Was out in Manhattan this weekend for graduation. After congratulating all my friends on their impending start dates at a variety of prestigious companies, I went out to Aggieville where I used my black card to buy drinks for everyone at the bar. This included -- poor fellow -- an emaciated young man in a KU shirt holding a can of Beer 30. I bought him a 750 of Sam Adams Millennium (I was trying to stay in a budget; I didn't know the man, so I asked the bartender to give him something cheap). He took one sip, spit it out and made a face. Said he preferred his Beer 30. I was flabbergasted. Here was a man who was so entrenched in his poverty that he had learned to actually prefer it. As I slept that night on my Tempurpedic (I had the hotel bring one in for me, can't sleep on those standard mattresses anymore), I couldn't help but ponder what it would be like to be that desperately poor. Even when I rented out Coco Bolos for brunch for myself and three of my friends the next morning, it still bothered me. Once I got back to Westwood Hills I started to feel a little better, but I still haven't fully shaken off the experience.
