Nonetheless, although German weather is completely stupid six months of the year, I love how the Germans get down to tuba music. Remember date night when we rocked out to La Brass Banda? That was total Tubapoluza.
Last night a friend of our celebrated his 40th birthday party with a popular local live band Die Drei von der Tankstelle. They're a 3 man band that plays 50s music and last night they also featured a tuba player, which is always a crowd pleaser.
They were pretty awesome and I was so pleased with my vodka inspired insights about Germans and tuba music that I shared them with several people, including the guy next to me, a tall chiseled blond who looked like he just graduated from Master Race school. He listened politely as I burbled all this lame stuff about tubas and Germans and then gravely corrected me:
'It's actually a sousaphone.'
So there you have it. The real title of this post is Gettin' Jiggy with a Sousaphone but I was afraid no one outside of Germany would know what the heck a sousaphone is.
Anyway, after the band finished their show we switched to DJ music and dancing until 4 in the morning. I myself performed an inspired air guitar routine to 'Are You Gonna Go My Way?' It was so unexpectedly hot that I got cheered and you have to remember that Germans only cheer when, like, Germany wins the World Cup or something.
Unfortunately, I lost my hard-earned street cred moments later when our friend Oller attempted to dance with me. Now, I can shake my funky stuff reasonably well. I just don't play well with others on the dance floor. When someone attempts to lead me in any actual dance steps it's like that scene from Fantasia. You know the one:
Still, I was flying high from my air guitar triumph and gamely attempted to follow Oller's skilled lead. He did better than most because he actually can dance and for a few minutes what I lacked in skill was made up for by enthusiasm.
At least, until a surprise twirl made my glasses fly across the room.
Fortunately, by this time we were down to a hard-core group of old friends, none of whom were remotely surprised to see my glasses go flying off.
And this is why I never made it as a sex kitten. I can occassionally fool people for a few minutes but in the end I'm too prone to the rediculous.
The night ended perfectly with Doenners, which are lovely fatty meat sandwiches of Turkish origin.
And now for a few nice pictures I found when I Googled 'Die Drei von der Tankstelle':