This past weekend was the annual trip to Oktoberfest in Lake Arrowhead. I learned a lot from my trip last year — mostly that German people aren’t all that bad. Well…except for that 10-year blip in history. Oh yeah, and there was also that time during WWI. That was pretty bad.
OK, so maybe OLD German’s aren’t great. But Germany 2.0, that’s a reboot I can drink to. At least for one weekend of the year. And no, Germany, I’m not interested in 150 free hours of AOL.
Last year we went with a crew of 9 people. This year, we doubled that, and rolled into town with 18 people — 5 chicks and 13 dudes. As you can imagine, it was a sausage fest — but hey, it’s Oktoberfest, that kinda comes with the territory.
But even still, there was this haunting question that lingered over us the entire weekend:
You know what this party needs?
More dudes!
The ball-to-giny ratio was a bit lopsided — but this is what us men live for. Beer, sausage, music, and partying.
And farts.
Lots and lots of farts. But we’ll get to that shortly.
So we arrived in Lake Arrowhead around 10pm on Friday night. It’s about a 2 hour drive from Los Angeles up into the mountains — and I mean up into the mountains. Lake Arrowhead is this little community nestled tightly at the top of the tree-cloaked slopes — and you know it’s far away from L.A. because there’s actual weather there. Like, it gets cold at night and smells like naturey-things.
We arrive separately in 4 cars. The house we’ve rented is massive. Think: a quaint woodland cabin meets The Shining. It was huge, old, and narrow. The hallways were like a maze and there were little doors and closets where I suspect they keep the twin girls that roam the hallways at night.
But even with it’s red-rummy feel, it was delightful. There was an entire library of movies on VHS tapes (including Kindergarten Cop and Sister Act). There was Jenga, board games, and a pool table. And it could pretty much sleep all of our degenerate asses in some way or another. So we were set.
And in proper homage to German culture, we rolled up with about five 30-racks of shitty American beer — Bud Light, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and Naddy Ice. You know…the good stuff.
It seemed like a lot of beer when we first got there, but by about four in the morning, it was looking like 150 beers wasn’t enough. There is something about Jenga that makes a man thirsty. Between the beer pong, acoustic guitar circle (complete with trumpet), and the excitement of being out of the city, our gullets overflowed with Germanic excitement. We thought about storming our neighbor’s house and forcefully taking it over. Perhaps imposing our will upon them and confiscating their womens.
Instead, we did this:
That just happened
Great picture, right? I would remember taking it the next morning. So the evening went, the German spirit alive in us all. Some people even felt it kicking around until the sun came up. But I ducked out before Mr. Sunshine and hit the sack.
And for good measure. We needed our rest for the meat and taters of our journey: Ocktoberfest!
Now, for those of you picturing something grandoise, stop it. Dream smaller. It’s pretty much just a stage, a big tent, and a beer/food stand. It could maybe fit 200 people max. And minus the parents who bring their five year old kids, we are the youngest people there by about 10 years.
This is why we come. To celebrate. (And also because it’s the only Oktoberfest in Southern California that does not charge a cover to get in. But mostly, we come to for that small-town experience.) Great beer, amazing food, and the best band I’ve ever heard.
I spoke about the band last year. Since I don’t know their actual name, lets just call them The Shizas. These guys fucking rock. Five old men dressed in lederhosen and suspenders, with a whole army of brass instruments, chicken hats, and beer steins. They drink the entire time. And I mean the ENTIRE time. 51 weeks out of the year, they would be considered alcoholics. Friends and family would be concerned. But for this one week, they are superstars. They shine. Nay, they inspire.
Much like Phil Collins, these guys are lead by a beer-swilling, heavily accented drummer. Let’s just call him “Heil Collins”. He sits in the back of the group in what I call the Eagles Nest of the stage — just perched, drumming and waiting to deliver the most fantastic rendition of “She’s Too Fat For Me” you’ve ever heard. The guy is good. I mean real good. And at one point, he even comes down into the audience to drum on every random thing he can find.
I think he was drunk.
We rocked out hard at the festival, grabbing two beers at a time. Unlike last year — where it poured rain the entire time we were there — this year had glorious sunshine. And so the place was packed. People were dancing, drinking, eating. The German dancers in front of the stage were “sieg heil”-ing. And everyone was just having a splendid time. (I should note that perhaps the finest Chicken Dance ever in the history of the world went down in front of that very stage around 3:45 PM).
Unfortunately, they ran out of beer towards the end of the day. Which was pretty lame for an Oktoberfest, but we were all pretty schlitzed so it didn’t matter. There was a funnel cake tent next door, so we all moseyed our inebriated asses over that way. They were actually selling FRIED OREOS and FRIED TWINKIES there as well.
What kind of fat fuck needs a fried oreo?? Isn’t that like the most unneccessarily fattening and disgusting thing you can think of??
I had 5.
And a plate of fried dough. It was fantastic, what can I say. When in Rome.
I’m sorry, I’m still not quite getting the meaning of that one. So we all started back towards our cabin, where we had about 6 more 30-packs of cheap beer waiting for us. As well as frozen pizzas and chicken nuggets and other edible trans-fats. The good stuff.
Some people napped when they got home — probably wise — but I called them all fags and kept right on drinking. This was Oktoberfest after all, folks. Not Naptoberfest. (And in case you’re wondering, yes, I do make these lame jokes in person as well).
We rocked out to some Beatles. We played Hangman and Trivial Pursuit. There was an intense game of Uno being played. And the Jenga table was like a war zone. I shit you not, a fight broke out between two dudes over the Jenga game. Like an actual fist fight that we had to break up.
To describe the scene going on inside that cabin would be crazy. it was like a “Friday Night Kegger” meets a “Mormon Family Night”. Never has so much beer met so much wholesome family fun.
And then it started.
The farts. At first, just a few here and there. There was the occasional hushed comment between men, “Dude. Was that you?” A couple cover-ups. After all, there were ladies present. It might be a dude fest, but these were cool girls and some were even single, so there’s no need for them to be subjected to what smelled like Big Foot’s dick.
It all started innocently enough. And I’m not even sure what caused it to become so extreme so fast — (well, actually, I have a pretty good idea. We were drinking cheep beer all day and night, had huge bacon, egg, and cheese sandwhiches for breakfast, ate bratwurst, sausage, and potato salad for lunch, more cheep beer, chicken nuggets, frozen pizzas) — OK, yeah, I think I get it.
But by about 10 PM, that place was a danger zone. Kenny Loggins had nothing on us. There was actually one point where I went upstairs to the third floor to get my sweatshirt — It smelled like dookie on the third floor, cabbage on the second floor, baby diapers on the main floor, and dog farts in the basement. The whole house — top to bottom — was filled with Smell-O-Vision. I was blinded.
Of course, for men, this is hilarious. On several occasions, I laughed so hard I actually started to cry. Which in turn, forced me to fart. There was another point in the evening where I was in the basement — a main hub of shit smells — and one of the girls came down the stairs to grab a sweatshirt she had tragically left down there earlier.
I’ve never seen a girl move so quickly. She ran down the stairs, grabbed the shirt, pivoted mid-stride, and was back up the stairs. Unfortunately for her, us dudes were mid-argument over how one of our friends was dressed. He was wearing a polo with the top button fastened and looked kinda herb-ish. We were giving him shit and telling him to unbutton it and loosen up — he was arguing to the contrary. So we stopped this girl on her suicide mission to ask her opinion, and I’ve never seen anyone react so fast:
“Uuhhh, it doesn’t really matter–”
And she was back up the stairs. She admitted later that it smelled like someone was burning hair on top of a fire made of feces. So you get the idea.
Despite the smells, we partied ridiculously hard. There were laughs, dancing, guitar-playing, and enough Trivial Pursuit questions to make me feel genuinely mentally handicapped. (I am really, really bad at that game.) Incredibly, by about 4 in the morning, we ran out of beer again. A feat I didn’t think was physically possible considering the amount of booze we bought and the day-time festivies we undertook. But what can I say, I guess the farts made us stronger.
There are also a number of fantastic drunken stories worth diving into — including one involving kraft singles, topless girl screaming obscenities, and much more — but we will be recording a podcast this weekend and will be discussing them in hilarious detail. There’s some really good stuff, so stay tuned.
But in the meantime, do me this one favor. Grab a stein of Oktoberfest beer, raise your glass, and sing this German toast along with me:
Zicke Zacke, Zicke Zacke, Hoi Hoi Hoi!!
