1st SOCCER GAME

First soccer game in the books. Offenbach was the town, the Kickers are there team. Everywhere I go in Frankfurt, every single soul seems to despise the entire city. They hate Offenbach so bad, that someone in Frankfurt managed to get every single airplane landing at Frankfurt International to come roaring  over head. It’s as though the Marshall Plan was reinstated and renamed the Fuck U Offenbach Plan.  Let me put it this way, it makes Citi Field seem like a Library. Thank god for the invention of double paned windows or they’d have to rename the team the Insomniacs.

First impressions are important, and this one gave me the shits. I knew it would be a colorful place when the crack head gypsy lady approached asking for the time, but really wanting to see if A)we were the cops B) anyone had a nice enough watch to steal or C) prospective customers. The “I’ll-blow-u-if-u- buy-me-a-sandwich” look in her eye reminded me of the desperate women I used to see in Queensbridge at 1am coming home from work. Thank you crack head lady! Nothing beats a flood of nostalgia before the big game. The stadium is small, comparable to that of a hockey arena in the number of seats.  Do too construction, the bathrooms were closed.  Nine port-o-potties were strategically positioned to ensure fast relief from too much beer consumption. Cigarette smoking was rampant INSIDE the stadium. Thinking how Mike Bloomberg would shit his pants over this made me smile, until 2 14 year olds began to light up 2 feet too close to my poor face.  With the precision of a night shift nurse sucking away on her “last one”, they puffed and pulled each one right down to Brownsville. Since this is Europe, and no one seems to know yet about lung cancer, I allowed my asshole fueled charm to desert me.  I simply pocketed the, “Could you suck on that Leukemia stick somewhere else fuck nuts,” greeting for some other rainy day. Wouldn’t want to start a war over such a silly thing as second hand smoke!

The fan base was thin on attendance, but passionate singing festive holiday songs about having sex with the other players wives (that’s what I’m told.) I’m not just talking about 1-2 people singing but 8000 strong at the same time with great cadence and timing. A truly whimsical magical feel filled the arena after that. My German friends beer fueled laughter and good cheer comprised my personal theme song for the day.  It was great to see the passion they exuded when such classic numbers as the sex song and “GO..GO…OFC” came up.  As god as my witness, my friend Marcus actually was the one that started one of the chants!  A breathtaking honor!  It was through there positive example and good cheer that I was able to break the bond of never wearing another teams colors besides that New York Yankee blue.  In good spirit, I donned a red and white Offenbach Kickers scarf over my other scarf for the entire game. The game itself was quick paced and done before I knew it. The Kickers, our Kickers won.  I now know what it is like to be a Mets fan! On my way to the bahnof to go home, visions of Pittsburg flashed through my eyes as we  drove through this blue collar gem.  As I wished my boys tsschus, Marcus quickly told me that it was finally ok to ,“hide my scarf now. Remember your going back through Frankfurt.”  Sage advice from a wise and merry soul.

The train ride home turned out to be just as eventful. While walking down the aisle in order to find a better seat, I spotted a 6’1” Russian immigrant pushing a 5’5” 110lb nerd who must be majoring in something like calculus at Frankfurt University. The Russian was terribly loaded, mumbling something along the lines of, ”Oh man, what is going on,” over and over while pushing this horribly outmatched guy.  At this point, a few spooked strap hangers phoned the conductor.  He then stopped the train, came all the way back to the car and yelled at the guy to sit his drunk ass down. To the joy of the entire car, a wave of clarity washed over the slovenly bastard and he finally remembered how to sit down.  Soon thereafter, he forget again, raised up and grabbed his entire case of Yen Raki (a Turkish spirit). Being a dickhead magnet of the greatest sort, I was not that surprised when he began wobbling over to the door I was standing by.  For the next 15 minutes, I had the distinct privilege and honor of Mr. Wants-To-Die engaging me in conversation.  Standing at an angle in order to hit him with a right hook if things progressed to the point of no return, he began reciting the line that had become his trademark “Oh man…what is going on.”  I then began to tell him, what was going on.  By the time I had finished calling him a fucktard who was holding up my chances of making it to IKEA before it closed, the train stopped. Quickly, I hit the button to the door, and directed him magically out.  To my consternation, he then quickly wheeled around, case of Yen Raki still in hand, put his food in the door, and asked me to take a bottle for myself.  After smelling his retched breath from 3 feet away for the last few minutes, I politely declined by kicking his foot out the door.  With mesmerizing speed and agility for someone so fucked up, this stubborn bastard put his foot in the door again!, With a vacant, dangerous look, he then  demanded I take a bottle. With IKEA in the balance, and now my life, I took one, and pushed the charmer out the door for good. As the train took off, I turned around with my first Christmas present of the holidays in hand to a standing ovation. Apparently I had been the highlight of the evening for those affected by the Russian scourge.  With friendly pats on the back, and head nods of appreciation, I had become a hero!   

I MISS MY ANGRY NY!!!!

The emotional temperament of the German leaves a lot to be desired.  Gone are the days of random arguments on the subway with unhinged homeless men. If there are yuppie lawyers screaming in pain for the MTA to go to hell, I have sadly bared no witness. An IPOD being worn by a dangerous looking man blaring the news report from Hell 2 inches from my silence starved ears is sorely missed.  Mr. “I Take-Up-Four-Seats-So-Fuck-You” man talking on the phone about how he “fucked her good” with an absolute absence of shame must be hiding just around the corner, but has yet to be identified.  The other day, I thought I had spotted “Too-Important-Too-Hot–Black-Sunglass-Wearing-Mean Girls-Cast Member” rocking her suede boots but she began petting my dog obsessively and with great care after 10 minutes. Fraud.  Ms. “Too -Important-too communicate-or-acknowledge- the- existence-of- you-mere-mortals” girl turned out to be Ms “Thank-You- For -Identifying –The- Fact- That-I-Left –My-Economist Magazine- On –The- Seat” women. Impostor.  Mr. “I’m-fucking-hard-and-am-going- to- stare-at-you-like- I -killed someone” dude turned out to be Mr. “I'm -fucking -drunk-and- will- vomit-in-the- trash- bin- as- soon-as I –get-off-this- train” guy which happened as soon as he got off the train. I miss my troubled meth heads!!  I must confess to sociological discrimination in these instances, but I am desperate.  My false accusations are a cry for help.  The drunk Turks in this country can’t replace the bent Ecuadorians spontaneously breaking into song on the 7 train. The dangerous looking drug addicts here, don’t really instill a true sense of fear; I know they are not capable of turning  the situation into a Criminal Minds episode.  They are all too well taken care of by the social services in this country.  A beggar respectfully approached me the other day on the bahnhof and I actually laughed out loud at his  civil demeanor.  Come on man!! Push me!! Demand I give you at least 5 dollars! Being so angered at his insolence, I broke into an impromptu tutorial about how to beg properly. 

Sitting in an uncramped train at rush hour that doesn’t smell of vomit is sad. The half  legible intercom announcements joyfully  proclaiming the F train will be 20 minutes late ONLY after already waiting 15 minutes is no more. Now I have to deal with a too efficient system of live updates clearing visible just above eye level.  What happened to having to earn your commute to work???  The cleanliness is obscene. The trash bins are never overflowing with ruble. The tracks themselves are not littered with debris which of course alleviates the fear of fire. What the fuck??? The absence of litter, the infrequency of delays,  the nice beggars, the cleanliness of the stations, it’s all too much for me to take!!!!

Puffmutter

The area that I walk buddy in is quite beautiful and scenic. The path passes through an area that includes apple orchards, and peoples’ private gardens (which are quite ornate in many respects). The path meanders under the autobahn at one point, emptying itself at the edge of a thick wood. I was mulling over the similarities between these apple trees and the ones that came alive to attack Dorothy in Oz when a peculiar sight ruined my groundbreaking hypothesizing; a parked car under the autobahn.  Normally cars are ON the autobahn moving at sickening speeds. It was kind of surprising to see one UNDER the autobahn doing a whole lot of nothing.  At first glance, the station wagon looked eerily empty. I assuaged my worry quickly, deducing through simple logic that he must be an engineer off doing his engineering thing, or simply taking a piss. In Germany, you have to pay to pee. Customarily, the price is 50 cents to 1 euro which is to be paid directly to a guy “working the door” or deposited into a turnstile. With this price point now in mind, I gathered that the latter was almost undoubtedly the reason for the parking of the car in such a shady circumstance. With the eerie car mystery solved, I began to wonder aloud whether or not my dog buddy would take a shit already. Using poor judgment, I had left the house without a receptacle worthy enough of collecting such dignified remains.  At this point I was fearful that a nosy German ( is there any other kind) would catch buddy and I shitting and running. This being a small proper town, the “word” would spread like clamadia on prom night that an Americana was degregating German soil. This being an Olympic year, I knew national pride would be at stake. The town ridicule would be particularly fierce and may drive me toward Obi Won Kenobi status.

Suddenly more pressing issues bore themselves out.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement in the driver’s seat of the station wagons window.  But this was not just any kind of movement, it was vigorous movement.  Upon further inspection I soon deduced from the steamy windows, and the shady park job UNDER the autobahn that this must be some kind of mid-morning fuck fest.  Using the time of day, and the manner in which the station wagon was so haphazardly publicizing  itself, I quickly concluded that it must be some harmless high school kids having premarital sex and smoking a potent form of blue meth. Not wanting to intrude any further, I left without a word.  Only later, upon my reveling of the facts to the family did the truth begin to stir inside me. This was a puffmutter using her skills to pay the bills.

In Germany, prostitution is kind of legal. In Frankfurt, they have a red light area that I have strolled unknowingly through before.  I have seen proper red light areas in Amsterdam mind you, so I consider myself a whore connoisseur. This particular red light district in Frankfurt screams of desperation and AIDS.  Horribly malformed and broken women looking like extra’s from the Martian world of Arnold’s 1990 classic Total Recall plead with you to give them a moment of your time.  The feeling of exhilaration I first found being in being in such a morally ambiguous place was soon washed away under a Japanese sized tsunami of fear. Groups of whores accosted me like Somalian’s around a UN wheat truck molesting me as if I were a human sized Teddy Ruxpin.   I have never been the same since that day.   In small surrounding towns, there are also whore houses, where a puftmother or madam runs the ship. Legally they are supposed to stay on the reservation, but in the case observed, it seems one of the little Indians escaped to go suck a dick.   I wonder if these whore houses give out gift cards.  Perhaps a coupon or maybe a two for one Wednesday deal is in their business plan. Only time will divulge the mysteries of the puffmutter to me.