Okay, shtop me i've you 'erd thish one...!

Well, I’m writing this minus a few hundred brain cells…I just finished a beer that was so large that I had to lift it with both hands. Really, the only reason I ordered it was to wash down a pretzel that was itself so large that it could have eaten me under the right circumstances. I have a very high opinion of German food, but it may have been artificially produced.

After a week of jet lag I am FINALLY back on American time zones, and we went out to eat at a German restaurant tonight. A bunch of old guys wearing lederhosen were playing brass instruments in the second floor of some rickety structure above the dining room. I saw no way to access that level, so it's possible they got up there as young men and were never able to escape.

After a month of nothing but curry, it was a pleasant change to have something cooked differently, at least for one night. I started to cry as I sat down with a gigantic piece of meat, a schnitzel, which is like a fried continent. I mean it, I pulled my hat off my head and covered my face with it and started to cry in the middle of an overcrowded German restaurant. In Germany, the best way I can think of to describe the food is "pragmatic." It is there to get the job done, and make sure that the beer has something to keep it company. As I sat there staring at the third empty stein (and isn’t it about time to start working on a fourth?) This is what it is all about was the thought that crept across my mind, like skywriting. If getting drunk at eleven in the fucking afternoon and eating a huge piece of meat is wrong, than I don't want to be right.

In Germany, meals come in discrete phases, like space rockets. We have no idea what we're ordering, ever. We point at menus to get our food, at random items whose origins are mysterious to us. Every time, I seem to get sausages and sauerkraut. I'm fine with this, I think that pickling things is very prudent and I support the procedure wholeheartedly. But my wife Caren always gets something like a bowl of Turkey Jell-O with a carrot in it or some shit. That's not a joke. And I just KNOW that this will lead to the inevitable: Picking shit off MY plate because you chose wrong on “Wheel of Dinner”.

As I staggered back to the car, it occurred to me that I was probably too drive to drunk. As Caren conducted a minor test on me to check my inebriation level (which included me singing all four stanzas of “Hey Joe”) it was concluded that, after verse three of “Hit me baby one more time”, I was indeed too drunk to even start the car, let alone back it out of the parking lot. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t even FIND the goddam car. My wife was gracious enough to point out that we didn't drive a station wagon, in fact we had never even OWNED such. No, she didn't think we should just "borrow" it either. Yes, she was sure the owners would mind.

As we drove back tonight, a single thought kept creeping into my mind: “That goddam Steve Perry owes me a beer!” And on the heels of that: “I still have some beer in my pantry!”

Why is it that I can’t seem to let fucked-up enough alone? I’m one of those really funny drunks: I don’t get violent or acerbic. I don’t try to dance on the table, nor do I think I am tougher and faster than a biker named “Big Al”.

No, I have to tell everyone how much I love them, and then start singing this stupid song about goblins! I have no idea WHY I do this, but it seems terribly important at the time. Then I usually pass out on the floor, and sleep for about 12 hours.

So, after I finish this, I am heading straight for bed. See you sober losers tomorrow. After 2:30 in the afternoon, that is.