they looked like VISA cards, and it ultimately took seven years and several hundred dollars in interest to pay it off, but at least your friends never forgot your generosity. Unless you bought ‘em Mind Erasers, in which case that money would have been better spent hiring a bouncer to do your horoscope.
Now would usually be the time I’d wax on a bit about early drunken driving adventures, but even The Imbiber realizes times have changed and we don’t do that anymore. Much. And I thought the New Adults were missing out on something until some twenty-something kid from Salt Lake turned me onto long cab rides home with friends with benefits… but that’s another memory, for another day.
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