Chronologically Confused Oktoberfest Foodies

One of my friends from med school is now in plastic surgery residency in Cincinnati.

While visiting her there this weekend, I experienced my very first Oktoberfest. I agreed to go along to said fest, politely overlooking the fact that it was occurring in September, figuring that if Oktoberfest is good, then the extra-early Septemberfest version of it is probably even better. (...and also because I had it on good authority that there would be an attempt at setting the world record for largest group performing the Chicken Dance en masse.)

While wandering around September/Oktoberfest, we came across a batter-dipped, deep-fried, powdered-sugar-covered peanut butter and jelly sandwich available from one of the food vendors.

While ogling the sandwich with shock and awe, we met three guys who were on the verge of splitting one such sandwich. They let us take these pictures of their gastronomic moment of glory. They did not die. At least not while we were still there to witness it.

We then stumbled upon the Hudepohl Beer Glockenspiel Clock Tower where a phenomenal British announcer was drumming up crowd excitement for the World Bratwurst Eating Championships, in which last year's winner, Joey "Jaws" Chestnut, was about to defend his title against a dude in a lucha libre Mexican wrestling mask. You can't make this stuff up.

Joey ate 32 bratwurst in 10 minutes. Then he ate another 5 bratwurst in 1 minute to seal the championship. In contrast, I've eaten about 5 bratwurst in 31 years.

To quote the announcer, it was "the greatest event in all of recorded gastric history. The Mount Sinai of mastication."

Here's how Joey Jaws felt about his accomplishment:

Here's how we felt while watching his accomplishment:

If you've never watched a grown man ingest 32 brats in 10 minutes, you simply wouldn't understand the mix of mute horror and admiration.

With that in mind:
The next time you're feeling down, truly low, like you've already given all you have to give, dig deep inside yourself and remember that there's always room for 5 more bratwurst.

Up Past My Bedtime with Elton John

When we were kids, my sisters and I were contentious little goobers who would bicker with each other over inconsequential things (often Barbie-related), then get sent off to time-out in separate rooms until we could be peaceful again. While we were fighting we couldn't stand each other, but the instant we were separated for time-out, an odd thing would happen.

I'll get to the odd thing in a moment. First, a bit of background on the architectural quirks of the house where I spent my early childhood:

It was a squatty adobe built sometime pre-1900's. Up in the attic, two tiny bedrooms with ~4' ceilings had been framed out. Along the lowest wall, there was an unlit, dusty, mousy crawlspace connecting the two bedrooms for anyone brave enough to make the journey across the exposed rafters.

Now back to the odd phenomenon:

As soon as we were separated--Janene or Bonnie to one attic bedroom, and me to the other--we'd suddenly feel like best friends again, and it would seem like a wonderful idea to crawl through that dark, dirty, decrepit attic space in order to secretly hang out with each other during time-out. Under no other circumstances did that crawlspace hold any appeal. Under no other circumstances did we like each other that much.

I wonder why everyday stuff is so much more appealing when it's off limits? Why would a simple change of circumstance make something mundane or frankly unpleasant become fun?

If I knew the answer to that, I'd also know why it was so delightful to get up at midnight to bicycle 18 miles through random parts of St Louis as part of the Moonlight Ramble last night (http://www.moonlightramble.com/).

Biking = Normal activity

Midnight = Rather be sleeping than riding a bike

Soulard district = Yikes! Not exactly safe at night.

But somehow, when you bring all those components together with all the roads closed to car traffic, and 10,000 other people on bicycles, it's a dang good time.

...especially when we found out that Dave's black shirt lights up like an Elton John stage costume whenever a camera flash goes off.

He's a Rocket Man.

...It kind of puts my rumply T-shirt to shame.