Jamie is whining, and Deana is trying, with not much luck, to quiet him. We catch the tail end of a magic show in which a man repeatedly skewers his wife, whom he's got tied up in a box. We buy more beer from a woman without eyes on her melons and make our way to the "Mud Show," where I discover that I am too inebriated to successfully sit on a bench. Instead, I sit on the ground and try to remember the plot of Beowulf. Did it always involve muddy brassieres? Grown men tweaking their nipples? Yes. It seems it did. Funny what sneaks by the censors.
It is too cold to muck around in this filthy water last night, the temperature sank to the low 40s, but here these men are diving in, displaying no sign of discomfort or fatigue. I am overcome with love for them, and at the end of the show, I give them a $20 tip. I am a theater critic, but I am also a reveler. I am absolutely not equipped to drive home.
But somebody's gonna have to. Although there are more shows to see, we will miss them. Jamie, the 4-year-old in our party, is overcome with existential angst. "Nothing is fun," he says, and though we don't agree, we know he has suffered enough. We tell him we will leave. As we move to do so, we pass another Warsteiner kiosk. Terry eyes it and gives me a veiled look too quick and subtle for Deana to notice, but I understand entirely. Yes, we willhave one for the road. We are men of culture.