It Was The Best of Times, It Was The Wurst of Times, Part III: Monday 9/24

We arrived at Munich's airport at 10:40am on Monday. Jer met us there, as he had arrived at 8am in business attire. He was visibly shaken by the fact that his luggage did not make his connection in DC. Then again, I would be too if I were carrying dozens of unitards and enough K-Y to fuck the Grand Canyon.

Upon our arrival, I turned on my phone (it's a Blackberry, which I was forced to get for work), expecting the SIM card that Verizon gave me to actually work. Boy was I stupid for ever thinking that would happen. The words "SIM card rejected" appeared at the top of my phone. It might as well have said, "You are officially free from work" because it meant that I would not be receiving any work-related emails (or anything else) for the whole trip. Thank you Verizon for your incompetence.

After an enjoyable S-Bahn (that's the suburban train) ride from the flughafen (that's the airport) to Marienplatz (that's the plaza -- possibly once belonging to Marien -- in the center of the city that was close to our hotel), we walked the few blocks to our hotel. In between Marienplatz and our hotel is a big market called the Viktualienmarkt, which sits on cobblestone. So there we were, 14-strong, thundering across the cobblestone with our rolling suitcases, announcing to the good people of Munich trying to enjoy a nice meal, "Here are the Americans."

We arrived at Pension Seibel with authority. For those of you unfamiliar with pensions ("pen-see-own"), they are somewhere between hotels and hostels. You don't share rooms with strangers, but you may have shared bathrooms. Luckily for us (and for the rest of the pension, for that matter, given the ill effects of liters of beer and an all-sausage diet on our gastrointestinal tracts), all of our rooms had their own bathrooms with shower and toilet, even if most of them were about 5x5.

Our first meal upon arriving was at Der Pschorr, a Hacker-Pschorr affiliated restaurant with giant doors and medieval style rudimentary wooden furniture. Many of us ordered the Nurnberger bratwurst plate. Our waitress was an uncaring whore.

After eating, most of the group headed to the Englischer Garten, the world's largest municipal park, which also happens to contain the world's largest beer garden, or something like that. They always have to take shit to the extreme in Germany, don't they? As you can see, people didn't like to be around us.

Kyla, Alex, Jer, and I stayed back near the hotel to wait for the late arrivals (Nick and the 4 ladies coming from Barcelona). Rather that wait at our hotel -- which wasn't a bar -- we decided to hit up a bar about a block from our hotel. At first glance, this bar looked like any other bar. We walked in, grabbed 4 seats at the end of the bar, and ordered 4 half liters of Spaten. As we paid the young bartender who had a fauxhawk and was wearing a cutoff t-shirt, I noticed something on the wall. "Huh, well that's weird," I thought to myself. "Why would they have a picture on the wall of a guy wearing no shirt?" And then I looked at the other walls, only to find similar pictures and artists' renderings of scantily clad German men. At the same time I was realizing what was on the walls, the other 3 were too. We all kind of did a "so, did you get a chance to see that picture over there above the cash register? No, not the one of the dog, the one next to it. Yeah, that one -- with the guy in assless black leather chaps getting spanked by a dominator and enjoying the hell out of it." A good laugh was had by all, and then we chucked our beers at the bartender and sprinted back to our hotel before any of us could catch "the gay," as my grandma never called it.

Restless at the hotel on account of the fact that his luggage had still not been delivered, Jer decided to head to Marienplatz to buy a shirt and some pants. I accompanied him because Nick was set to arrive about that time, and I figured that it should be easy enough to spot him coming out of one of the 8 exits of the subway stop that lets out into the busiest part of the center of Munich. Jer said he was going to go to H&M and that he would meet me back at the same spot in 10 minutes. After 40 minutes passed without any sign of Nick or Jer, I went looking for Jer. Turns out there are 3 H&Ms in a one-block span. Defeated, I went back to the hotel, and I'll be damned if Nick wasn't waiting in the breakfast room (which was essentially the waiting room next to the office, which is also the kitchen) being chatted up by some bat shit nuts British woman with the mouth and looks of a sailor, whose secretary had apparently booked her a hotel room in Cologne instead of Munich. "Foukin' 'ell, right?"

Jester, Ari, Liz, and Leslie arrived shortly thereafter. We had our 22, and it was time to show Munich what we had. Our goal was to give it our all, regardless of casualties, maladies, or decorum. I think we succeeded.

For dinner and drinks, we went to the world-famous Hofbräuhaus, which I consider one of my favorite places on Earth. It's a giant beer hall, with an oompa band and long tables where strangers are forced to intermingle and get loaded together.

The weather was very nice that first night, so we sat in the beer garden (or "bier garten" in German). We quickly ordered some liters of beer. One of my favorite beers in the world is the Hofbräu Dunkel. Dunkel is a type of dark beer. It is the urine of the gods and should be consumed without remorse whenever possible. There is nothing -- I repeat, NOTHING -- bad that can come from drinking dunkel. Our waiter was Egyptian known only as Herr Fayad (or "Mr. Fayad" in English), and he ably complied with our requests throughout the evening.

The only unfortunate thing about the 'haus is that it closes at midnight. For several of us, the intoxication process had not yet been completed. Plus, it was Chandler's birthday, so he wanted to stay out an drink some more. Before we disbanded, I reminded everyone that we had a reservation at one of the Oktoberfest tents the next morning, and that we should meet at 10:30 to head over there.

Gregerson rode a lion.

A group of about 6 or 7 of us (dudes only) found a small bar a few block south of our hotel. There was nothing odd about the bar (i.e., no pictures of leather-clad German men, no rainbow flags, and the clientele was bi-gender, but not transgender). Gregerson had what he claimed was the best Red Bull and vodka of his life. A nice young couple sitting next to us started talking to us, eventually asking us if we knew what part of town we were in. As you might have guessed, our group of 6 or 7 guys had managed to find itself in the gay district, even though the particular bar we were in was not necessarily a gay bar. Not that there's anything wrong with this, of course. I just find it funny that Chandler didn't object when we told him his birthday present was a bathroom rim job from a guy named Klaus, and it was kind of ironic that it was the one night Jer wasn't wearing a unitard.

The strains of being up for 30+ hours began to take a toll on some of us, so we went back to the hotel around 1 or 1:30. Those who stayed out went to another bar (whether it was in the same district or not is unclear). Jer apparently refused to leave whatever bar they ended up at, feeling the need to drink some more, so he stayed out by himself for a while. A day or two later, he would run in to two women he met at said bar (who ironically happened to be staying at our hotel), who showed him a picture they took of him passed out with his head on the bar.

But passing out at a German bar and having your picture taken by foreign women is nothing compared to what happened up in room 51, which is where Gregerson, Chandler, and Brendan were staying. At some point around 3, Brendan had some sort of horrible dream. It was bad enough that he got up and exited the hotel to get some fresh air. Before continuing, it is important to note that our pension did not have 24-hour service. There were workers there until midnight, but that's it. Also, without a room key, it is impossible to get into the front door of the pension. Brendan did not take a room key with him. So there he was, standing outside a hotel with no way in and no way of communicating with the other two guys in his room who were sound asleep, undoubtedly having non-terrifying dreams.

So Brendan did what any foreigner who doesn't speak the language should do on the first night in a new city: he wandered aimlessly. He eventually found a nice park bench that made up in rigidity what it lacked in cushioning. It was his only chance at getting any shuteye, so he laid down on the bench and fell asleep. A couple hours later he was awakened by the gentle spatter of Bavarian rainfall. Having not thought to bring an umbrella with him when he left the room, he wandered the city some more, eventually helping a newspaper delivery guy unload papers from his truck until 6 or 7 a.m., when someone returned to the office at Pension Seibel. At least he was able to get a couple hours sleep in a regular bed before we headed to the tent.

Opening Night

Thanks to everyone who came out to the opening night of No Offense, Assh*le, including, Jester, Ari, my mom, her friend Sharon, Tron, $2 Dolla, Shane, Tron's friends Derrick and Meagan (I think), Gemkeezi, Selina, Volleyball Katie, Preet, 2 other dentists named Cindy and Josephine, Marius and Patrick (my classmates in lower level writing classes whose show was after ours), my neighbor Kate (although her attendance is likely purely coincidental, as evidenced when I said "hey neighbor" when she walked by me near the entrance and she gave me a weird look and said "hi" in a frightened voice and kept walking), and her male friend. Hopefully I'm not forgetting anyone.

The show sold out, which is awesome. Hopefully that trend will continue. Thus, if you're planning on coming, I would suggest buying tickets online.

It seemed to be pretty well-received, although it's hard to tell because most of the praise came from friends and family of the writers and actors. My favorite thing I heard about the show was that 3 twentysomethings walked out after the first sketch (which is a song). Perhaps they were offended. Perhaps it was the "cancer is for pussies" line. Or perhaps they are illiterate.

It Was The Best of Times, It Was The Wurst of Times, Part II: Sunday 9/23

Jester, Ari, Liz, and Leslie had gone to Barcelona on Thursday. While they were enjoying 11pm dinners, mysterious men named Javier, and Spanish spoken with a lisp, the rest of us were readying ourselves for the coming onslaught of sausage and beer.

TG arrived Saturday in Chicago. We hung low Saturday night, choosing to drink some Oberon and Upland Wheat with Christoff and Tradd, which they had brought back from B-town that day.

Sunday came, and Ben's brother picked us up. Packed into a medium sized sedan were me, Ben, Tyler, TG, and Ben's brother, and everyone's luggage. It was tighter than a [insert objectionable vaginal or anal related comment].

A bunch of us were all flying out of Chicago on US Airways. The US Airways Group consisted of me, TG, Gregerson, Bonham, Kyla, Alex, Tyler, John, Jim, Ben, Sara, and Preet. On the same flight out with us were Sarah and Reed, who refused to get in on the group rate when I booked it because they thought they could find a better fare. Little did they know that they would pay $150 more per ticket several months later to be on the same flight. This faux pas wasn't completely unexpected, as older brothers are usually smarter.

Meanwhile, Jer was flying in from DC, where he had been "on business," which is Jer code for buying unitards and sacks full of K-Y. Nick was flying in from Dayton later in the day. Brendan was flying in from NYC, via Dusseldorf. Chandler, as expected, was already in the EU, and would be arriving via bullet train Monday at noon.

I knew it was going to be a glorious trip when I randomly bumped into Andy "Donkey" Olsen and his pregnant wife Jaime at O'Hare. As expected, they were on their way back from a wedding in Hershey, Pennsylvania. The faint stench of milk chocolate signaled that their trip had been a success.

Interestingly enough, we had a layover in Philadelphia, which is in the very same state as Hershey. Actually, it was less of a "layover," and more of a "sprint from one end of the airport to the other to make our connection." Gregerson got ahead and stopped at the duty free shop to buy some deeply discounted death sticks. Everything was in order, and we made the flight in plenty of time.

The flight itself was decent, although the crew was one of the more ornery and unkind I've encountered. Then again, they might have been German, so that's expected. The Germans frown on the inefficiencies of love and emotion.

On the bright side, they had little monitors in the back of every headrest, which meant that in-flight entertainment was not an issue. I finally saw Blades of Glory, which I thoroughly enjoyed. In fact, for the entire 8-hour flight, I did not get out of my seat once, flouting convention and challenging deep vein thrombosis alarmists everywhere. Show me the clots, assholes.

It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Hopefully you guys are watching It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia (10 EST/9 C Thursday nights on FX). This past Thursday's episode might have been the funniest episode I've seen. It was entitled "Sweet Dee's Dating a Retarded Person." The name alone should get you to watch it, but there was also two great songs during the show, both written by Charlie.

The first is "Night Man," which is solid:


The second is "Day Man," fighter of the night man, written after Charlie was huffing silver spray paint.

It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Wurst of Times: A Novella. Part I: Prologue and Cast of Characters

Rather than keep you waiting for an entire recap (since you've already waited long enough), I figured I would build suspense by posting a day at a time. The details of my stay in Munich may be blurred, on account of dozens of liters of beer, a haze of cigarette and cigar smoke, and wurst-induced dementia. However, I will make every effort to recount it the way I remember it.

Prologue
The year was 2005. It was a pleasant autumn evening in Southwestern Ohio, and Jester and I threw an Oktoberfest party, which was well-attended, despite the fact that the sons of bitches at the beer distributor gave me the wrong tap for my quarter barrel of Spaten and then closed before I could remedy the situation. Nonetheless, at that party it was decided that an Oktoberfest party was simply not good enough. It was the methadone to our china white. Like an addict chasing the dragon, we needed something more, something powerful. We needed the real shit. We needed Munich.

I had been to Munich twice before, and having suckled her sweet, malty teat, I knew that visiting her during Oktoberfest would allow me to consummate our relationship in ways most cities I've visited could only dream of.

And so it was. An Evite was sent out almost immediately, with plans to attend in 2006. Lulling myself into a false sense of security with a combination of ignorance and quaaludes, I began to look into planning the trip in early 2006. Fate's merciless hand once again slapped me in the mouth when I came to find out that a trip to Oktoberfest cannot be planned less than 11 months in advance. Undaunted, I changed the date to 2007 -- the perfect pre-30th birthday present to myself.

And so a revised Evite was sent -- the dates set 19 months in advance so as to allow for the accumulation of Deutsche marks (big mistake) and the arranging of babysitters for those with kinder. I have since concluded that the arranging of babysitters requires at least 20 months' notice.

Reaction was positive amongst the barren and sterile, however. With no hope of producing and caring for children, irreversible liver damage and the cost associated with a trip to Munich were no concern. Within months, the number was over 20, eventually reaching the final booking number of 22. In the remaining months, however, a variety of catastrophes threatened this number. Alas, the lure of lederhosen and dirndls ensured that all 22 slots would be filled.

And so it was. 22 people, loosely connected and sharing a love of self-destruction, embarked on a life-changing journey to the world capital of beer. This is their story.

Cast of Characters
Me, aka "GMYH" - You know me. I'm the asshole whose blog you're reading.












Jessie, aka "Jester" - My wife. A self-described narcoleptophile, Jester lives, breathes, and sleeps all things narcoleptic.












Ari, aka "Ari There Yet?" - Jester's twin sister. Ari's not a very good sprinter. Then again, you wouldn't be either if you were undead.











Liz, aka "The Pulverizer" - Jester and Ari's friend from the 'Noke, where she still resides, Liz is into tequila and very little else.









Leslie, aka "Dulie," aka "Du" - Dulie worked with Jester at a camp in Maine several years ago. She currently resides in Seattle, where she runs the Pike's Place Grungorium, "Your Home for All Things Grunge." This week's specials: oversized flannel shirts are 5 for 1 and framed, used syringes signed by the remaining members of Mother Love Bone are a mere $1.99 each.












Kyla, aka "Mayonnaise Face" - Friend of Ari, Jessie, me, and others. When she's not drinking, Kyla teaches retards.












Alex, aka "Grizzly Alex," aka "Who The Fuck is Alice?" - Alex is Kyla's husband and also friend of Ari, Jessie, me, and others. He grew a beard recently, perhaps to hide the syphilis-induced acne.











Reed, aka "Peed" - My brother. When he was in the womb, we called him Rolo, probably because of his odd, cylindrical shape and caramel center.









Sarah, aka "Box Crusher" - Reed's special ladyfriend. Known as a workhorse, Sarah won the award for Best Box Mover at the 2006 Help Andrew and Jessie Move In Awards. She was rewarded with a box full of anvils, which she hoisted over her head and carried home on foot.












Ben, aka "Gentle Ben" - Reed's roommate. As his nickname implies, Ben is a gentle giant. He claims to have taken German in college or maybe high school. Or maybe never.









Jim, aka "Mustache Ride," aka "Jewel" - Reed's friend. A member of the famed Spring Brothers, Jim might be one of the better yodelers I've ever met, that is, if I were to ever hear him yodel. At this point, I simply do not know.












Tyler, aka "Blue Steel" - Reed's friend. Emaciated from years of cocaine-riddled anorexia, or so I assume, Tyler is probably the best person I've ever met at styling his own hair with beer.









John, aka "Marathon Man" - Tyler's friend. In what looked to be a risky training technique, John partook in Oktoberfest a mere one week before he was to compete in the Chicago Marathon. Luckily, his longstanding -- and sometimes more than friendly -- relationship with sun god Ra worked to his advantage when it came time to run.

Nick, aka "The Jolly Green Giant" - A buddy of mine who I worked with in Dayton. He is by far the most agreeable Ohio State fan I've ever met. And I'll be damned if he won't charm the pants off you. Right before he slits your throat. With your pants. And his vomit.

Tony, aka "TG," aka "T Diddy" - A buddy of mine from college, he currently lives in Louisville, where is plotting world domination.

Jer, aka "Floppy Burrito" - A buddy of mine since second grade, Jer is spry and shifty. If pushed, he will not let things lie. He likes hats. And lions.

Greg B., aka "Bonham" - Another buddy of mine since second grade, Bonham is undeniably lovable, but highly volatile if elbow-dropped. Incapable of taking an embarrassing drunk picture, he will one day ride on a tank through the streets of a third-world country as the leader of its military junta.

Greg P., aka "Gregerson" - A buddy of mine who I met through Christoff. Gregerson has been unemployed for the past six months due to a merger, and he is one of the better smokers I know. His lifestyle is to be envied.

Chandler, aka "The Boob Monster" - Lives in the same building as Gregerson. Don't let his calm demeanor and infectious laugh fool you. Chandler is colder than dry ice, although not as cold as Oksana Baiul.

Brendan, aka "Wild Card" - Works with Chandler. Lives in NYC. Has bad dreams at inopportune times.

Sara, aka "Novocain" - Friend of Volleyball Katie (who was originally slated to go on the trip). Dentist. She had met none of us before going on this trip.

Preet, aka "The Silent Assassin" - Also a friend of Volleyball Katie. Also a dentist. She had also met none of us before going on this trip. Together with Sara, they were not once referred to as "The Only Two Dentists in the Group." Until now.

Various krauts and dagos (I'm allowed to call Italians dagos because I am half-Italian, and I'm allowed to call Germans krauts because I hate them all)

Stay tuned for the next part, entitled "Sunday 9/23"

Shameless Self-Promotion

Loyal readers, as many of you know, I've been taking writing classes at Second City for about 14 months. Well, I'm finally done with the program, which means that my writing class gets to put on its own sketch comedy show.

That show, appropriately entitled "No Offense, Assh*le," debuts this Friday at 7:30 and will be running every Friday night at 7:30 through November 9. Here are the details:

Name: No Offense, Assh*le
Website: http://nooffenseasshole.blogspot.com (this has details, as well as a picture of the show's flyer)
Location: Donny's Skybox Theatre at Second City, located in Piper's Alley, 1608 N. Wells St., 4th Floor, Chicago, IL 60614
When: Friday nights, 7:30 p.m., Oct. 12 through Nov. 9
Admission: $10, $8 for students, $5 for TC students
How to buy tickets: You can purchase tickets by phone at (312) 337-3992 or online at http://secondcity.com/?id=theatres/chicago/donny/buytickets

As the title implies, the show is for mature audiences. There are 6 people in my class, and we all wrote one full-length sketch, as well as a shorter sketch. We also wrote a sketch and a song as a group. If you laugh at something, assume I wrote it. If you don't laugh, just assume it's not my sketch. Also, the actors in the show are all hilarious, so that's a plus. So if you're looking for something to do any or all of the next 5 Fridays, stop by.

Munich Recap Coming at Some Point

I swear to God. I'm still waiting for certain pictures. Bear with me.

New Book: Can't Stop Won't Stop

Well, I finished up The Record Men: The Chess Brothers and the Birth of Rock & Roll by Rich Cohen. It was short, but pretty good, describing Chess Records' rise and fall. It's particularly interesting being from Chicago, since it's hard to imagine that Chicago used to be such a music powerhouse.

Tomorrow morning I'm going to start on Can't Stop Won't Stop: A History of the Hip-Hop Generation by Jeff Chang. Peace out.

By the way, it's nice to see the Bears not give up 34 points in the 4th quarter and get a nice road win. Lovie owns Lambeau.

New Poll: Must See TV

Well, as expected, it turns out more people hate Notre Dame than Michigan.

While I'm waiting for Chandler to get back from Europe and supply me with pictures of random German women in dirndls, we will have a non-dirndl-related poll.

Tonight was the long-awaited season premier night for NBC's vaunted Thursday night lineup. What show are you most excited about this season? My Name is Earl? 30 Rock? The Office? Scrubs? ER?

Viva Bavaria

Well folks, I'm back from Oktoberfest, several pounds heavier and with fewer years left on Earth. Expect an extremely long recap (complete with many pictures and at least one video) sometime later this week or maybe early next week, depending on when people get me their pictures and at least one video. Also be expecting a Bavarian Eavesdropping and a dirndl-related poll. Grüß Gott!