I picture myself back in college. Strapping, able-bodied, completely bereft of anything that could be valued monetarily. The financial bindings that held me down then have only made me stronger further along the road. For that, I’m thankful. And while I’m marginally more financially aware (I know the exact dimesions/weight of a Jackson thanks to “The Town”) and make considerably more money than I did when I was 22, I’m still walking out of my local Circle-K with that old familiar friend:
Why? Honestly, I don’t have a good excuse. Craft beer is not beyond me. In fact, I’m about as big fan of craft beer as Dennis Rodman is of being an ex-pat. Victory, Stone, Abita, Troeggs, Terrapin, Weyerbaucher. All fine establishments churning out exceptional products.
But there’s a calling deep inside me. A siren song that knows no limit. Yes, I would love to only drink of hops from Lithuaniahindenvath and sun-dried awesomeberries from Califor-ni-way, but this isn’t about what tastes good and what is validating. It’s about what will get you, not only through a Friday night pre-game, but through the events following your late night escapade.
There is, however, honor behind all of this. A sense of indefatigable pride that I have for my country and, probably, one that was conditioned in me from too many hot summer days at the Nascar track in Richmond. I have too much pride to put down the torch and too much nostalgia to walk by that blue and silver branding to not pick it up.
Whatever the case, I have it in my fridge and dear, sweet, baby Jesus is it a proud sight when I arrive home.
There’s a fundamental difference between the Allagash that’s currently buoyed next to my Buds. It’s tantamount to Alabama giving Auburn the collective finger on Iron Bowl weekend. It’s also a beautiful harmony of the mundane and the ornate. Variety is the spice of life, after all.
Bud Light isn’t delicious. Truly, it isn’t. It is, however, dependable, cost efficient and ubiquitous. Honestly, Yuengling is a tastier option.
I can’t shake it and I can’t think of a substitute. Could I buy a less austere product than Bud Light? Yes, yes I could. It’s called Schlitz and it’s extinct. Wild Irish Rose is still out there too, but I don’t hate myself nearly that much. What I do know is that Bud Light has always carried me through and has never let me down.
40-year-old me might not look back on this fondly, or, maybe he will. Either way, I’m not 40 and Doc Brown isn’t here to offer me the opportunity to interview him, so here we sit. What I do know is that I’ll be purchasing more Bud Light soon and long thereafter. There’s something to it. An equal element of comfort and justification.
I’m not going to be long-winded as there isn’t much more to say. My position is indefensible. What I can do is tell you that long into the night on some distant Saturday (see: this Saturday) I’ll be drinking a beer. Unless Golden Carolus happens to fall out of the sky into my out-stretched arms, I’ll be happily sipping a Bud Light.
There will be no shame, only a whisper of the January wind in my ear saying:
“You are free. You are an American. You will not buy anything in case-form until your net worth exceeds your student debt.”
Long live the deputy king of suds.