Near Beer

Spring Break was a good time to gather some wool, metaphorically speaking, and that meant I found myself staring off into the middle distance for brief periods, causing my wife to ask "What are you thinking about?" At times they were deep thoughts about foreign and domestic policy. Other times it was an idea for a movie that I would love to write, if I could only get past the first three pages. Mostly it was "what are we going to have for dinner?"
Then there were those moments of quiet reverie when there was no one around to rouse me from my stupor. That was the time that I was recalling my love affair with 3.2 beer. You may not be familiar with this particular concoction. Growing up in Colorado, it was the "gateway drug" for youths such as myself. Because of the low alcohol content, it was legal for those eighteen years or older to purchase brew. This also meant those under eighteen had a shot at a fake ID that would allow them to buy this swill, and even more who would simply stand up straighter at the Seven-Eleven and hope that the guy working behind the counter was only a year or two older and cared little about enforcing the law during his shift while reading car magazines and snacking on Slim Jims.
3.2 beer was how I learned to drink. Because of the limits on the alcohol content, it took a good deal more Miller, Bud, or Coors to achieve the appropriate buzz. I can't imagine this math escaped the accountants at these major breweries. It occurred to them to the point of encouraging us all to "drink responsibly," but not enough to consider banning the sale of beer at convenience stores. But you couldn't buy it after midnight. Or on Sundays. It wasn't anarchy, after all. It wasn't even Wyoming, where my older brother and I were surprised and happy to find that you could buy beer on that traditional day of rest. So we did, along with several gross of bottle rockets.
The joy of 3.2 beer was giving the youth yet another ledge from which to jump. At sixteen you get your driver's license, and twenty-one you can get the hard stuff, but eighteen gave us all a shot at inebriation if our kidneys didn't shut down first. It was even a big enough deal that most towns had a "3.2 nightclub," where those ready to sample the nightlife and choke this stuff down by the pitcher. There were two when I was "that age" in my town: Characters and Middle Earth. Characters was on the south end of town, and catered to a more "disco" crowd. Middle Earth had live rock bands and was located across the street from the University. Middle Earth changed its name and format to Pogo's when the New Wave swept in. It was in the basement. It was dark. It was loud. And they served us 3.2 Coors light until we couldn't hold any more. And sometimes after that.
What woke me up from this trip down memory lane? The article on Al Gore's Internet that told me that super-high-alcohol beer is on its way to the United States: thirty-two percent. That's a factor of ten. I wondered if you had to be a hundred and eighty years old to buy it.