Report on Septemberfest
I understand. You have been waiting for a report on Septemberfest. You may think that this retelling is a couple days late. If Septemberfest was on the 21st, why didn’t I have a big post waiting on the 22nd? Hah! Have you forgotten that we are on Medium? These are the back eddies of the Internets, my friends. We move at a human pace around here. Let the bots get the scoop. Leave the hot takes to the millennials waiting on line for their coffee monstrosities.
One of the guys on the painting crew asked me if Septemberfest was going to be “live tweeted”. “No, Dank,” I said (all the guys on the painting crew go by “Dank”) “We’re not going to live tweet Septemberfest.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because,” I explained, “Lies take time to mature. They’re like wine, or goat cheese, or good sauerkraut. You have to let them ferment for a while or they have no flavor.”
Breakfast and the 5K Race
We had beautiful weather for the Field Day. The day was cool enough that there was dew on the ground in the morning, but that gentle moisture burned off to a crisp dryness in the early afternoon. The asters were out. The sun was warm, with elongated rays, and there were no bugs.
We were supposed to serve Russian Yogurt at the Field Day Breakfast, but when I went out to the farm of our “organic supplier”, Baba Yaga, I was annoyed that she had a giant Trump sign on her front lawn. As I was about to sign the check to her I said, “How much of this is going to go to bombing U.N. convoys in Syria?” She got really pissed. I think she put a spell on me because my groin started to itch. I accused her of hexing me and pointed to my groin. She said, “You’re groin itches because you are filthy.”
If you ever saw Baba Yaga’s organic farm, you would understand how upsetting it is to be called “filthy” by her. Even the Environmental Studies majors from the Mushamaguntic Normal School that sign up to be slaves on her farm in exchange for 3 credits and the chance to lay their dreadlocked heads in her cow barn are gidged out by her place.
“You wear wool trousers for half of the summer,” she said, “You have more yeast in there than I do in my syr house.”
“Give me one of the big boxes of granola and I’ll add $50 to the total if you promise to remove the hex.”
She said something in Russian and my groin stopped itching. In the truck on the way back to the Mill my ass started to itch and I knew I had been had.
Opening Ceremony
Despite the injunction against wearing fantasy and sci-fi costumes in the “Parade of Nations,” more people dressed as Tony the Tiger than wore drndl dresses or wooden shoes. A bunch of folks dressed as Fremen from Dune, and they got into an argument with those wearing Lannister costumes about what you call it when a Fantasy/Sci-Fi series goes on too long and jumps the shark. The Dune folks were insisting that it is called “Herbert’s Syndrome,” while the folks dressed as Lannisters said it is simply known as “Pulling a Martin.” Both agreed that whatever it is called, J.K. Rowling is guilty of it.
The “Petite Marathon” Race
In observance of true Marathon custom, we make the runners recite at the end of our race. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Phidippedes would have been a failure if he had died before saying “Victory” after the battle of Marathon, so our race isn’t over until you recite.
We chose the Emily Dickinson poem “Hope is the Thing With Feathers.”
At the starting line, we read the poem over the loud speaker four times. The poem goes:
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,
Most of the runners were women. Seeing that, I said, “Feel free to run naked, like the ancient Greeks. It looks good and it cuts down on cheating.” Nobody took me up on the offer.
The race began, and in pretty short order a woman named “Liz” crossed the finish line. She wasn’t even out of breath when she recited “Hope is a Thing With Feathers” perfectly.
“You are the winner,” I said, “but we have a problem.”
“What’s the problem?” She asked.
“You’re black,” I said.
“How is that a problem?”
“Well,” I said, “I don’t know anything about black people and I don’t want to get accused of appropriation or, you know, ham-fisted attempts at being an ‘ally’, I mean I want to be a good ally, but you know…”
She held up a hand to quiet me. She was still doing that thing that athletes do when they continue to move after the race or contest is over. I don’t really know what that is because I have never even walked 5K.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I grew up in Irvington, New York. I am a Yankee fan. I watched Wonderama as a kid. You and I like the same kind of pizza.”
“Were your parents alcoholics?” I asked.
“No, but my mom was kind of crazy.” She said.
“Excellent,” I said, then I can include you in the write up of the days events?”
“Sure,” she said, “just don’t describe me physically and we will be fine.”
“Oh,” I said, “I was going to mention the shape of your ass.”
“Definitely do not describe my ass,” she said, and her previously friendly demeanor turned kind of… dark.
“I won’t say a thing,” I assured her, “not another word.”
Badminton, Other Events, Lunch and Tea
Chait and his wife Shovana dominated the badminton court. They won the mixed doubles and the singles competitions. Chait wore his whites, but Shovana showed up wearing neon yellow and red like the players at the U.S. Open.
It turns out the Shovana is a lawyer, so she was really good at arguing the rules. It was an almost perfect day for them, except that Chait is really vain about his appearance. He had a big grass stain on his shorts and he wanted to change before the awards ceremony. Shovana told him he was being “foolish” and they had an intense little bicker fest right beside the medal platform. Shovana must be as good at bickering as she is at arguing rules, because Chait stormed off like a little kid. She had to accept the medals for both of them.
The luncheon went well. People ate the healthy food. The open mic at the awards ceremony didn’t lead to any disasters, even when I tried to stir the pot by asking people to re-create “passive-agressive maid of honor speeches they had heard.”
There was some kind of scrum on the bocce court. The sailing regatta was a failure because the kids from St. Georges prep school brought a funnelator and bombed the other sailboats with water balloons.
The painter named “Dr. Dank” won the Bong Olympics, which were held in the maintenance shed. Everyone there said the winning bong hit was mind-bendingly large. They said that when the Doctor exhaled he looked like Godzilla belching out a giant smoke ray. He celebrated by vomiting into a trash can.
At tea it is traditional to sing show tunes. This year they sang the songs from Hamilton. I didn’t know any of the words. When I suggested that we sing some songs from “HMS Pinafore” everybody looked at me like I had two heads. What can I say? Times change.
Champion’s Ball, Drugs, and Rats
Like I said, most of the people who had signed up for the events were women. At the Champion’s Ball nobody acted particularly badly. The drinking was light. When we had the ceremonial opening of the drug bin, almost nobody stepped forward.
People seemed content to continue eating the healthy food, drink moderate amounts of wine, and dance. It didn’t look like there was any chance we would hit the heights of last season.
The plan, you see, was go get everyone to drop acid in preparation for “Glow Ball Bocce.” Then, when they were starting to trip, I was going to turn the music to Frank Zappa at full volume and release a horde of rats. That would have been fun, right?
I had contracted with my old friend Rattenkönig, the King of Rats. I had told him I needed at least 300 rats at about two in the morning.
He showed up at 12:30 and sat in a chair next to me in the big tent. He usually doesn’t like to come into the light, but the tent was illuminated by tikki torches, candles, and strings of lights in the shape of clams. I guess it was dark enough for him. The music was loud. People were dancing.
Rattenkönig told me that he wasn’t going to fulfill the contract. I asked him why not. He said it wasn’t the right thing to do.
“Look,” he said, “Everyone is having a good time. The night is nice, there is plenty of food. Things are good. Of course, we rats like disruption, and I understand your impulse to turn this party upside down, but it wouldn’t be good. It wouldn’t be good for you, and it wouldn’t be good for us.”
The rat king himself had never looked more somber. He suddenly looked old to me. I have known him for a long time. He is the size of a small child, with a good sized belly, and he was wearing his golden crown at it’s normal angle, but he looked kinder and gentler than I have ever seen him.
“Last year things got completely out of hand,” I said, “It was the kind of creative destruction that Medium was made for. It’s good when things get mean. That’s where the lulz are.”
“Well,” he said, “That’s true, but there is a lot of meanness in the world right now. Maybe it’s OK to let people focus on being healthy and happy.” He looked at the dancers and kind of smiled.
“I can’t help thinking that this season was a let down… that somehow we didn’t deliver the goods.”
“Me and my friends are letting you down now,” he said, “We’re not going to be the rats you want us to be. It is for your own good. Everyone might be happier if we all just try take a deep breath and enjoy ourselves.”
“Can we still play Zappa, though?” I asked. I know that Lisa Renee said the Summer of Zappa was over, but couldn’t we end with just a little more Frank?”
Sure, said the King of Rats. Why don’t you finish with Peaches en Regalia?”
