What’s Become of My Alma Mater?

I have grave concerns about the great state University of Wisconsin.

I speak not of wokeness or diversity, equity and inclusion programs. Lack of tolerance for views that don’t conform with liberal orthodoxy is a concern, but that pales in comparison to what worries me this morning.

Funding shortfalls? That’s also a significant problem. The Republicans in the Legislature have a vendetta for the UW because of the above but they’re not approaching their concerns in a constructive manner. Instead, they’re driving the state’s big economic engine into the ground. I liked Republicans better when they were pro-business. But this again is trivial compared to what I’m about to disclose.

Here’s the problem. Students today apparently do not know a damn thing about beer.

It was a lovely evening on the Union Terrace last night and so I walked over there to join my friends for a few hands of sheepshead. (Of course, I won, but my impressive come from behind exploits are neither here nor there.) One of the rules of sheepshead is that beer must be consumed while playing. So, when it was my turn to sit out I went into the Rathskeller for a couple of pitchers.

Behind the bar were two fresh faced undergrads. I displayed my 42-year old lifetime Union membership card. “That’s an old one!” one of the students helpfully informed me. I wasn’t clear if she meant the card or the card holder. Possibly, she was confused on that point herself.

I chuckled in my grandfatherly way while muttering something unpleasant under my breath. I ordered a pitcher of Hopalicious. “Oh, we’re out,” her colleague told me. “Oh, okay, well, what do you have for IPAs then?”

Blank stares. “Uhhh…”

“Well, you know, anything hoppy.”

They looked like I had just surprised them with a pop quiz and they hadn’t done the reading. While they fumbled around, probably looking for their Cliff Notes on Beer, I scanned the bewildering array of taps behind the bar — in the defense of today’s students, there’s a lot more options to learn than in my day when the choices were between Old Style and something else. (“What did you do last night?” “Oh, I got kruzened.” If you were at the UW in the early 80’s you get the reference. If not, just move on.)

Finally, I came across something that sounded hoppy. I can’t remember the exact name. Let’s call it Fire in the Pit of Hell. The tap had a creature that looked like a combination of a dragon and Donald Trump’s hair. “What’s that Fire in the Pit of Hell like?” One of the students thought fast. To obscure the truth that he had no idea what it was like he offered, “Do you want a taste?!” Of course I did. It was no IPA, but it was smooth and tasty, contrary to its name. “Pour me a pitcher of FPH!” I said.

He placed a pitcher under the spigot. It coughed and wheezed like a guy with a 42-year old lifetime Union membership card. He turned back to me. “Uh, just a minute.” And then he disappeared. His coworker looked at me. “This’ll take about five minutes,” she said.

“Great,” I said, “I’ll be right back.” This, in fact, was great since I needed to discard previously obtained beer. When I returned her face crinkled. “It looks like we’re out of that one too.”

We ran through a few more equally exotic, but hopeful sounding, brews. Each tap sputtered its refusal to discharge anything but foam. Finally, I noticed the red, white and blue tap handle. “Pabst!” I said. “Does the PBR work?”

She looked at me pensively. “God, I hope this one works so I can get this old guy on his way,” I knew she was thinking. She tried the tap. Golden liquid streamed out. A massive smile of relief came over her. And me. Pabst. Good, honest, unpretentious beer. Mid century, middle American, industrial beer from a time when beer choices were simpler.

I have this theory that one reason that so many people are on edge these days (aside from Donald Trump and the seas boiling and the uncertainty about Jordon Love) is that we’ve all got too damn many choices. I mean, have you checked out how many varieties of Oreos there are these days? There used to be Oreos. Now there’s Oreo Thins and Double Stuffed and Mint and I’m just scratching the surface here.

Now, if you walked into a bar in Milwaukee in 1962 and ordered a beer they’d pour you a Pabst and a shot of brandy because that’s part of a beer. And speaking of the Missile Crisis and Khrushchev, I sometimes yearn for the old Soviet Union, where, if you were walking down the street and you saw a line, you got in it, not having any idea what was waiting for you to buy when you got to the front, but knowing, from the length of the line, that it was something you needed, like bread or vodka. And when, after hours or days, you did get to buy something they didn’t ask you about skim or soy or double or single or pumpkin spiced or whatever. You just passed over your rubles and you got the thing and you took it home and presented it to your family. “Look, three potatoes!” And everybody was happy. Nobody said, “Aw, I was hoping you’d get the Yukon Golds.”

So, this story has a happy ending. I got a pitcher of decent beer and also it turned out the Blue Moon was working, so I got a little something more complex as a bonus, though in truth I don’t like Blue Moon. My sheepshead pals expressed approval of my choices, though what they might really have been approving of was my purchase of those choices.

But I felt the need to explain the long delay in my return. “Don’t they teach these kids anything?” I asked rhetorically. “How are they prepared to go out into the world like this?” Nobody had an answer. They just shook their heads and refilled their cups and somebody called an ace and we moved on.

So, Speaker Vos, I know you hate DEI, but please, for the love of God and for everyone’s future, no more UW budget cuts. Because this is what we get.

Have a nice weekend.