It was New Year’s Day, 1986. Penn State was in the Orange Bowl, my dad was in his Penn State shirt (a story in itself) and I was four years old.

My dad almost never drank, and there was rarely any beer in the house, but there was that day, because Penn State was doing well. It wasn’t my dad’s collegiate standard, Rolling Rock. This was beneath that. It was worse than Natty, or Keystone, or even Herman the German. It was Beer Beer — as in generic beer.

“Oh, Beer-30,” you say.

No, Generic Beer is a step below Beer-30. I’ve seen Beer-30 before and it at least comes in a colorful package.

See, back in the day, there were no store brands, or stuff like Grand Union, Sam’s Choice, or Food Club. There was one, universal store brand called “Generic,” which was situated on an isle isolated from the rest of the store that was completely devoted to this line of products. They all came in white packages with the name of the contents in black capital letters, and nothing else. There weren’t even any nutritional labels, because Congress wouldn’t pass the Nutritional Labeling and Education Act for another four years.

For example, rather than having, Ruffles, Lay’s or Troyer Farms potato chips, there was another option across the store called “ONE POUND POTATO CHIPS.” If you wanted pop, there was Coca-Cola Classic, Pepsi, RC, and “COLA.” Thus, by induction, in addition to Rolling Rock, Natty, Keystone, and Herman the German, there was also a beer called “BEER.”

“What’s that?” I ask my dad, unfamiliar with the can.

“This son, is beer,” said my dad.

“Beer?” I said quizzically. “What’s that like?”

He looks left, he looks right. Then, my dad said the magic words:

“Don’t tell your mother.”

I nodded in agreement. He handed me the can, and I took my first drink.

It tasted like homeless people boiled in dumpster swill.

I didn’t drink for nearly twenty years.