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Look at all that sunny beer! The sunny waitresses! beaming! carrying all those sunny brews. Munich and beer and radiant German blonds with shinning Germanic magnificent brilliant bosoms are all over the web the last couple of days, and will continue, October fast approaching.
thanx Oktoberfest, Munich
I’ll gather links to mentions of beer around K. I used to drink a lot of it, since age fifteen. I used to make a lot of it, in my late twenties: though I’ve been free of nearly all such things for decades now, since 1978 or was it 1979. You don’t look the same chugging beer at thirty as you did at twenty. Partly that’s just life; partly that’s lacking sense to be healthy.
In the early 1950s an early Mad comic had a full page lampoon on beer: the cartoon was crowded with imbibers of all ages, a huge Rockwell family, everybody was borderline unconscious even the baby was chugging a full mug. Imagine the ads that heroin dealers would display if heroin were legal. But all we need to conider are the tobacco ads: every ones they don’t use models with emphysema. The smart models stopped smoking a long time ago.
Fifteen, I remember my first beer. As children my sister and I had been allowed to sip some of the foam from our parents’ beer, but I was fifteen when I saw the single beer can in the fridge, thought I’d give it a try, opened it, drank: drank half: and was so full I could barely breathe. By the next year we were drinking whole six packs at out beer parties (males only). Before long we were drinking a half a case each, sometimes we’d have a quart of whiskey on hand. We didn’t bumb into many limits, at least no beer limits until we tried ordering a whole keg. Fifteen, stretching the belly.
We really should have known better: all we needed to do was to take a look at the football star a year ahead of us. Leach was ferocious on the field, knocked people over, scored, trampled flesh enroute to the goal line. By his senior year he still knocked people over, still scored, but he had a formidable beer belly: shook like jelly on a plate.
Idiot us, we’d drive over to Hempstead, invade a Hofstra College bar. There every guy held a pitcher of beer, a couple of quarts in hand, quaffing as though it were a 7 ounce glass.
Fat, fat, fat: and stupid.
Out in Hollywood I was invited to Ed Lauter’s for New Years. It turned out we were both from Long Island, I grew up near the beach, he grew up almost on the beach. It seems he was like one class ahead of me: so I mentioned this and that South Side jock, mentioned Leach. Oh, sure, Eddie remembered well his cleats in Leach’s face, Leach’s cleats in his.
Eddie was a jock in a town full of jocks: but doesn’t Lauter also look the jock?