Oktoberfest I made an ass out of myself at Oktoberfest the other night. This is not something I would ordinarily reveal to strangers, but like legions of talk-show guests on daytime television, I tell my story so that others might be saved from a similar fate. I ask not to be judged, only to be understood.
Chickens to watch out for
By Scott Vogel
svogel@starbulletin.comIt would be easy to pin my downfall on the chicken dance, which after all has spelled ruin for many an autumn reveler. I might also blame the beer, and specifically a solicitous blond barmaid by the name of Heidi (really!) who served me so many St. Pauli Girls that finally I found Heidi indistinguishable from the girl on the label. Accusations could also be leveled at the festival's hearty menu (prepared by executive chef Siegbert Wendler), whose gastronomic heaviness should have come with a warning to the effect that sausages and dancing don't mix.
But finally, there's no excuse for what happened, unless it be the abandon that overcomes one at such happy feasts of Dionysian excess. In fact, it may well be impossible to avoid having a ball at the 31st annual Oktoberfest, running through Sunday at the Ala Moana Hotel, just as it may be impossible to avoid doing things you later regret.
"Iss time for dee chicken dance!," announced the leader of the Edelweiss Band, a spirited ensemble brimming with Tyrolean excess. This was early on, long before the schnapps and sauerbraten, when we were still in our terpsichorean prime. Rushing to the dance floor, a group of 30 of us plunged through the dance's intricate moves with a deftness and élan that Martha Graham might have envied. Our chirps demonstrated a clean wrist action, our arm flaps maintained perfect wing position, and our descents during the wiggle-your-tail-feathers segment were a model of depth and fluidity. We retired from the floor as cocks of the walk, a title richly earned.
But then the band took a break while door prizes were awarded. As a matter of record, I was holding ticket No. 1346, one of the winners of a giant blue felt hat fashioned in the shape of a Lowenbrau beer stein. Claiming one's prize, however, required one to model said hat for the crowd. I had not consumed enough alcohol to perform such an act, and so the prize went unclaimed. (Later, when I had consumed enough alcohol, the hats had all been taken.) I rebuked myself for cowardice, an act of self-loathing that led me directly to the bar.
When: 6 p.m. to 1 a.m. tonight and tomorrow, 5 to 11 p.m. Sunday The 31st Annual Oktoberfest
Where: Hibiscus Ballroom, Ala Moana Hotel, 410 Atkinson Dr.
Cost: $5 to $8
Call: 955-4811
"Guess what? Iss dat time again!" said that woman from the stage, and a smaller crowd scurried to the floor (a bit more sluggishly this time). While the dance's chicken elements were still presented with quality, I did notice a decline in my arm turns with fellow revelers, particularly an overenthusiastic senior citizen whose incessant circling seemed hell-bent on producing upchuck. But the dizziness soon faded, and I was still under relative control.But there were ominous signs on the horizon. For one, I began to think Heidi was flirting with me. (In fact, it turned out to be the label.) For another, I felt a curious desire to hug one of the German travel posters adorning the walls of the Hibiscus Ballroom. For another, I began eyeing suspiciously the scale-model chalet at the front of the stage, which in my drunkenness looked exactly like the puppet theater in "The Sound of Music." One moment more and I might have begun yodeling "The Lonely Goatherd." But then, "Ya know what time iss now, right?" came a voice from somewhere over my right temple. I froze in horror.
Dear God, no please, not again.
But then, as if via levitation, I felt my body glide to the floor like a chicken suddenly granted wings to fly. Somehow I found the strength to dance again. True, my fingers were too numb for beaks, my elbows too sore for wings, but surely my tail feathers would support ...The next thing I remember is the sound of tail feathers crashing to the floor, my body reduced to a twisted mass of bird and bone on the dance floor's periphery. So paralyzing was the fall that even embarrassment adrenaline couldn't lift me from the floor. I was planted in that spot for what seemed like hours, during which time I hatched the idea of going public about the night's events as a service to all of you.
But now that I think about it -- hey, it was all worth it. Forget what I said! Go!
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