Word: beer
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...Midwest, the international home of tailgating, I have attended more than my fair share of these Saturday afternoon rituals. And yet, Harvard--as Harvard is apt to do--puts its own lavish spin on such events. Though most of the parties had familiar offering of hot dogs and beer, not a few were serving up a more decadent fare. There was champagne, pate and cheeses far more exotic than anything you'd put on a hamburger. Certainly, the festivities were just a bit removed from the likes that fans at Ohio State or MSU might recognize, but then again, this...
...lesson is inescapable, and the effects are evident. Witness the shift in drinking habits. From guzzling beer at Pennypacker, students soon aspire to the rarefied air of Grafton and its sorely overpriced drinks. The same can be said for subtle changes in attire. Whereas sophomore year, the hordes of final club punchees tend to ill-fitting blue sport jackets that Mom bought them, by the time they are ready for interviews, these boys have become men and found their salvation at Brooks Brothers and Burberry. Indeed, from the ice cream bash Freshman Week to the champagne brunch that sums...
...awake all night and the next day. Barbara and I had totally forgotten about it. Calvin, the police officer, came to our house and said, 'George, I got to take you in.' I don't know what really happened that night. George was with John Newcombe, a black-belt beer drinker. He was arrested for driving too slow. He accepted his responsibility...
...remember a photograph from one of Clinton's first visits to the Oval Office after his first election. He was wearing a short-sleeved sport shirt and was sprawling at his desk. He was drinking a large mug of root beer, and he had his large white thumb projecting through the handle around the tankard. The waves of vulgarity this picture gave off made me have the strong instinct that he was going to vulgarize the office of the presidency...
...certainly driving towards a sort of zenith of intoxication (and towards a Motel 6), with tatooed-up indie rock fans and prepped-out 20-something ladies and gents nodding their heads and quaffing brewskies in syncopation with Southern Culture's twangy guitar riffs and rapid-fire drum beats. Beer (and, one would hope, the more appropriate whiskey sours) were washing down heaping handfuls of "Banana Puddin'," a Southern Culture favorite, which some female fans obligingly flung off the stage during the performance of the band's serenade to the delectable dessert (the group is also known for slinging fried chicken...