Sadly, for four nights in August, drinking viche was a necessary evil, a rite of passage in the same way that cheap kegbeer is a part of university and getting hit in the groin is a disagreeable consequence of riding a mechanical bull.
He became the prince of the great-room, making its pleasures available to everyone he favored with his friendship (and making the unsupervised beerkega bone of contention at family dinners all over the neighborhood).