My coworker Max and I were chatting one Friday afternoon discussing our plans for the coming weekend. He said he was going out in the city that evening; it was his sister-in-law's 21st birthday. Of all the milestone birthdays this is perhaps the most important in the United States (if you don't count the whole voting-or-military-service-thing at 18), and it's the only one I would not care to repeat. He told me that she requested a visit to a local bar that featured an ice cave, which is a room made of ice in which you pay $20 to drink as much vodka as you care to in one minute. I like to think I have an active imagination, but it is literally impossible for me to imagine a positive outcome after choosing to enter the ice cave.