It's the simple things in life

This weekend, among bar mingling and games of manimal (the best game in the world, I may have to blog about that one day), I discovered how limited my alcohol pallet is. Though I have been 21 for six months now, I haven’t really matured from the freshman tendency to choose a drink based on price, rather than taste.

For example, I don’t really drink beer, but when I do, it’s usually a Bud or Miller Light. It’s almost always on special, and since it sometimes comes in bottle form, I considered it to be light-years ahead of Natty Light — the underaged drink of choice. I also tend to lean towards Long Island Iced Teas, which are always on special at Café 210, or standard cranberry and vodkas, which are pretty cheap at any location. My tastes are simple.

Friday, as I sat around a table at Bill Pickles Tap Room, I was reminded again how sophomoric my beer tastes are. I’d bought a Coors from the beer bucket at the door, mainly because it was only two dollars and meant I didn’t have to fight my way to the bar. My friend, a self-declared beer snob, had a pitcher of Killian’s (on special for five dollars) — he considered it slumming. He was appalled when I said that, though I’d never had Killian’s, there was no difference between the two beers. It was beer after all. This incited a 20-minute rant about beer's many different colors, tastes, packaging and production methods. Last summer he spent a month in Europe, most of it in Germany. He drank every day of the trip. He now considers himself an authority — well really, the only authority - on the many facets of the beer industry.

Saturday, because I was once again trying to save money, I opted for an apartment party. I was served a concoction most would just call jungle juice. The illustrious party throwers, however, called it Smurf Piss, and all I know is it had some mixture of Diet Mountain Dew, Country Time Lemonade and Vladi (the cheapest vodka in State College). The neon green liquid was stored in two large, Styrofoam coolers and dozens of hands dipped their large red cups in and out all night. Though I saved money by not paying a cover charge or giving tips, the beer snobs of the world would have said I paid the bigger price of forgoing taste.

In my opinion, I never felt more at home.