by Andrew Post

Created on: May 05, 2008

Not all college parties are thumping, cracking hothouses of sweat, sin, spilled drinks and salacious conduct. Some of them are actually quite philosophical. Even when all members concerned are drunk as lords and busy playing the game of "let's-see-who-can-get-drunk-and-still-manage-to-act -the-most-sober."
That's what happens when you put a bunch of people majoring in philosophy, history, journalism, education and music together with six beers apiece. Pride will go on the line and knowledge (at least, whatever passes for knowledge after six beers) will absolutely be flaunted.

My friends, Mr. B and Mr. C, owned a house just across the road from my dorm. Over on the other side of campus lived a mutual friend of mine and Mr. B's, who we'll call Mr. J. Thanks to the religious affiliation of Mr. B and Mr. C, they also knew some people from the university in the next town over: we'll call them Mr. R, Mr. P and Ms. A. Every so often the seven of us would pile into a couple of cars and make our way down through the frigid Northern-Midwestern winter nights to the bottle shop by the mall and load up on some six-packs. Mr. J would usually grab a bottle of rum or some hard lemonade while the rest of us went with beer. Then, once we all got back to the aforementioned house, we'd all swap bottles until we had one of everything.

And then the drinking would begin.

A subtle exchange of power took place during those nights we spent in the warm living room of that tiny house, Mr. J stretched out in the armchair, Mr. P and Ms. A perched on the handsome leather divan, the rest of us sprawled haphazardly on the sectional. We'd all get drunk and pretend like we weren't. Whoever could finish up the night with the least amount of wantonly stupid statements to his or her credit was the unofficial winner. And with six-plus beers and a good dose of rum swirling through one's veins, it became difficult to avoid saying something stupid. I remember many nights of sitting there on the wedge of the sectional, my peripheral vision nothing but a blur, my head feeling like a hot air balloon about to lift free of my neck, as my six dear friends cackled and guffawed around me at each others' jokes and well-meaning insults (delivered with slurred speech and unfocused eyes)...and then I'd remark how much I loved my wedge. Needless to say, that sort of remark (and the implications the others attached to it, namely having to do with thong underwear) immediately disqualified me from winning our unspoken

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