Jackson Free Press

Spicy food provides one of the only excuses for drinking domestic beer, which is generally watery with a metallic tinge. But when you're sitting outside eating spicy chicken wings on a Sunday afternoon, it almost has to be domestic, doesn't it?

Among the better domestic beers—and when I say domestic, I'm not talking fancy beers like Sierra Nevada—is Lone Star. I know, I know. You stopped buying things from Texas for the same reason other people stopped buying things from France.

I was a bartender at a French bistro when people got huffy about French wine, because the French said we ought to give the inspectors a few more months in Iraq, on the off chance that there really weren't weapons of mass destruction. This presented a problem because French wine was all we had. I remember one customer was so outraged he slapped the wine list closed and ordered a Gray Goose and tonic instead. I reminded him that Gray Goose is also French, so he ordered a Stolichnaya, which is Russian. Finally, he settled on Absolut—Sweden was as militant as he could get. Eventually, we added a few really bad California wines to the list, and everyone was happy.

But then, I have my own bias toward Lone Star. I spent my senior year of high school in Canyon, Texas, out on the high, west Texas plains, not far from George W. Bush's adopted homeland. There was nothing to do but make bombs and get into fights, so we had lots of country parties. You know, you rocket along some dirt road in a pickup truck to a house out in the middle of nowhere, where unchaperoned teenagers drink themselves silly. There were scrawny girls smeared with bright makeup, wearing stretchy boobie shirts from the Gap, and boys in tight Wranglers and cowboy boots. There was always plenty of Lone Star, the "national beer of Texas."

I won't pretend Lone Star was the first keg. Anyone with self-respect got at least one keg of Shiner Bock to start. Still, Lone Star was the long, golden middle. Crisp and clean, with no aftertaste. After a plastic cup or two, it had no taste at all. Then it was only happy water. All my best memories of these parties come from that fleeting hour or two when the Lone Star flowed.

Eventually, it always came down to Coors Lite, and with Coors Lite, there was always violence. I remember once when Chase smashed a bottle over Justin's head, but Justin knocked him down and pounded him into the ground anyway. Blood streamed from gashes on their faces as a melee broke out between their friends. Five of them went to the hospital that night. I remember standing there with my friend Travis and wondering what it was about Texas. Was the very earth itself cursed with violence?

Years later, I was on vacation in Yugoslavia, trying to defend America to a table of skeptical Slovenes. "Bush isn't our fault," I said. "Texas is like our Serbia."

I reminded them that Lyndon Johnson, who gave us Vietnam, was also from Texas. They were baffled. "Look, we just won't elect people from Texas anymore and everything will be fine," I said.

Fortunately, it always comes back to beer. We were drinking Lasko Pivo, which is a hearty lager; the other national beer there is Union, which is a lot like American domestic. As we all settled back into a comfortable drunk, one of the men grabbed my arm. "You drink Lasko," he said in a thick accent, pointing at my glass, "and then you piss out Union." He cackled.

Lasko Pivo goes really well with spicy chicken wings. If you can't get any, let the Lone Star flow.