To Frankfurt Bitches!

August 8, 2009

Ya know what sounds good today? hmmm? Howsabout ten hours in Ol Orange for a drive along the Autobahn?

Ok, heads front  seat, tails gets the bed o merch!

Ok, heads front seat, tails gets the bed o merch!

Yes, yes….that was the drive today, but at least now we know we have the stuff to become cosmonauts when we grow up. Is no problem to sit in defective cramped metal box and use recently empty drinking vessible as urinal! Yah!

Leave me!  I will not get back into that thing!!

Leave me! I will not get back into that thing!!

Read a bit and napped a bit….apparently, at this point the only way to tell that we are actually asleep is by the terrifyingly vivid dreams that accompany any REM. At one point Alf and I are discussing the benefits and drawbacks of Interleague play, the next I stood on a Nordic battlefield in only a loincloth, the bloodied head of my vowed enemy in one hand as I licked clean my 9th century brazen swurd with the other!! Ah well—the past lives have come back to haunt us in the Motherland!

Gaa!  Quit hitting me and wake up Magrann!

Gaa! Quit hitting me and wake up Magrann!


Lunch is at a charming Roadhouse, where we all got our buffet lunches and then sat as far away from each other as possible. Anthony made the surprising discovery that fresh shrimp are as valuable as plutonium deep in the German heartland—who knew? A modest shrimp salad that would go for 5.99 at Sizzler weekdays costs as much as a sealed car battery back home!!

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Finally made it into Frankfurt and were met by the great guys putting on the show, Fonzi and Daniel.
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They fired up the grill and we sat to grilled goat cheese and brats with good local Bindlinder. We coulda been sittin in Alex’s patio on a Sunday afternoon—

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The club was a proper dungeon deep below the fevered Earth surface. Down there the heat of the day dissapated and the shadowy fog of a thousand drunken spirits bade us to stay and play!!
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We immediately behaved like children at Knotts Scary Farm when we discovered the Funucular lift that took the gear down to the club’s final surface—-
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Me next! Me next!

Me next! Me next!


Played a long sweaty set down in the bowels, and later surfaced to find a full moon hovering over a sweating Frankfurt.
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Perhaps just one Kebap before returning to the hostel to continue our battles on the bloodied tundra, yes? Yes!

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