Author: Patrick Kozey

Watching a live video feed of people filing out of the House Chamber, where Obama just finished delivering his first State of the Union address. It’s causing me to question whether I picked the right week to discuss the topic at hand. The earthquake in Haiti, health care reform, the state of the economy, and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan all seem more apropos, but Obama just covered all that. Plus, today is my final opportunity to address you, dear reader, so I think I’ll take a swing at something more my speed: the drinking age.

Twenty-one is an arbitrary number, let’s get that out of the way first. After a century of constitutional amendments and lobbying campaigns, it’s easy to lose sight of that. In 1919, the 18th Amendment began the period known as Prohibition. You knew that, right? A notable exception to the ban was, “consumption,” but hey, you can’t expect lawmakers to prohibit themselves from engaging in a vice. Besides, the period gave the country a lot of great things, including a rise in organized crime (and the subsequent genre of the gangster movie), the death of a fledgling American wine industry and NASCAR (someone had to drive fast enough to run the rum, what were they supposed to do on the weekends?). In 1933, the 21st Amendment was passed, repealing the 18th, and many a future liquor-store-owner got a great idea for a name.

The drinking age then was 21, but why? Regulating alcohol has always been a state controlled issue, hence the tactic of amending the Constitution–you know, how they freed slaves–being necessary to do it. Each state was now left with a question: what age to set as the legal limit for alcohol purchases? Most chose 21 because it was the, “age of majority,” though Kansas was notably reluctant to sell the stuff at all. The right to drink came to a person along with their right to vote, making it an outward symbol of adulthood, of citizenship. Later, in the midst of the Vietnam War, Congress and the states saw fit to pass another Amendment, the 26th. Ratified in 1971, it shifted the age of majority down to 18, guaranteeing that those “old enough to fight” were “old enough to vote,” as the slogan of the day went. The drinking age crept down with it, and by the mid-1970s most states had dropped it to 18. Of course it’s more complicated than that. Just look up 3.2 percent and beer Oklahoma on Wikipedia.

Then another contender entered the ring: Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD). It’s hard to argue with the chosen cause of the organization. Founded in 1980 by a mother whose daughter was killed by a drunk driver, the group sought to deal with the issue of drunk driving in the U.S. Largely through their lobbying efforts, the National Minimum Drinking Age Act of 1984 was passed and signed into law by Ronald Reagan, linking federal highway funds to the drinking age. If a state didn’t raise its minimum age to 21, it risked losing a large amount of money from the federal government. Although the constitutionality of such the approach was challenged, it was upheld, and it has since been used to further force states to adapt their laws on alcohol consumption (passing so-called “zero tolerance” laws on drunk driving under 21 is one example).

So, what’s it to me? Isn’t this column supposed to be a space where I mix three parts Anecdote, one part Insight and a dash of Humor to create an enjoyable cocktail of journalistic hoo-hah? Well, sadly I can’t buy a cocktail, unless it’s a Shirley Temple, because I’m 20. I could smoke, something clearly linked to health concerns for both the smoker and those around me, but I cannot drink. I take issue with that fact, because, out of a right-minded desire to stop people from driving drunk, we as a country have ended up with a policy that makes many a college student guilty of many a misdemeanor.

The obvious rebuttal to my point? It worked. Drunk-driving fatalities are down since 1984. I’d respond, yes, but seatbelt use is up, from 14 percent to 84 percent if you listen to the NHTSA. Let’s not pretend that we really solved the problem. You want to stop “kids” from drinking and driving? Let them have the opportunity to do it in the open, to be adults when they’re supposed to be.

Plus, it’s harder to get stupidly intoxicated when you’re paying 12 euro for a pitcher of beer, instead of $16 for a case. Europe taught me that much.

Thanks for reading, folks–it’s been a blast.

In Spain, listening to people prattle on about politics was an interesting diversion. O.K., maybe not just a diversion; more like a case study, an alternate universe where history had run a different course and now a different set of factors controlled the political reality. Not unintelligible, just not the same. The PP, former party of Bush’s pal José María Aznar, could gain seats on Zapatero’s PSOE? Interesting, but I’ve got no horse in that race. José Montilla, a non-native speaker of Catalán, managed to lead the PSC to victory and helm the Generalitat, the governing body of Catluña? Even more complicated and less to do with me. Another soup of abbreviations and another axis of political alignment to worry about–so much to learn before I could even enter into an educated debate, let alone have an informed opinion.

Eventually I did, and I won’t say it wasn’t rewarding, but, in the back of my mind, I always knew I’d be leaving, and the results of elections couldn’t hurt me much. I said I was a Barça fan while I was there too, but if they lose the Liga I won’t lose sleep. While I was away, reading the political coverage on The New York Times Web site was like receiving dispatches from, well, a foreign land. It was oddly comforting. I could check in on the faltering “progress” of Obama’s health care initiative like a basketball fan checking in on his alma mater’s team: hoping there would be good news, but not passionately upset by repeatedly unmet expectations.

That distance can be healthy. The older brother of a high school friend of mine stopped watching his beloved Indiana Hoosiers a few years after he graduated. He’d punched too many walls over missed free throws to be much fun to hang out with on game day. Now, though, he’s a CPA, has a girlfriend and lives in Zurich. To my knowledge, he’s avoided an ulcer.

Trouble is sports and politics are different. Sure, those trying to predict the outcomes of either one struggle with an overwhelming amount of statistical information and a propensity to fetishize personal narrative. More than that, talking about politics involves so many sports terms it’s easy to forget that’s where they came from. Calling elections “races” or “contests,” talking about the final push in a campaign as a “fourth quarter drive,” or calling an out-of-nowhere prospect a “dark horse” candidate–all that comes from sports. Dark horse. That’s what’s came up this Tuesday and it’s what reminded me just how different these two areas of American life really are.

As a transplanted native of Indianapolis, I’ll be upset if the Indianapolis Colts don’t win the AFC Championship game this weekend. I’ve made an emotional investment in the team’s success, something that lets me feel a sense of belonging and in return offers elation with victory and despair with defeat. I’d wager that there’re folks in Vegas who might be upset as well–owing to, well, “other” kinds of investments. But that’s it. Emotional pain and frustration for people like me, some dollars down the drain for the gamblers. Elections are different. Elections change lives.

I don’t know how Scott Brown’s win in the special election to replace the late Ted Kennedy as Senator from Massachusetts will impact America. As a Democrat, I suppose I should feel like my team lost. Add to that, the loss to Scott Brown, a candidate who managed, with his straightforward name, pickup truck and general propensity for being shirtless, to win “the people’s seat,” as he calls it. When he takes his oath of office, he’ll also be doing away with the Democrat’s filibuster-proof majority in the Senate. Populist rage, a rejection of the Democratic agenda–that’s how this will be characterized in the media and, I imagine, by those who would see health care reform shelved for another 15 years, those who would be content with sitting around and thumbing their nose at the nation’s problems.

That can’t happen.

Maybe I don’t need to trouble myself with the minutiae that constitute a political blogger’s bread and butter. No need to punch walls, no need to give myself an ulcer, but I have to pay attention. I can’t enact the annual coping mechanism of a Raiders fan and self-impose a blackout of ESPN until next season. I can’t look away, because that means avoiding the front page of every major newspaper. That means looking away from the reality of this country in which we live. And I can’t do that.

So thanks, Massachusetts. Thanks for reminding me to pay attention, for reminding me to stay involved. Thanks for all that, but you can keep Scott Brown.

Yesterday, I woke up on my floor.

Apparently I’d walked home from downtown Palo Alto after a friend’s 21st birthday party and had only mistaken one other room for mine before I found it. I just didn’t find the bed.

All night, I spent what brain function I still had converting drink prices into Euros and being impressed at how “little” I was spending. It may have invited me to buy a few more drinks than necessary, but I still enjoyed it. The decidedly blue tint to the lighting tried to add to the ambiance, but all told it was still a Tuesday, and places open until 2 in the morning on Tuesdays are short on elegance. When my friend called a cab and then wasn’t allowed back in to tell me it had arrived, my fate was sealed: I would stay there until closing time.

Ah, and those few hours! They’re a pleasant blur, involving an Indian, flush after starting some sort of new business venture, and an aging Brit who had at some point played professional soccer for an impressive sounding team. Oh, and a cute bartender. Not the kind of cute you’d find dancing on a platform in oddly stitched together white lace garments at a beachside club in Barcelona, but she might have been once upon a time. At one point, she walked over to me while I was mid-sip and asked me if I was visiting. Promising, I thought. “No, I go to school here,” I said, pointing helpfully in the direction of Stanford. Left, I think.

“Oh,” she replied, a twinge of a smile on her face. “Well, just so you know, if you want to get along with the bartenders around here, you should probably leave tips.” Less promising. After she walked away to take an order, I fished around in my pockets but found all I had was a dollar bill, a few quarters and, for some reason, a condom. I elected not to put any of those objects on the bar.

Oh, America. Tipping was something that I’d really almost forgotten after a few months away. Sure, in a culture where good service is not compensated with extra money, there’s likely to be less of it, but it seems more honest, too. I always feel pained watching waiters or bartenders go through the motions of conviviality in anticipation of a monetary reward. Some pull it off of course, and regardless, I normally oblige, having once been instructed in the ways of restaurant work. But four months away was refreshing.

Though I enjoy some of our restaurant customs–offering water (for free!) and providing refills (mostly for free!), for instance–sometimes, it is nice to simply be left alone, given space to breathe and time to talk. You could stay in a small Spanish cafeteria until they were about to close before they’d think to say anything to you. Plus, the only cute girls who ever expected me to pay them for their company was the girls at George Payne’s (see previous columns) selling over priced Jell-o shots and signing people up to their mailing list. Also, actual prostitutes.

As my reintegration into American society continues, I imagine, dear reader, there will be more bumps in the road like this. More times where the minutiae becomes all that matters. The anxieties that bubble up in those moments will find expression here, so thanks in advance for sticking with me.

So, remember, folks, I’ll be here all quarter, the veal is excellent and don’t forget to tip your waitress–or not, depending on which practice is culturally appropriate.