The post-graduation job placement leaves a little to be desired (and might explain why the unemployment rate in Germany is so high), but have no doubt, these guys offer the best undergraduate program around.

We had to overcome a language barrier on our first visit to the academy. After a lengthy session at another pub, we wound our way back to Celle and decided to stop into the academy for a nightcap. Maybe we could even score a scholarship!

I looked the bar man straight in the eye and asked for “dunkelweizen”.

He poured a Coca-Cola.

I repeated “dunkelweizen”.

He shook his head as if not to understand. At that point, we knew that we weren’t going to qualify for a scholarship, and we began to fear that our application to enroll at the Bier Akademie would be rejected.

“Dunkelweizen” repeated the foreigner lost in Germany.

“Ah…Dunkles…Dunkles Weizen??”

Okay … so perhaps it was the bartender who was behind in his studies. But he served us a round of “Dunkels”, an Einbecker Dunkel … which was a dark lager as opposed to the dark wheat beer that we had requested, but it was good … and it sure beat the hell out of a Coke.

Then we had a Jever, and we realized that a good pilsener beer actually did exist in Germany. Imagine that.

It’s a good thing that the Bier Akademie doesn’t schedule any morning classes, as otherwise we never would have graduated.

You don’t need a 3.5 GPA to get in. Apply now for an undergraduate degree at the Bier Akademie in Celle, Germany.

When the winds of change came to the little town of Bonefish, the barber was ever so distracted. What normally would have been “just a nick”, as referenced in the professional manual for “tradesmen of the hair” everywhere, became a long, wide, deep gash across the neck of Johnny Turbine, who was treating himself to “a close one” prior to his date with Nancy Nixon, the daughter of mayor Nixon, who was know around town as “a goer”. “Bummer”, Johnny thought, as his life gushed down his front, this surely was a mistake that could be fixed. This couldn’t possibly have happened to me!!!! This wasn’t what I meant when I prayed for “a slice” this morning!!!!

So what else is new?

Yeah, the Belgian beer is pretty good. But right now, I’m hungry, and I’m jonesin’ for a McKroket.

No trip to Amsterdam is complete without a late night visit to McDonald’s for a McKroket.

Of course, the die hards prefer the Krokets at FEBO, as they’re open all night.

Mmm … the cheesy goodness … the minced pieces of mystery meat ….

September can’t come too soon …

Speaking of Dallas …

We first ventured into Dick’s Last Resort in Dallas. A yearly trade show in Dallas and a legendary pub crawl where you didn’t really crawl so much between different pubs, as much as you crawled out of Dick’s at the end of the night and tried to make your way back to the hotel.

I’ve spent a number of evenings with friends at Dick’s in Boston and in Chicago, but there was something about those Dallas experiences.

The drink of choice was Mamba Beer, a strong lager brew from Africa. I don’t remember the Mamba being especially good, it was just strong, and came in a 25 oz. bottle … and this was during the quantity over quality days. (Now days, it’s quality and quantity … not either or.)

Al and I had consumed mass quantities of Mamba, and it was nearing closing time. Our trade show “father”, Father John, hoped to see us on booth duty the following morning, so he started the work to migrate us back to the hotel.

Al and I exited the front door, and raced around the corner, only to find an open air bar that was still serving. Al slapped his hand on the bar and called out, “Two shots of something tough and a couple of beers to chase them.”

That was my first and last meeting with Don Q 151 rum.

As we tipped back the shots, the color drained from our faces. Al put his head down at the bar, while I stumbled toward the sidewalk to take a closer look at the shrubbery.

As Father John searched the streets of Dallas for us, he could hear the stereo sound of synchronized vomiting (which I believe was an experimental Olympic event that year).

As I stumbled back toward the bar, Al through his arms in the air and proclaimed, “I’m cool!”

The Green Bay Packers were in town, and a cheesehead lady proclaimed, “You most definitely are not.”

A short Mexican leprechaun emerged from nowhere with a hose and sprayed down the damage. (I’m pretty sure he was a Mexican leprechaun, because we called him Hosè.)

“See what you made him do?” exclaimed the cheesehead.

Al may not have been feeling 100% at the time, but his wit remained quick: “Right, he was in the back, inventing a cure for cancer, and I interrupted him! I can see him back there now … I was this close, and now I’ve got to go hose down the vomit again!”

Ah … memories … so many stories about hurling in Dallas … so little time.

What’s worse than hanging out with a bunch of drunks? Hanging out with a bunch of drunks when you, yourself are NOT drunk. Or so I thought.

During the early days of Infinite Technologies we used to spend a lot of time at trade shows, and a lot of those shows were in Dallas. This was before Las Vegas became the “stand in a booth for eight hours” capital of the universe, and frankly, Dallas was often way more fun. You had to look for trouble in Dallas, rather than simply ordering it from room service.

One trip we met up with a dapper young man named Rodney. Rodney and Brett had worked together for years doing the e-mail thing so naturally Brett invited him to dinner with our crew. “Dinner” as it was called, consisted of eating something quickly to stave off blackouts and then proceeding to drink stupidly until either a cab was called or an arrest report filed. This is all well and good except that Rodney was (and I assume still is) a devout Mormon … and a damn good sport.

In Dallas we usually found ourselves at a place called Dick’s Last Resort. Dick’s boasted an impressive beer list, decent food, and wait staff who viewed dumping a full ashtray on the floor as “exceptional customer service”. Our drink of choice was, well, anything really, but we did have a deep love for Mamba Malt Liquor which came in a handy pint bottle and would truly improve your mood if you could keep it down. We drank Mambas … lots of em … and Rodney sipped 7-up.

As was usually the case, we drank too much and instantly reverted to the Cro-Magnon era. Rodney, hung in there … laughing at our jokes, adding to the conversation, and matching us 7-UP for Mamba the whole way. At the end of the night we poured ourselves into cabs, went back to the hotel and prepared to sweat and stagger through another day in the tradeshow booth, or as we called it “the thing that delayed the drinking”.

We were certain that Rodney had been polite, hung out, experienced what a mess we could become and would never, ever accept another invitation to hang out with us. We were very, very wrong. The next night, and for every night thereafter, we went out to guzzle silly quantities of beer and Rodney was right there. He seemed to really enjoy our company, and possibly the free entertainment, and he never once looked like he wasn’t having a good time.

We don’t do the trade show circuit anymore and Rodney lives in the mountains with his, get this – 13 children (probably had two or three more in the time it took me to write this). Maybe one day I’ll find myself on a bender with the Tabernacle Choir, and maybe I’ll make a friend or two, but Rodney will always be my favorite Mormon. (Don’t be sad Joe … second is good too).

Proud T-shirt owners...

It is said that a man who is confident enough to wear a pink shirt is comfortable with his sexuality. I say that a man who is comfortable enough to enter a place called “The Cock Ring”, have a beer and buy a t-shirt is either very, very comfortable or possibly in denial.

We’ve been visiting Amsterdam for many, many years and often, during a late night stumble through the seedier sections of town we would inevitably pass this ominous and windowless place that we nicknamed the “C-Ring” for the purposes of telling this story in mixed company. Yes, it’s a gay bar and I doubt anyone has ever come upon it and thought otherwise, but you see, this is place is in a scary alley, has a scary dark window, and is, well, scary.

During one such trip, and after what is technically referred to as a “shit-load” of beers, I decided that it was time to brave the darkness and see exactly what was on the other side of that dark door. I will admit that having one of the coolest guys you’ll ever meet, Ryan, along for the visit legitimized us very much and besides, you don’t climb Everest without a Sherpa. Long story short – we went inside, had a drink, bought our shirt and left … less than impressed. It was loud, 70’s disco chaotic, and seemed to appeal more to the Right Said Fred crowd. Ryan declared it a waste of time and I was not qualified to argue. Still, I get a lot of comments whenever I wear my Cock Ring t-shirt … particularly at bake sales and during choir practice.

The real fun began across the street at Argos. Argos, also a gay bar, was far less NYC chic and had a local pub feel … provided your local pub has a long, dark, curtained hallway called “the dark room”. The bartender, who looked like a French cartoon character, eyed us suspiciously until he saw Ryan, then he relaxed. No, we weren’t on the guest list, but we were friends of a friend so it was all good. We ordered a drink and spent the next hour learning all the stuff HBO doesn’t teach you on Queer as Folk. We learned about the dark room and why it was probably not the best place to wander around in drunk if you weren’t prepared to be very, very friendly. Jacques (it’s not the bartender’s real name but it will forever be in my memory) sent us away with one of the best lines ever: “Many men, bored at home and after a long day of work will come here for … release in the “dark room” We provide a valuable service to the community.”

Yes, I have an Argos t-shirt too … and a sincere hope to one day be in shape enough to wear it.

A big thank you to Ryan for being one of the coolest people on earth to hang out with, and for not only tolerating, but humoring, my naivety. I’ll have drinks with you at Argos anytime … but I won’t be developing my film there.