Dance Dance Revolution

Hooray for Korea!



A part of me feels like I wasted a lot of time this weekend, because I spent most of the day after arriving back in Hamburg in bed trying to fend off the effects of jetlag and sluggishness (brought on by motion sickness pills). Yesterday was pretty much a case of same thing, different day – because I was once again a lazy mofo, this time recovering from the aftermath of BOTY madness, a cold that I haven’t really been able to shake for like almost a month, leftover jetlag and a slight hangover probably caused by a couple of shots of "Strandhafer" – which is a very spicy, hard licquor from the German island of Amrum.

Since my roommate is the complete opposite of a lazy ass, sometimes I feel guilty for not being more motivated to do shit on Sundays. But I figured if the Good Lord intended for Germans to be productive on Sundays, then he would do something about every freakin place being closed. (Ok, technically, this isn’t quite the case anymore, but still – there’s really not shit to do here on Sundays).

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I woke up on Saturday (before sunrise...ooh snap!) to make the two hour drive down to Braunschweig. This year, I planned ahead so that I didn’t have to take the train, as I wanted to avoid a repeat of last year’s travel fiasco. We rode in style in the official FHHM Opel Astra driven by Sebster, generally nice guy and online editor.

I really don’t know anymore about breakdancing than I did last year, but I have to say b-boys and b-girls have got to be probably some of the most hardcore people in hip hop. For serious. I don’t know if it’s because they’re all hopped up on Red Bull (nature’s crack? wait a minute...) or if it’s the product of one too many headspins (too much centrifugal force exerted on their brains?). Anyway, to put it in „street lingo“ – breakers be trippin. Get about 8- or 9,000 of them in one place and the craziness can hardly be contained. They dance while waiting in line to get into the venue, then while waiting for the shows to start, then while other shows are going on...THEN, as if that weren't enough, they go to the central train station in Braunschweig where they dance some more before collapsing in their sleeping bags.

Once again, I worked the merchandise table this year, which might sound like a drag, but really is pretty awesome. Just about everyone comes through there, some more than once. It’s like getting to personally meet each person (visitors and dancers) and getting up close and personal with the crazy. And if you’re doing it right, it’s not even as easy as it sounds. From setup to end it’s a good 12 hours of constantly running around, remembering where every item is located and how much it costs, shouting to be heard over the masses and doing math...in my head. Fuck you, head math.

And an hour and a half after the competition was over, people were still lined up to buy stuff. Close to 2am we finally started breaking down the stand. By 3am, I was finally able to check into the hotel.

Why do I do it? It’s not because I’m a rabid fan or connoisseur of b-boying. My expertise on the subject is limited to "Wow! Awesome trick!" or "Way to synchronize, guys!" Mostly, I think I just get off on working behind the scenes at large events. I think I must have been a roadie in a former life...albeit a roadie who was probably not really into heavy lifting. What can I say? My opposable thumbs are defective and weak.

But at 3am, when my knees were burning and I was near-delirious with tiredness, I felt like I could pat myself on the back and say, "Job well done, Brooks," then go and cut loose with my co-workers.

Also, I do it for the free hotel stay and breakfast. Except I missed out on breakfast this year.

Much thanks, however, goes out to The Boy, whose persistent calling on Sunday morning woke me up after I accidentally turned off my alarm clock; FeeBee, who made the trek all the way from Karlsruhe and handed me a copy of her fresh new EP; Sebster, who hi-jacked multiple cases of Red Bull, which kept me flying high for the better part of the day; and lastly, the First Lady of FHHM, who graciously invited me to her next SingStar party. I will tear that ish up, yo.

Last, but not least, upon arriving back at home, I was greeted by our brand-spanking new kitchen table.

Not too shabby, y’all.