| FLASHBACK TO LATE SPRING, 2007;
It was a Saturday night, and I'd just finished my
marathon, eleven hour day at work. I had stopped in at
the local party store to cash my measly paycheck, most
of which had already been spent on bills  before
I even cashed it. But I always seem to make room in
the budget for beer; I mean, a man has to have his
priorities straight, doesn't he?
As I perused the refrigerated "cheap beer" section, I
looked for my old standby, the "Ice Beast." For those
of you who don't know, "Ice Beast" is my affectionate
nickname for one of my favorite cheap brews,
Milwaukee's Best ICE. The Beast had serviced me well
for quite a long time, but on this particular night I
had trouble finding it. I saw cheap Malt Liquor and
just about everything else, but the Beast itself
remained frustratingly elusive. Just as I was about to
give up and choose a "real" and therefore more
expensive selection, fate stepped in and my eyes
caught sight of something I'd never seen before; it
was a 24oz can of Camo Silver Ice HIGH GRAVITY Lager.
I might not have even noticed it, save for some bold
printing on the side of the can which boasted, 9
Percent Alcohol. I must admit, my interest was
immediately piqued. Think about it--ice beer, for the
most part, has an alcohol content in the 5.5 percent
range. The Ice Beast is a bit stronger, coming in at
5.9 percent. Hell, even Molson XXX, known for being
one of the most ass-kicking beers on the planet, only
has 7.3 percent.
Yes, I know it's sad that I know these things. But us
drunks like to do the research.
"This Camo shit is probably one of those fancy ass,
gourmet beers," I told myself as I reached for a
can. "They're probably, like, five bucks apiece or
something." Well, you can imagine my surprise when
I saw the can was priced at only $1.39. I was also
surprised to see that Camo apparently came in three
different varieties, ranging in strength from 8.5
percent alcohol all the way to the intimidating "Black
ICE" variety which weighed in at an intimidating 10.5 percent I did some quick mental math and
realized that three cans of Camo, the equivalent of a
six pack of beer, would cost me less than five bucks.
Certainly it was worth the gamble, even if it sucked.
When I got home, I cracked open my inaugural can and
held it under my nose, savoring its bouquet. I didn't
know what to expect. I was never a big fan of lager in
general, so I was a bit apprehensive as to how it
would taste. Even the fact they called it HIGH GRAVITY
Lager seemed a bit odd to me. What the fuck did that mean, anyway?
I took a deep breath and decided to plunge right in,
making my first ever swig of Camo a long one. I winced
slightly as I swallowed, my brain desperately trying
to
decide how it felt about the flavor. After a few
seconds, I decided that it tasted both good AND bad at
the same time. So I took another swig. And another.
And then, dear readers, the abyss opened up and
swallowed me whole.
I have to say, that first Camo night was nothing if
not interesting... at least from what I remember. The
details remain sketchy, but certain parts stand out.
For example, I live on the third floor, and sometime
after midnight me and Monte the Loner Cat went out on
the balcony. I sat out there for a good two hours,
chugging  Camo and... get this... chatting up random
strangers that happened to walk by. That might not
sound too unusual to you, but I don't even like
people. I also placed a few phone calls, but I'm
hoping the unfortunate souls I managed to get on the
line have forgotten about them. I'm sure I wasn't even
remotely coherent.
Sometime after 2am, I stood up and went to walk back
inside--and that's when I discovered why they call it "High Gravity" lager. As it turns out, the force of
gravity seemed about seventy times stronger
than it was when I had first started drinking. "Whoaaaaa," I thought, struggling to remain on
my feet. "This is some re-e-e-e-ally go-o-o-o-o-d
shit..."
Moments later, someone knocked on my door and I
thought nothing of answering it, despite the fact that
it was now around 2:30 in the morning. I opened the
door to discover a vaguely attractive blond standing
there, smiling at me expectantly. "Hey," she
slurred, obviously a bit blasted herself, "are you
the guy that was talking to me from the balcony
earlier?" I wasn't sure how to answer her, so I
went with the truth. "I don't know," I
admitted. "Maybe." The next thing I knew, she
was asking if I had a lighter she could "buy" from me. "Uh... hold on," I answered, shutting the door
in her face. Now let me pause for a second here--I
mean, that alone should tell you just how inebriated I
was. Note to self; If a reasonably attractive, drunk
woman shows up at your door in the middle of the
night, LET HER IN! For the love of God, let her
in!!!
I managed to locate a lighter after stumbling around
the apartment for a few minutes, and she promptly
pulled out a wad of cash and tried to pay me for it. "No, no, that's OK," I told her. When she saw I
wasn't going to accept any money, she handed me a
small amount of a certain illicit substance,
thanked me and stumbled down the stairs before I could
even react. And that's the last thing I remember. I
don't remember how or when I went to bed. I don't
remember if I bothered to turn the TV off. I just
remember being in some weird "zone" that even hard
liquor had never gotten me to in the past.
The next day, I surveyed the living room in wonder,
marveling at the aftermath. The patio door was still
half open, because apparently I never closed it. My
phone was on the floor. Two telltale empty cans lie
strewn on the balcony, a reminder of the previous
night. I never did find the third can, and to this day
I wonder what happened to it. I didn't feel "hung
over" exactly, but I definitely didn't feel normal
either. It was like a profound epiphany had taken
place, and the Ice Beast was immediately rendered
obsolete.
In the ensuing months, I've talked about Camo quite a
bit. Visitors to my MySpace blog are all too familiar
with it, as I write about it at least once a week.
Some of them have gotten curious about the mysterious
Camo Lager and have asked me where to find it.
Unfortunately, Camo can only be found in certain
places. A "respectable" store like Kroger or 7-Eleven
will NOT have it, trust me. But if you're filled with
an unholy urge to get "Camo'ed up," allow me to make a
few suggestions;
TIPS ON FINDING CAMO "HIGH GRAVITY" LAGER IN YOUR TOWN
Do you have an independently owned, somewhat shady
party store in your town? Think about it...
1. Is it the kind of store where you just know they'd sell illegal fireworks "under the counter"
every July 4th? If so, they'll also sell Camo, believe
you me.
2. Is the area behind the store littered with empty,
miniature liquor bottles which were discarded by the
drunken homeless people who shop there? If it is, rest
assured that you've entered "Camo Country."
3. Do they have dirty magazines behind the counter,
right there in full sight? I'm not talking about Playboy here, people, I'm talking about rags
with titles like Anal Freaks, Oriental Sluts
and Pussies Galore. If you see magazines like this
at a party store, you're a mere few feet away from
Camo.
4. Has the place been robbed at least twice in the
last year? Do they put up bulletproof glass after the
sun goes down? If so, you've found a proud Camo
retailer.
5. Is there a line of seedy-looking people at the
register attempting to cash suspicious payroll checks?
Whoa, Nelly, the Camo is chillin' in that mofo!
Be forewarned, however, that Camo is not for
lightweights. Just ask my buddy Jerry the K. We were
in a play together last fall, and we stopped after
rehearsal one night so he could take the "Camo
Challenge" himself. He's a fairly big guy, but after
one measly can he became a babbling mess. A few nights
later, he attempted to drink two cans... and yes, I
meant to write "attempted." He got so fucked
up, his wife got disgusted with him and went to bed.
During the depths of his alcohol-riddled misery, he
managed to take a picture of himself with his camera
phone... and I think the following picture speaks
volumes about the Camo experience for the uninitiated.
Jerry the K, during his ill-fated "Two Camo
Night." Note the can visible in the background.
Even for a pro like myself, the Camo has kicked my ass
on more than one occasion. Take, for example, the
night I passed out right here in the computer chair,
my oversized head resting peacefully up against the
monitor. Or the time I decided to try a few cans of
the BLACK ICE variety and then took a late night
shower, only to discover halfway through it that I
was still wearing a pair of sweatpants. Not only
did I get my pants soaked, I also neglected to
properly close the shower curtain, thus resulting in a
flooded bathroom. Let me tell you, I had some very interesting questions posed to me the next
day about THAT incident...
I still do the "Camo Thang" pretty much every weekend,
but it remains as much of an enigma to me now as it
ever did. Why, oh WHY, does Camo get me fucked up
beyond what hard liquor does? What the hell is in that
shit, anyway? Attempts to do research online have
proved fruitless, and the only clue I have comes
directly from the cans themselves, in which it's
claimed that Camo is bottled somewhere in Wisconsin.
OK then, where does the water they use in it come
from? Some swamp in Mexico? I wish I knew.
I will continue to drink it up, though, and I will
continue to create "Camo Converts" whenever I can. In
the meantime, if you'd like to see exactly what Camo
does to a person, give me a call late this Saturday
night and experience it for yourself.
Go on, I dare you.
MUAHHH HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!
-JTL
Got some Camo stories to share? E-mail me HERE:
goodnight_tonight@yahoo.com
Jeremy the Loner on MySpace!
http://myspace.com/jeremytheloner
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