The significance of Oktoberfest
Four years ago this weekend (yesterday, the 17th, to be exact) I was living in Milwaukee watching the division leading Brewers taking on my ol’ Redlegs on a warm autumn afternoon. During that game the commentators noted that Oktoberfest Zinzinnati was going on, something I had never been to. They then panned in on a guy sitting up in the nosebleeds wearing a bengal-striped chicken hat. At that very moment I decided I was moving to Cincinnati. Four months later I was here.
A year later I attended my first one. That one (or maybe a succeeding one) motivated me to move downtown. Last year I went to my first Oktoberfest living downtown. This year I have no intentions of going.
Really, fighting the crowds is one thing, but watching most of that crowd just finding another excuse to guzzle Butt Light is not my idea of fun. In the year of potential ‘lasts” this was actually something I decided not to return to last year.
Strangely enough I am going to German restaurant tomorrow night, in Miamitown, for a birthdays/anniversary party. That’s good enough for me. I may even have a beer.