My name is Gustav Flowbeer—aka that crying kid from preschool—and I’m here to bitch about all the horrible alcohol that has flooded the hollowed pipes of Pembroke Campus and Wriston Quad in one form or another since way, way before we were born. There’s not much more to me than the following—my own take on a classic west coast rhyme: “All I give a fuck about is Natty and sex, plastic fifth of Karkov and some BDH checks.”
The first beer I ever had at Brown University was not a cold beer—in fact, it was a piss warm beer. I was parched following an arduous trip from the train station up the Hill and anything would have sufficed. A high school friend, then a freshman, met me outside of Keeney and serendipitously pulled a silver can out of his pocket. Not knowing that Spring Weekend was an open container pass, I cracked it and drank its contents down in two massive gulps. The liquid tasted like horse piss and fermented corn. Prefrosh, Natty. Natty, prefrosh. That Friday I drank ten more—or twenty. Hell of a way to start a friendship.
Friendship probably isn’t the right word. See, I’ve been drinking Naturals all these years not out of any gustatory pleasure I get from the beer (there’s Pabst or Rolling Rock for that), but solely out of habit. Just as some people still eat Trix despite the shape change and some masturbate only an even number of times a week, I drink Naturals in a sort of daily ritual. And as with any ritual, I both hate and love this behavior.