Saturday night. Oktoberfest. The girls and I roll up to Alpine Village for a night of bocks, brats and kraut. Those Germans really know how to set the bar for indigestion. Yet upon entering the premises, we immediately became alarmed that our night of fun would have to be forfeited. The place was packed. Cars and people everywhere. Specifically, we were surrounded by hundreds of women wearing dirndls that I imagine can be found only at Frederick’s of Hollywood. Invoking a few weeks prematurely the age-old Halloween rule of being able to wear the sluttiest costume possible without fear of retribution, these chicks were brazenly milling around like Bavarian prostitutes. And then there was the line. Snaking every which way across the parking lot, just looking at it was a buzz kill. The night was not starting out well.

I tried to play the role of optimistic friend, but was met with a wall of skepticism. We stood in line for all of five minutes. My friends were done. Besides, for what exactly were we waiting? To enter a tent housing hundreds of drunken douche bags that would probably be stepping on our feet all night, then invading our personal space while trying to apologize, then using that fake apology as an excuse to hit on us? That didn’t sound like much fun. And given our still unwavering pledge to partake in the eating and drinking parts of that evening’s merriment, we all were a tad nervous regarding the lavatory facilities provided inside said tent. Port-a-potties did not instill confidence. But instead of turning right back around and going home to watch DVRed episodes of Jeopardy! – an idea that was very seriously considered – we decided to first check out the German restaurant just a stone’s throw from the tented debauchery.

Best decision ever.

Upon being seated, it was obvious with one quick glance that we were among the youngest guests by a few decades. But this joint was just as packed with the over sixty crowd as the parking lot was with the under thirty revelers. The dining area was huge and overlooked both a stage and dance floor. The German-inspired band was decked out in full traditional lederhosen – though the lead singer was wearing an American flag bandana around his forehead ala Springsteen. For the most part they performed familiar tunes like “Roll Out the Barrel,” yet there were moments where I sensed that perhaps this band was a bit confused. At one point the singer broke out into a Spanish ballad probably better suited for a Mexican quinceanera. Okay. (Shrugs shoulders.) Anyway… Nothing is cuter than old folks shaking it on the dance floor. And that’s when we saw her.

Black Lycra tank top. Black spandex leggings with strategically placed rips up the thigh. Hooker heels. Did I also mention that she was about sixty and Asian? Perhaps you think me rude for not respecting my elders, but I promise you that this chick wanted to be noticed. So unabashedly at ease with her attire, she would make a completely unnecessary full circle around the restaurant after every trip to the ladies’ room just to make sure the other guests got an eyeful. Mission accomplished. We couldn’t stop staring at her. It was horrifyingly awesome.

Also horrifyingly awesome, minus the awesome? The dirty old men that would converge upon our table every five minutes. I don’t know which was more uncomfortable – the geriatric Chinese Sandy from Grease or these guys. My friends and I would be chatting one minute, and the next, hushed silence as some grandpa would creep over and loiter right behind us. THISCLOSE. Their dirty old man eyes would then zoom in on whichever girl was in his line of sight. We ladies in turn would immediately bow our heads as if the tablecloth was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. We feared that should one of us make eye contact, we would either be asked to dance or get flashed. Equally disturbing scenarios. Waiting with bated breath for each pervert to leave, we could relax only when he would finally shuffle away toward the bar… and then return mere minutes later. I couldn’t figure out if they were being persistent or just suffering from dementia and had forgotten that they had already tried their luck at our table.

Not that I’m complaining. It was the best people watching I have ever enjoyed in my life. Was this Oktoberfest or Christmas? Could it possibly get any better? Then the band started to play “The Chicken Dance.” As I watched the table next to us of senior citizens flapping their arms in unison, my question was answered. Yes, Anna, there is a Santa Claus.

From time to time we’d look outside and see hundreds of twentysomethings still waiting in line, still trying to get inside that tent, and we’d feel bad for them. Well, not really. Mostly we would smugly mock them from our table, patting ourselves on the back for being smarter than everyone else and not following the rest of the pack. Poor kids. They were missing the real entertainment of the night.

Image: Francesco Marino / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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