Ok reader, close your eyes and think about the last time you found yourself singing out loud, with all your heart and soul, to Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer.” No no, not at a wedding, but in a bar. Remember? You were pretty drunk, all your friends were there. There were a lot of very cheap pitchers of beer involved. In fact, if you were aware enough to notice, you may recall that there was beer on everything. The floor, the dirty wooden stools, your shoes. After all, when one belts out Bon Jovi, the contents of the beer glass in hand do tend go flying in many directions.
Can you picture it? I’m willing to make you a bet – you were 25 years old.
This past weekend, I found myself in that bar. The same slightly pungent smell, the same sticky feel to everything you touched. The same, drunk, 25 year-olds, having the same conversations we used to. Generally, this was about how awesome everyone was. And how awesome life is. How awesome it would be to get wings afterwards. Then there was the same music, which was the most interesting part to me – U2, Aerosmith, Greenday. Some things never change, I guess.
I happened to be there with a young friend who fit right in to this crowd. I did once, I think, but definitely not now. But I tried to hide the fact that I was feeling pretty old, shove aside that little voice in my head that kept saying been here-done that, and happily guzzled down the watery, almost tasteless beer. I can’t deny there was a little bit of nostalgia involved, and it was nice.
After a while of not so witty but pleasant banter with some of my friend’s friends, someone suggested we get in on the game of beer pong. I had been oblivious that whole time that the mass of people in the back of the bar were standing around a series of thin rectangular tables seemingly fashioned specifically for that game.
Now you may find this hard to believe, but I had never seen a real game of beer pong. (I know, I know. And no, I don’t know what I was doing in college exactly, but clearly not playing beer pong.) I was fascinated! I was disgusted! I mean, you throw a little white ping-pong ball all over the ground and sometimes by sheer luck (is there any actual skill in this? I’m not convinced yet) it lands in one of your opposing team’s beer cup.
Then, and this is the part where the herpes is spread, the opposing team has to drink that cup! The cycle is something like mouth to cup to ball to floor to cup to mouth. You might as well have sex with the other team!
Ok, I know it was the old fogie in me that was so grossed out by the whole thing, but I had to ask my young friend about it.
“Sooo, this game is fun, eh?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
“It’s pretty much a guaranteed way to get drunk, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“And…so what about the germs?” I don’t even want to know what my expression must have been like, but I’m pretty sure I whispered the word germs in order to ensure that he knew they were bad. Just in case…well…he didn’t mind them. And yes, by germs I meant herpes.
“Germs? Oh no, that’s what the water cups are for,” he answered.
“Water cups?” And then I saw them. Next to the triangle-shaped row of beer cups set up in front of each team was a plastic cup filled with water. Right before a player was about to throw the ping-pong ball towards the opposite side of the table in order to sink it into a cup of beer, he would first dip it quickly in the water cup. I guess that was to clean off the, uh, germs.
“So, what happens if your opponent doesn’t dip the ball in the water?” I asked.
“Oh, no, that wouldn’t happen. Everyone knows about the water. It’s not polite otherwise.”
So, it turns out that beer pong has rules of etiquette. I don’t know what I was worried about. After all, you can’t really get herpes from beer pong.
Just then the game we were watching ended and our turn was up.
“So, you want to play?” he asked me, with a sheepish and irresistible smile.
“Yeah.”
Half way...where? 