On Friday I attend Harpoon Brewery's Oktoberfest (they spell it Octoberfest, but I'm old-school) with my daughter and her friend, who, for the sake of saving any undue ass-busting, I'll call K. We do all the things Oktoberfest attendees are supposed to do: listen to Oompah bands, eat brisket and potato soup, and, of course, drink beer. Lots and lots of beer - Pumpkin beer, IPA beer, white beer, stout beer, craft beer, and, of course, Oktoberfest beer.
We accidentally discover a beer tent all by its lonesome because it is behind the tent with the stage for the rock and roll, which doesn't start for two hours. We also discover a cache of clean and line-free port-a-potties that only lack one thing: balance stability. Peeing becomes as much fun as a carnival ride, and most of us consider the incredible feat of preventing potty-tipping to be the ultimate thigh exercise.
The best thing we discover, though, are the chicken hats. That's right: chicken hats. Everybody who has ever been to a roller skating rink or to a semi-cheesy wedding knows the German Chicken Dance. Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-daaaaah (Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-daaaaah) dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dummm (cluck cluck cluck cluck)!!!! There is no Chicken Dance contest tonight (that's for Saturday's entertainment), but there are hats, and K wants one.
She wants one baaaaaaaaaad.
She is also hesitant to ask the guy she sees wearing one about its origin. So, being the old fart I am, I walk right over to him. "Hey," I say pointing, "the hat. It's bitchin'. Where did you get it?"
He tells me about the guy walking around selling them. "Best ten dollars I ever spent," he assures me. I seriously doubt that, but I report back to K and my daughter. Hahahaha, we chuckle, ten dollars! For a chicken hat! Who does that?We wait until K has gone in search of more stout (only sold in tent #1, and we are currently in tent #4), then we spot the upside-down rake sporting all of the chicken hats.
"What's K's favorite color?" I call to my daughter.
"Green!"
That's it; I'm going in. I serpentine my way through the crowd and tap Mr. Vendor on the back of his shoulder. Within moments I am ten dollars lighter and the proud adoptive parent of a lime green felt chicken hat. I stuff it into the inside of my coat, creating a uni-boob fashion statement, and rush back to my daughter. I am mere seconds ahead of K. Like some kind of perverse magician, I whip the chicken hat from the front of my coat and hand it to her.
The weird thing we notice is that once K puts on the chicken hat, people start talking to her and to us. Okay, so it's mostly chicken people, but still. Plus, now her head is warm, protected from the wind, rain, and near-freezing temperatures whipping through the open-air tents (glorified tarps). My daughter and I want "in" on this chicken popularity thing, so we all go in search of Chicken Hat Man.
We spot his hat-filled upside-down rake about a hundred yards away, and we begin sprinting as fast as my daughter's recently sprained ankle will take us. My daughter gets a pink zebra chicken hat, and I get a white one. Oh, sure, we claim that the white chicken hat is for my youngest, who shows up shortly thereafter with his friends. His bud Cam is wearing the exact same pink zebra one as my daughter, proving that excellent taste really has no gender specifications.
Now, we gals are proud owners of chicken hats. All three of us have on our newly-acquired felt appendages, when three things happen. The first is that our heads stay warm; the second is that we (meaning "I") photobomb some young adults standing nearby. Yup, I am somewhere on the Internet in my chicken hat with strangers.
The third thing that happens is kind of an extension of the photobomb sensation. We are suddenly part of some secret chicken hat cult. We become popular and sought-after. Everyone wants to know where we got our chicken hats.
We point out Chicken Hat Man and pass on the secret mantra that convinced us to buy the lime green chicken hat in the first place: "Best ten dollars we ever spent!"
Truth.
