Bicycle Crash Test

For some reason I can't stop laughing at this:

Oktoberfest by the Bay 2006

Oktoberfest By the Bay was missing something. A certain ich weiß nicht was that might have made me glad I went.

Waiting in line outside for nearly an hour and a half was probably the most enjoyable part; at least I could talk with friends without having to shout. I could hear the horde inside long before I could see it. Once through the door (a privilege that cost $15), we learned that they were sold out of the liter-sized beer steins ($10), so there was no longer any hope of making $6 beers worthwhile. Various booths sold kitschy hats that looked more like souvenirs from a Harry Potter convention than anything a Deutscher might wear. The bratwurst on offer looked lamer than what I can get at the local county fair. The beer was good, but at $6 a pop I felt like I took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in a football stadium. The Jäger shots ($4 each or three for $10) couldn't have been more than half their claimed volume, so I stayed sober enough to feel ripped off, and the thin plastic test tubes did nothing to retain the cold necessary to keep Jäger palatable.

The warehouse lights of the pavillion lent nothing to the atmosphere, exposing the grimy, beer-saturated detail of every horizontal surface. Once the sun went down, the other side of beer consumption went on display outside in the form of every imaginable style of public urination, from the masculine arc into the Bay to the more gentle squat against the wall. The pier's moorings held fast the wallowing masses.

After an hour the music finally started, but "Brown-Eyed Girl" was hardly what I was expecting at Oktoberfest. Entertainment came in fits and starts throughout the evening, with the occasional traditional number thrown in between the chants of "ziggy zoggy ziggy zoggy hoy hoy hoy," obviously learned by most from studious hours spent watching "The Man Show."

Long after I decided that I needed a trip to a real bar to make up for the Oktoberfest experience, we finally took our leave of the event. From beneath the dumpsters emerged a rather large puddle I don't recall seeing on my way in. Revellers embarked on their journey homeward, some lightening their load along the way. For several blocks in every direction, the remains of well-used steins lay scattered along the pavement, thoroughly shattered along with my expectations.

Shenandoah National Park

The changing leaves at Shenandoah National Park

 

Catfish at Wendy's

Yesterday we treated the kids to Wendy's (which I love, but usually regret) on the way home from Shenandoah National Park. The location in Vienna is right next to a grungy tributary of the Potomac. On our way out, a woman on the creek side of the parking lot calls over and asks if I know something or other, but I couldn't understand what she said. She's wrangling a toddler, so I cross the parking lot.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Do you know how to de-hook a catfish? Weird question, I know."

Her son and a friend (around nine or ten years old) were fishing from the bank and had caught a six incher, but one kid was clueless and the other was afraid to try since being stabbed once by a catfish barb. Searching my memory with the lone keyword "catfish" pulls up a visual from twenty years ago of my father, somewhere on the Minong Flowage in northwest Wisconsin, yowling as the one catfish I ever caught latches onto his thumb while he tries to free it from my fishing line.

"Um, sure. It's been awhile, but I'll give it a shot."

Peering into a tupperware of murky water, I see first that it's not just hooked, but also entangled in the fishing line like some sort of aquatic Bob Flanagan. Naturally, the hook is lodged in the roof of its mouth to boot, so between that and the fact that the stupid thing won't unclamp its jaws, it takes a minute to free it.

Meanwhile, the kids catch another catfish, this one nearly twice the size of the first.

"What the heck are you guys using for bait?"

"Bacon and sausage."

"Looks better than what I just ate."

"It's from Whole Foods. It's all I had in the house."

Suburbia at its finest.

Tattoos

Tattoos are getting so common, I figure it's just a matter of time before the surprise gift in a box of Cracker Jack isn't one of those lick-em-and-stick-em temporary jobs that kindergartners put on to scare their parents, but the real deal: a tiny disposable gun and ink to start that tattoo addiction early. Even sorority girls have one now, so the people who are really into tattooing need to up the ante by getting ever more eye-catching tattoos in ever more visible locations. Already used up the space available on your arms and legs? No problem - your neck is the best place to show off your most cherished design. Seems the only thing that still carries a stigma is having little blue tears at the corner of your left eye. Of course it's only a matter of time before you gotta shank someone in a prison brawl to earn some street cred.

Now the kids with full sleeves and a crappy haircut are getting older and breaking into truly frightening territory: parenthood. Not that I object to tattooed parents. But am I the only one who feels somewhat surprised to see inked moms and dads walking down the street with an unembellished child? I always feel a bit thrown off - as if I expect tattoos to become part of one's genetic code, passed on to offspring just like eye color and fear of math.

"Oh look, little Tommy has his daddy's barbed wire armband. How adorable!"

"Was that a butterfly I saw peeking above Jessica's diaper?"

Naturally there might be some unfortunate instances of tattoos combining and mutating. Picture a pink heart-and-crossbones or Winnie the Pooh pissing on a Ford logo.

Call it unreasonable, call it insane, but this is one more reason I remain ink-free. Maybe I'll consider it after I have that vasectomy.