According to this site, there was supposed to be an Oktoberfest street fair in my brother’s neighborhood at the beginning of October (I know, I’m the W.B.E.). So, after a pretty rough Saturday night, we all got motivated for some German bratwurst and beer; a little hair of the dog. It happened to be opening day for the Giants, so Will and I were pretty pumped. The girls humored us.
We staggered west until we saw the ubiquitous NYC street fair booths: Mozzarepas, tube socks, and banzai trees. As we looked south toward the heaving hordes, we were dubious. We should have trusted our instincts long before we got out of bed. However, fall was upon us and we were in the spirit. All the boys wanted was a couple of Spaaten, but it was all for naught. Crappy glass wares and sweatshop-labor baby clothes is all we saw. Needless to say, we were crushed
Still, we pressed on. Surely, one of those booths off in the distance must offer an amber relief from our staccato stupor! The farther we fought through the corn-on-the-cob munching crowd, the more we battled against the imitation-Thinsulate-glove buyers, the deeper we fell into the quicksand of quantity over quality, and the farther we tumbled from pints of happiness. We never found a beer at that street fair. We never found bratwurst. We left home in search of German delicacies and ended up with Italian sausage.
Except the Giants lost.