I took another swing at the Worst Bar in the World last weekend, after taking in Walk the Line with my doll. It's the Chestnut Tree of the Augsburg bar and café scene: Just a bunch of aging socialite wannabes who've given in to horrors of Room 101, and now spend their days waiting on the lethargic service to bring their gin and tonics, talking nonsense about things that interest no one. And, like the denizens of the Chestnut Tree, they pray for death with each passing moment. I wouldn't have gone there had it not been for the after-movie party, hosted by Johnny Cash's German biographer, Franz Dobler. And while his knowledge of the Man in Black borders on encyclopedic, his public speaking skills lack flair. I settled, ordered some food; and, par for the course, I left before eating, lest I die of rickets and spider-bites before it got there. I wound up eating somewhere else, and coming back once the crowd had thinned out. I half expected them to arrive with my food when I walked in the door. But I jest; food, here? My view of the Worst Bar in the World has not improved after this last trip, but there's nothing new there. I've spent an inordinate amount of time and energy on them, compared to what they've spent on me.

There are a lot of bars here in Augsburg; some are good, and some are bad, and some are really, really bad. Right now, I'm whiling in the very acceptable corner bar, Barium. It's about 30 yards away from my front door, staffed by cheerful, attractive waitrons, and they serve cheap German beer to morons like me, without mocking me for tapping away on a laptop in a social setting. And, they bring me beer. I'm not sure why I ever go anywhere else, actually; force of habit, I guess.

That picture, by the way, was taken in a bar that's far from the Worst. It's called Annapam, and is a salt o' the Earth kinda bar, a reliable standby with good food and ugly waitresses. The people in the picture are Italians, who were apparently visiting Augsburg for the falafel and having a hell fo a time doing it.

Soccer. Fussball. Futbol. Call it what you will, but don't ask me to get it. I've tried to assimilate, even bothering to learn the rules, and to participate in a soccer tournament last summer (a losing effort, obviously). It was a curiosity as I was a wee lad, the sport that dare not uses its hands, but now it seems there's soccer everywhere. When the local team wins, the locals here in Dogpatch lose their shit, and drive around town honking their horns and shooting AK47's in the air like a Turkish wedding. There's not much occasion for that, luckily, as the Augsburg soccer Club is a miserable failure. And anyways, it's not like there's any Augsburg natives playing for them, the team being mostly manned by drunken Chinamen, so what's the big deal? Like American professional sports, I assume it's a celebration of the winning style of locally owned and operated businesses, instead of a confirmation of the superiority of local gene pool in all things kicking.

Anyhoo, I'm getting pretty drunk now, and the yahoos in the bar here are getting roudy, owing to a 30-inch plasma in the corner showing the eagerly awaited Milan vs. Tobago game. I should quit now, and start rooting for Tobago. If I knew what the flag looked like, I'd strip off my shirt right now and paint it on my hairy, distended beer-gut.

I've not seen the color green for about 4 months now, except for the Christmas tree. Man, I could use some warm weather about now. In Europe, spring marches into town like a conquering hero, with maypoles and lusty maidens and flower petals strewn across its path . And I'm starting to see why. I don't recall ever getting teary-eyed over the weather in Georgia before I moved to Germany. I see pictures of myself now from childhood, and think, "Wow, I have pants without legs! Where'd they get off to?"

In brighter news, I actually walked across a lake today. I'm not Jesus, despite what you may have thought. You see, here in Germany, it gets so cold outside that water actually becomes hard enough to walk upon! That ain't right, my friends.

I can think of seven people that I know right now, off the top of my head, that eat their own snot, right out of their nose. Boogers! I can remember a period of my childhood where I actually did that. I was a world-class, pre-kindergarten gold-digger. I got busted by a grown-up once, and was immediately, irrevocably cured of the habit. That particular grown-up ridiculed me to the point that it almost became an obsession busting other people that do it, not to get too Freud on you, but probably to reaffirm my estimation of my self as a passable human being.

It's strange when you see it. You notice that light flick of the wrist, which sends the pinky into the nose, and then a non-discript motion that brings the nail down to the tongue, delivering the golden payload. It's probably a subconscious thing that people do, when they're under stress or in their cups. But still, I always wondered what would happen if I called somebody on it. How would that happen? What would be the best thing to say in that situation? Could I just say, "Hey, man, you just went diggin' and ate it. Give a hundred dollars."

A buddy of mine in college had a co-op job at an engineering contractor in Atlanta. He told me once that his boss, who was the owner's daughter, was an incorrigible, albeit extremely clever booger-eater. He said you'd be talking to her in a meeting, and if it got stressful, her hands would be all over her face. She'd pull amazing sleight-of-hand tricks and diversions, like scratching her eyebrow with her middle-finger, while her pinky was buried in her nose. Then, she'd rub her hand down her face, delivering the goods to her tongue, all while speaking to 15 to 20 people about a million-dollar job. He was horrified, and could only talk about it in hushed tones. I understand completely. I mean, how do you tell your boss that her booger-eating freaks you out?

You know, I'm getting sick and tired of all these towel-heads getting the good press. Do you think that Mohammedans are the only people who can hoot and holler and burn stuff? Cracka Pleez! I hereby call forth a hillbilly jihad on the following transgressors:

1. Warner Bros., for their insensitive, tasteless ridiculing of Southern sensibilities and history with that abomination of a show, The Dukes of Hazzard. This cut runs deep. It reduced one of our greatest historical figures' name to a car with a weird-ass sounding horn that even a Mexican wouldn't be caught dead with. Just check out this Google search result, and tell me the damage isn't already done. What's the number one hit for "General Lee"?

   

   The case, she is rested. Burn a cross on the Warner Bros. lawn, it's cookout time!

2. CBS Studios, for that slap in the face of Southern law enforcement, Deputy Dawg.

   

   It was bad enough to have that kind of patronizingly phoneticized name to deal with as a child, but how could an experienced Deputy Sherriff, who's such a cultured Southern gentleman, constantly get out-foxed by some hippy little half-blind rodent like Vincent van Gopher?

   3. Hanna-Barbera, for the Arkansas Chugabug with Luke and Blubber Bear.

   

   Let's see here. I guess if you be coming from anywhere South of New York City, well, you'll jes be drivin' top-speed away from the revenuers in your whisky-still-powered jalopy with your feet on the wheel. Oh, and not to mention we all drive while sitting reverse cowgirl on goddamn grizzly bears. So, we'll just be hanging around here, whislting Dixie. On Hanna-Barbera's skulls!