Turning 21 is one of those times in your life when you enter crunkdome and unknowingly take it to the next level where happy hours finally become much more than appetizers and where microbrews force a rapid betrayal of Natty Ice.
But the road is tough and the road is hard, and many of us have fallen out of the game. Many only make it out on the certain nights when a beer costs less than a gallon of inflated gasoline. Thus, cheap beer deals get many students excited to wake up in the morning.
What is more glorious than Pint Night at Frog and Peach on Tuesdays or getting plastered at Woodstock’s on Wednesdays? Sadly, we all experience a time when sneaking out of Woodstock’s on pint night with a stack full of pint glasses looses its flare and we tire of the dreaded cash-only policy at Frog and Peach. Many of us seasoned veterans find ourselves looking for new places to play ball.
Well, in the land of opportunity there is no better deal than the $2 quarts of beer that come in a fruit jam glass at Jd Boones.
My friends and I embarked on a journey to Jd Boones on Tuesday night that will go down as one of the most memorable experiences of my academic career. We ordered our beloved behemoth-sized burgers and a round of Jd Boones quarts of oat soda. We met some friends there and joined forces to make a table of six.
The Yankees were playing the Angels and we were immersed in total jargon when we noticed the table next to us was a group of six muscle-bound savages. They were having a grand old time, all six of the large guys – and one gal.
I noticed that they had polished off more than a few pitchers and I thought quietly to myself, “We better not mess around with Hans, Frans and their friends, or I’ll have to go back to the Health Center and then get turned away from another vicodin prescription to leave the healing process up to the heavens.”
We were drinking quietly amongst ourselves, and for some reason these guys were continuously eyeing us. At one point, one of the largest of the group got up and walked to the bathroom staring at my friend the entire way. Nobody could believe what had just happened. We all thought these guys were trying to start a fight, but we went on watching the game.
Fifteen minutes later, unannounced, all five guys got up from their table and stood over our group. I was ready to stick a quick forearm shiver and run when, all of the sudden, they all pull out police badges and ask us for our ID’s.
At first, I was relieved that I wasn’t going to have to run down Foothill Boulevard with my tail between my legs. However, when I realized that these guys were police paid by “the man” to drink beer and arrest poor college students I was shocked. I had heard of undercover police getting people coming out of the liquor stores, or in the bars, but were they really allowed to drink pitchers of booze to keep their cover? We showed our ID’s – everyone was over 21 – even the two lushes drinking Henry Weinard’s Root Beer.
After exchanging strong words with the police, we all looked at each other, raised our glasses and sang songs of freedom and glory.
We were 21 and there was nothing that “the man” could do to ruin our night.