Raising The Bar: Diary of a Bavarian Beer Tent

While some people view drinking as a hobby, others (such as myself) see the consumption of alcohol as a way of life. So when I was first approached about writing an alcohol related piece I figured what the hell, there might even be one or two people out there depraved enough to actually enjoy it. Then I began to ponder what it would take to truly enrich the re-telling of my drunken debauchery and draw the reader ever so deeper into my liver of darkness. Out of nowhere the answer hit me like a double shot of absinthe, a diary. I’ll explain it thusly; if the random explanation of a night’s events is like a concert ticket, then a diary is the backstage pass. So now, for your viewing pleasure, I present the diary of a Bavarian Beer Tent.

Friday Afternoon

2:30 Work just isn’t cutting it. My mind is racing in nervous anticipation for the gong show that lies ahead. A quick peak outside my office and the boss-man is nowhere in sight. I’m the fuck outta here.

2:50 First stop, the liquor store. A two-four of Lakeport, twenty-sixer of Tanqueray and a bottle of red wine should do it. Check that, I’d better double up on the vino as my sister and husband are joining us and they go through that shit like it’s their job.

3:00 Home. I’ve got three racks of ribs that have been marinating overnight. The plan is to slow cook them in the BBQ for four hours, so it’s time to crank up the cue and get them on. But first, an ice-cold, frothy brown beverage to kick off the weekend. “pssst”.

3:30 The ribs are on, the sun is shining and I’m halfway through beer number two. What is it about sun and the scent of charred flesh that makes beer so magically delicious? At this pace, I’ll be half cut by dinner which means by the time we roll to the beer tent, well, things might get a bit weird.

4:15 The first tough decision of the day, should I cut the back grass or have another cold beer. Fuck it, that’s what Sundays are for. “pssst”

4:30 I check on the ribs and ohhh doctor, all three racks of meaty goodness are just starting to glisten and sweat. The smell alone just gave me a half-woody.

5:30 “pssst” I’d better rig up the laptop and Ipod. After a few more beers the act of inserting plugs into holes could be a daunting challenge. It’s also probably why I don’t have any kids yet (of the legitimate variety).

5:35 While the tunes blare the beer is going down like a sorority girl at a keg party, quickly and without a struggle. Neighbors on both sides of me just popped their head into the back yard to give me a collective stink eye. Don’t you fucking people have jobs.

6:20 As I near the barbecue the sound of fat sizzling onto hot coals is like angels whispering in my ear. Similarly, the beer tastes like drinking angels from a blender.

6:25 If my beer consumption was a prizefight, bottle number six just got KO’ed in the first round. “pssst” Finally the doorbell rings announcing the first guests of the day, or night, or whenever the fuck time it is. The best part about guests showing up is now I don’t have to leave the meat or the beer as they were probably starting to get lonely without me. Christ knows I missed them.

7:00 Three more people have shown up, 2 bottles of red wine now have empty nest syndrome, and beer number 8 went down in about the same time it would take to write a haiku using only question marks. The meat has been cooking for over three hours and lifting the barbecue's hood is like watching Halle Berry walk out of a pool naked, beautiful, glistening and ripe. I give the meat a few sprays with an apple juice and oil concoction to keep it moist. God that smells good, I think I just came in my pants.

7:30 Since seven o’clock I’ve be spritzing the ribs every five minutes and spritzing my liver every 5 seconds. I’m starting to get a beer bloat so time to switch’er up for a while which leads to dilemma of the day number two, gin or wine. Not that it really matters, choosing between gin & water and red wine is like choosing doggy style over missionary, either way I’m fucked.

7:40 G & W gets the nod. With any luck the water will trick my system into only making me hung over for one day. With dinner almost ready, it’s time to sauce the meat. That sounds kind of dirty but gives me an idea. Sadly none of the ladies are as keen as I am on the idea of a wet t-shirt contest.

7:45-8:55 Inaudible noises, sound of flesh being torn from bone, belching, grunting

9:00 Fast forward to the end of the meal and not surprisingly, the ribs were a huge hit with everyone. Also not surprisingly, after my fourth gin and water I’m starting to talk like I just ate a foot long sub full of wasps. There was one chick that wasn’t thrilled with the ribs. Apparently she’s a vegan so I apologized and kindly asked her to leave.

9:40 Nature calls. Oops, half and half may make for a good drink, but it’s not an ideal ratio for urine in the bowl versus on the floor. I just catch a quick glance of myself in the mirror and I’m starting to look like a back up dancer from the Thriller video.

9:45 I slur at everyone that we’re leaving in 15 minutes, giving me just enough time to enjoy a smooth glass of red wine and a fat Monte Cristo. I might as well get a small taste of high society because once we enter the beer tent you won’t be able to find class with the Hubble Telescope.

10:00 The reason we congregate at my house every year is it’s close proximity to the beer tent. It’s only a five-minute walk so we only have to bring one roadie each, and a touch of gin just in case.

10:10 We finally stumble to the gate and I probably could have done with two pints. Then again, I was harrowingly close to face planting into a four-foot ditch so maybe it was a good thing. This marks the end of my clock watching. It’s starting to make me dizzy. From here on in, time has no bearing, and neither do I.

•We pay to get in and there’s a small lineup in front of the beer tent. Luckily for me, I also brought that water bottle half filled with gin, which should tide me over nicely. The lack of burning sensation as I down straight Tanqueray notifies me that I’m over the legal limit, and by legal limit I mean my blood-alcohol content is bordering on 60-40 (this is roughly the level at which tears become flammable).

•We’re finally ushered into the tent and I comment they should rename this place “the bakery” on account of how much hot pie is on display.

 

 

I have to focus intently on the task at hand however, finding a picnic table to set up shop.

 

•There’s a vacant table at the back, but it’s close enough to the bar that we can still scout the talent and make disparaging remarks. “Holy fuck did you just see that thing”? “Ya, she looked like a crushed can of assholes. I wouldn’t fuck her with your mom’s strap-on”. Sadly this exchange leads into a ten-minute discussion surrounding war amps and stump fucking.

•Round one arrives via tray. Fifteen draughts for 7 people, two of which aren’t drinking anymore. Two draughts later and the bad news is I feel like Christopher Reeves as I have no feeling in my legs. The good news is I’ve also acquired his movie powers. I’m pretty sure every chick in here wants me because I’m superman.

•Three hot blondes saunter over to the bar and order up 6 pints, my kinda’ girls. As they get near our table I’m preparing a witty comment when my buddy chimes in with “let’s see your tits”!!! The girls shoot us a disgusted look and keep walking. Not my type of girls after all. I just wish someone told me the clock had already struck belligerence.

•Round two arrives just in time. All that air was making me nauseous. My eyes are like piss-holes in the snow and it feels like I’m looking at the world through paper cuts.

•One of my friends strikes up a conversation with a portly redhead whose clothes are about 18 sizes too small. She looks like a bag of carrots in a vice grip so I asked her how many midgets she ate today. Apparently she left her sense of humor at the gate as she replied by pouring the remainder of her beer on my head. I told her she may want to consider drinking light beer and spent the next four minutes laughing uncontrollably at my own joke.

•It’s about at this point when my recollection of the night’s events becomes, for lack of a better term, non-existent. Luckily the highlights can be summed up as follows:

My one pick-up line of the night consisted of grabbing a girl by the wrist and staring at her blankly until she patted me on the head and walked away briskly.

I was able to either insult or horrify close to fifteen people, which ordinarily is not that hard to do but it’s quite an accomplishment considering the language I was speaking can best be described as “Ewok”.

Needless to say, I woke up alone at around lunch hour (ok, late lunch hour) with a throbbing brain and a thirst so intense I would have gladly licked the sweat off George the Animal Steele’s back hair. If there’s a moral to the story it’s this, if you want to pick up girls when you go out, make sure you can speak, and if you’re going to cook ribs, make sure you spritz. I’m off to check on the damage to my back yard, but I’ll see you in hell.