Wednesday, December 01, 2010

American Werewolves in Munich: Wednesday 9/22

The "Alarm_Antelope" tone on the Blackberry will forever remind me of Munich, as that is the sound that has shaken me from slumber right into the DTs, both in 2007 and this year. I hate it and love it at the same time. When it went off Wednesday morning, I couldn't be too pissed off because it meant that it was tent time.

Tuesday night at the Hofbraubaus, I had given strict instructions for everyone to meet in front of the hotel by 9:30 Wednesday morning. (I think I previously told you it was 10, but I tend to make things up. Sometimes I levitate.) My brood obliged. Everyone was there, ready and eager to make some noise. Waiting for the train, it was like warriors readying themselves mentally for battle.
We had reservations at the Hippodrom (the same place we had reservations last time), but our reservations weren't until 3:30. We headed there from the outset, though, to get some of the unreserved seats until 3:30. By the way, it is completely reasonable to start drinking at 10:30 on a Wednesday morning in Munich.
When we arrived, some German dude sat us in some seats that were unreserved in the morning. We asked for English menus, because we're dicks like that. We were surprised and a little bit concerned about the following three menu items:
Poor horseradish. I can only imagine the terrifyingly weird scene in the kitchen. Then again, it couldn't have been more weird than the hill outside the back of the Hippodrom, aka "The Killing Floor," where people went to pass out and/or die, bodies strewn about like a scene from Saving Private Ryan, but not as funny.
While at the Hippodrom that morning, the discovery of the trip was made. A couple tables over, we happened to witness a twentysomething fraulein in a dirndl getting her picture taken. She was holding a giant pretzel in front of her bosom. And, thus, Tit Pretzel was born. RPTre, Kellie, and I immediately began plans for -- a website devoted entirely to pictures of pretzels in front of boobs. There would be both PG-13 and adults-only sections. We made it our goal to take as many pictures of tit pretzels as possible over the next several days. RPTre and I would be the Tit Masters. Probably Chandler too. The Pretzel Master would probably be someone who's good at crunching numbers, maybe Timothy Geinther. Kellie would be the Creep Master, in charge of going up to unsuspecting German women and convincing them to get their pictures taken with a giant pretzel in front of their cans, since we figured guys have less of a chance of successfully doing the same thing. Fear not, I will have an entire post dedicated to our Tit Pretzel pictures. The Creep Master was very good at her job.

Over the course of the week, we came up with the following additional possible websites:

Speaking of boobs, the Hippodrom is where the celebrities are known to hang out, and boy were we in for a treat. Kim Kardashian and her mom Kris -- two of the most talented, uh, whatever they are -- graced the Hippodrom with their presence for approximately 55 minutes, which was exactly enough time for Gregerson to creep them out. We should have sent the Creep Master. If any of these pictures look blurry, it's because that's just how Germany looks.
Speaking of Gregerson, at some point in the early afternoon, he went outside to have a smoke (smoking is no longer allowed in the tents, at least not until late at night after everyone gets really drunk). When he attempted to reenter the tent, the guy at the door wouldn't let him back in because of his "gypsy eyes." It takes more than that to keep a Michigan grad down. He turned his shirt inside-out, put sunglasses on, and just went to another entrance and walked back in.

No worries. He was back for the reservations, which were up in the balcony, giving us a great view of the crowd below and, of course, of Simmisamma, the Hippodrom's house band. Their set was mostly traditional German, mixed with '70s country.
We all enjoyed our German meal of food. I've never had a better half chicken than at the Hippodrom. Then we spent the next couple hours drinking liters of beer.
Here is a shot of the giant Spaten sign inside the Hippodrom. Loosely translated, it means "If the last deer is rotten, drink Spaten." After our reservation was over, we dispersed in order to infiltrate Munich. Reed, Ben, Colt, and Laura went to another tent. Gregerson, Daniel, Mirka, and Chandler disappeared. RPTre, Kellie, Shane, Derrick, Bonham, Alex, Emily, and I went to the Augustiner beer hall for some dinner. I kept a pretzel with me to use, not only as the pretzel part of the tit pretzel, but also as a beacon for those following me through the crowds. When in doubt, look for the jackass holding his arm in the air with a giant pretzel.
Dinner at the Augustiner allowed us to sober up by drinking half-liters of beer instead of full liters. We sat out in the beer garden, which is surrounded by four walls that go up three stories and has a bunch of nooks and crannies. RPTre and Kellie called it an early evening after ordering goulash. It turned out to be a bad move. Soon thereafter, we bought our sixtysomething waiter a half-liter of beer. Technically, he's not allowed to drink on the job, so he did what any good German waiter does. He made sure no one was looking, stood behind a giant post, and slammed the beer in about five seconds. Here's a pictures of Bonham and Alex in the aftermath.
That got him sauced enough that we immediately ditched out on the bill, and headed to the Lotter Leben, the bar a couple blocks from our hotel. On our walk back, we saw this business sign. By this time, it was probably 9 or 10. We had assumed Gregerson had been stabbed at this point, but we were wrong. He was alive, well, and drinking at the Lotter Leben, along with Daniel, Mirka, and Chandler. Meanwhile, there was a chicken on a rotisserie on one of the TVs in the Lotter Leben. Germans are weird.
Several of us grabbed a couple tables on the sidewalk and a liter, while the others drank inside. We were sitting there getting elegantly wasted, when two cars pulled up. The street is busy during the day, but not that busy during the night. The car in the front had apparently died. None of the five people in the first car got out at first. Then a guy in the second car, who I assume was a gypsy, gets out of the car and starts kicking the back right fender of the first car. No one in the second car did anything. We watched, confused, as the scene unfolded. The big gypsy was more pissed off about the dead car than the people in the dead car, and they didn't seem to mind when he resorted to physical violence against the car. Eventually, they pull the second car (a Mercedes station wagon) in front of the other car (some maroon, vaguely Slavic-looking car). These people obviously had knives, so they decided on the following course of action: cut a seat belt out of the maroon car and use that to tow it behind the Mercedes. A more brilliant plan could not have been concocted. It took them about four tries before they secured it enough to go half a block. Thankfully, by that time, it was no longer our problem. Fucking pikeys.

As if that wasn't enough excitement, Colt, Laura, and Reed showed up, but there was no sign of Ben. We learned that the four of them had been at another tent. Ben shattered a liter glass, which is pretty hard to do. Feeling empowered, Ben apparently decided to try it again. From what I have come to understand, in one motion, he managed to break another stein, fall down off of a bench, and fall onto the broken glass, thus cutting his hand and arm, causing profuse bleeding. He then voluntarily went to the Oktoberfest infirmary. It wouldn't be Oktoberfest without someone in our group going to the infirmary.

A little while later, Ben plundered through the market across the street from the Lotter Leben and reappeared triumphantly with a couple band-aids on his hands and arms, and then quickly fell asleep in his own bloody hands. Laura put a flag in her boobs, thus birthing
Energized, Alex, Daniel, Shane, Derrick, Gregerson, Bonham, Emily, Mirka, and I did the only thing we could do: dance our asses off. I didn't want Ben to feel alone, so I whipped my now-stale pretzel into the air and attempted to catch it. This is what very hard salt does to one's wrist. We went to a club we call the Mall of America. I have no idea what it is actually called. Several people on the trip back in 2007 discovered it and went there several nights. Somehow, I never went to it on the first trip. It's called the Mall of America because it's basically a giant showroom converted into one hell of a good Bavarian time.

When we arrived, we all grabbed some beers with their own hinged tops. Some band was playing, and the dance floor was relatively tame. Gregerson couldn't deal with that, so he headed back to the hotel in a rage. However, when the band would take a break, a DJ would come on, and people would half-heartedly head to the dance floor. Needing a boost, we decided it was a good idea to do Jager shots. I nearly vomited anticipatorily when I saw the barfrau pour warm Jager into shot glasses. Thankfully, she dropped a single ice cube into each shot glass. These proved to be exceptionally good -- even better than a standard cold Jager shot. Something about the Jager over there was a little bit smoother than the stuff we have in the States.

That kind of did the trick. The band was still playing, and people generally weren't reacting positively. Then the band stopped, the DJ came back on, and it happened. Within the first several bars of Miami Sound Machine's "Conga," everyone stopped what they were doing and went fucking nuts. Beer bottles were dropped, tables were thrown, and caution was thrown to the wind as people rushed to the dance floor.
From then on, it was bedlam. '80s songs were played with reckless abandon, as we slipped into oblivion.
At some point, someone broke a few bottles on the dance floor. Not wanting Ben and I to feel alone, Shane fell to the floor and washed his hands in glass and spilt marzen bier.
Of course, this didn't stop him (or any of us) from continuing to work ourselves into a Jager, beer, and Journey filled frenzy. I don't know if it was the blood or what, but a German bear soon began to stalk Shane. This dude followed Shane around and tried to dance with Shane for a good half hour before finally getting the point that Shane was not into overweight hirsute dudes in lederhosen. The best part is that Shane was completely unaware that there was a bear trying to make him into horseradish.

After a couple hours, we decided to call it a night and head back to the hotel. Outside of the Mall of America, Emily started laughing at something -- probably a joke -- and she could not stop. All of a sudden, she was laughing so hard she was starting to hee haw like Eddie Murphy. That started me laughing at her laughing, which only made her laugh harder, which only made me laugh harder. This lasted for just about the entire walk home.

When we arrived at the hotel, Mirka was determined to stay out, despite the fact that it was already 4 a.m. She noticed a storefront sign across the street that was lit, and said, "Oh! There's a bar!" We all looked across the street to see the sign, which read "Apotheke." I explained, "That's a pharmacy. And it's closed." Not even that would stop Mirka on her quest. She saw a cab parked on the street and asked the cabbie if any bars were still open. He said yes. We all said no, since German cab drivers are notorious liars.

For our own good, we all just headed up to our respective rooms and passed the fuck out. I love Oktoberfest.

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