Op-Ed
The Dry Season
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Awkward Turtle
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“The first couple years of college are just an extension of freshmen orientation week. You’re bombarded and thrilled with the plethora and availability of beer; Natty Ice is staring you down at frat parties with open legs and a come hither look, completely free with no strings attached. Busch is one fake ID and some sweet-talking away from packing your fridge. And after you got about six in you, even Pabst starts tasting good. Sure, the last time you really enjoyed being drunk — and didn't wake up with a hangover and a three-hour date with the confessional booth — was with Dogfish. But it's 10 bucks for a six. Natty will do; you’ll deal with the consequences in the morning.
“But gradually, you begin to choose house parties over frat parties, good friends over randoms, and KY over Vaseline. After your first sip of Sam Adam’s Summer Ale, you realize what you’ve been missing this whole time, and vow to never look back.”
I got this e mail from a recent Virginia Tech grad after publishing a column last fall about how drunken hookups have ruined our ability to recognize a good thing when we see it: simply put, after one semester of Cornell living, we’ve been programmed to understand that all drunken beginnings are eight hours away from a hungover ending, no exceptions.
Only after I sent him a couple pamphlets outlining the dangers of alcoholism along with my usual fan mail response of asking him to please, please be my first kiss did I realize this e-mail wasn’t a random cry for help nor a potential de- to my flower. It was a message of hope, quite similar to my Aunt Peggy’s Valentine’s Day card (“Sorry to hear you got dumped. We all hope you find somebody! Happy Valentine’s Day!”) It was a parable, promising that someday our generation will realize that the quality clementines don’t come in bulk.
And then I came to one of those call-mom-because-she’s-the-only-one-who-listens-to-your-pointless-realizations realizations: could it be that we are not so different from the malt flavored elixir that we throw down harder than a gauntlet at Medieval Times?
Cornell has a plethora of Natty Ices — surprisingly decent for how easy they are to attain. We’re overflowing with Busch, who catch your eye across the bar after a five-minute conversation, point to their nether-regions and mouth “yours.” And we’re completely packed with PBR ducklings made into swans by BAC and desperation, wandering the halls of after-after hours “waiting for [their] cab to show up.”
Oh, I’m glad you asked. My name is Shannan Scarselletta, and I am an addict: I am almost always under the influence of many-a-Miller Highlife. Claiming to be the champagne of beers, this shiny Cornell stud seems to have attained the Nirvana of Complete Package-hood: aesthetically pleasing, surprisingly attainable and smooth as Usher in a velour jumpsuit. Unfortunately, the next morning — even before aspirin and OJ clear the fog of the worst hangover since that night with André — Miller’s notably awkward texts supplemented by a quick Juicy Campus background check reveal that he’s filled with the same crap as the Beast I left behind in high school. Underneath the glitzy packaging, Miller’s still kind of cheap.
It’s a crime of convenience. On Saturday nights, we know that Grandma waits for us at the top of Buffalo with a rack of liquid misery and an unrivaled willingness to mistake our brown eyes for blue. We know that she won’t judge us for topping 5’9” by a good four inches or 140 lbs by about an Olsen twin.
In all honesty, I’m not ethnically diverse enough to even understand the Dos Equis advertisements, let alone handle that kind of exoticism in a relationship. The hold-your-nose-and-chug method of downing Pabst has ruined my ability to take my time, thus negating any possibility of not frightening away the next laid-back Corona I meet. I lack the courage to even try to take on a thick-headed Guinness, and lack the pearls and seersucker to date a classy Sam Adams. I’m hopelessly heterosexual so Blue Moon is out of the question. I’d totally date a delicious, trustworthy Yuengling, but they’re entirely too hard to find. And I’m pretty sure the only place in Ithaca to find the unique Brooklyn Black Chocolate Stout is at the Ale House, but my mom says I’m not allowed to date townies.
Shannan Scarselletta is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be contacted at sscarselletta@cornellsun.com. Awkward Turtle appears alternate Thursdays.