In 1969, I was in my fourth year at the University of Wisconsin in Madison (I was on the "five year plan"). I lived in a small apartment building on Frances Street, behind the Brat House on State Street. The rent was cheap — $500 for the entire semester. I was the only guy in the place that owned a TV. It was an old, beat up black and white box with a terrible picture. Everyone in the building crammed into my room to watch the lottery on my TV. Someone brought a six pack if beer — Pabst Blue Ribbon, I think — that was to be awarded the "winner", i.e. the person having the lowest number of all the guys in the building. Well, unfortunately I won the six-pack with number 23. It was such an insignificant prize for something so potentially awful, but somehow I felt okay about it. At least I didn’t have to wonder what to do, as some of my friends had to with numbers around 180. I drank the six-pack, joined the Army Reserves (after graduating in 1970), and retired 31 years later as a Sergeant Major. I just turned 60, and I got my first retirement check last month. Sweet. Unfortunately, I lost a few friends to the war in Vietnam. They are the ones that should have received the six-pack.
