Three of my closest friends turn 21 this week. It'll surely be a joyous few days for everyone involved, aside perhaps from the two birthday boys and the birthday girl.
I've seen a few 21st birthdays go wrong in my day. I've seen them end in tears, fights, detox and once, a painfully quick trip down the stairs.
My own celebration was brought to a merciful end after the nefarious Wando's Fishbowl almost entirely robbed me of my ability to stand unassisted or speak modern English.
I'll keep an eye on my friends' safety on their respective special days. But creating a bizarre spectacle seems the only apt conclusion to what are, for more than a few here at UW, years of illicit alcohol consumption.
I'm sure I'm not the only one who looks back on those days a little fondly, from here within Madison's drinking culture.
I add the drinking culture stipulation for context. Drinking illegally with your friends is the fattest thread in the social fabric of pre-21 Madison. UW officials have constantly pointed out this large faction of kids who don't drink. For some reason, I haven't encountered any of them.
Arriving on the scene at dorms across campus, we learned to dart room to room, holding intoxicating concoctions purchased by that kid with the older brother physically similar enough to provide a fake ID.
We kept an eye peeled for parties, with keen intellects focused on barrel quantity as a factor of likely turnout.
Sometimes we miscalculated, and three urine-temperature, urine-tasting cups of Natural Light weren't worth the two-mile walk. Especially when we ended up crushed against a basement wall while some fat, sweaty guy bellowed \house cup"" over the sounds of Eminem's latest effort or the dirge-ish jamming of a Phish/Dave Matthews/O.A.R./Ben Harper cover band.
But when it did work out, it was fun. Every once in a while we would find that right party, the one that suffered from lackadaisical advertisement, leaving at our disposal all the beer we could drink and still stand, comfortably thwarting John Law, who probably wouldn't have penalized us anyway.
As time progressed, we moved on toward searching for bars and bouncers with broad all-age-inclusive visions of the ideal tavern crowd. We glanced nervously at cops who, in a bar setting, were quite willing to write citations, and tried to look tall and confident as they walked by.
Now, the 21st birthdays are winding down. My minor friends dwindle. In a year, I don't think I'll have any at all.
I remember a time when people told me to cherish being under 21, because when I turned legal I would grow disillusioned with drinking culture.
That hasn't happened to me, not significantly anyway. I recognize that drinking in new and better ways is not the ultimate goal in life. I know that eventually something or someone else will take up the time that drinking with my friends now occupies. My growing motherly side finds me concerned with drinking safety I would have mostly ignored not long ago.
These last few 21st birthdays might be the last gasps of the social life we know. I guess that makes it more important to celebrate them correctly. Let's kick out the jams while it still feels like the right thing to do.
