Fuhrertag
420 (and by association April 20th) may be best known in North America for its association with cannabis culture, but my social circle recently realized it held unique significance to our lives. It seems April 20th is not only the birth date of the man widely renowned as history's greatest mass murderer but also that of A.'s mother. The absurd juxtaposition of Adolph Hitler with the woman who baked and served us brownies as we played Dungeons & Dragons on her dining room table well into our twenties was irresistible to us. We resigned ourselves to celebrating both the commonalities and the differences between these two characters, each of whom shaped our lives in his or her own very special way.
Enter Führertag!
I spent a good chunk of last week building eight to ten foot high banners that turned out to be longer than A.'s ceiling was high. The room was divided in half based on the two teams set to battle in our trivia challenge. The left side featured the standard Nazi symbolism, including a portrait of Hitler as a baby.
The right side featured Frau M.'s personal logo. During a prolonged interview process (over Popeye's fried chicken the prior Friday), A.'s mother indicated that the iconic representation of her belief system would best be described by a stovetop or a cookbook. I took certain artistic liberties and went with the crossed kitchen utensils instead, feeling they presented a stronger image especially when opposing the swastika. A suitably old world portrait of Frau M. during her heyday was digitally aged and placed beneath her banner.
Arriving guests were interrogated and subjected to measurement of their cranial circumference, data which was subsequently used to divide them into two groups. The half with the larger skulls were placed on the Nazi side while the others were issued triangle badges in a variety of colors based on the Nazi classification system (purple for Jehovah's Witnesses, red for Social Democrats, et cetera) which, in my humble opinion, bears a disturbing similarity to the homosexual community's use of "hanky codes."
I utilized small blocks of buttercream icing and a pressurized black icing dispenser to transform a Baskin and Robbins ice cream cake featuring A.'s mother into a swastika. We initially were going to use black icing for the negative space but, in order to achieve the proper color, a very oily variety had to be utilized, which proved difficult to cut and place. In the end, it all worked out for the best; I feel the pink blocks visually played off the odd red-colored icing scallops that fringed the portrait.
Unfortunately, with the exception of S., who made a half-hearted attempt to dress as a schoolteacher (the profession of A.'s mother), none of the guests wore costumes. In the future, I will be more insistent about this sort of thing at our parties. In addition, most, while understanding and appreciating the irony with which the party was being thrown, were uncomfortable with the idea of being photographed surrounded by swastikas. As a result, the vast majority of my photographs are of myself.
The one notable exception being this gentleman, who desired a Weekend at Bernie's style photograph with dead Hitler. I regret now that the Führer looks more drunk than dead in the picture; I should have let my head loll to the side.
The idea that I was a little buzzed was certainly not inconceivable, however. A. and I opened up the evening with shots to take the edge off. I subsequently imbibed two (or more) cups of coffee laden with peppermint schnapps and whipped cream (apparently a German delicacy).
The cake was devoured in short order and the trivia portion of the evening began. Note that the clipboard utilized for recorded cranial measurements is visible in this photograph.
For the most part, A. played the part of Alex Trebek while I kept score and popped pills. Hitler received daily injections of methamphetamine and took a cyanide capsule before shooting himself in the head. I, however, was eating Mike and Ike's.
Apparently, Hitler's personal pharmacist now works at Safeway.
While primarily a game focusing on Hitler's absurd beliefs, pathetic life and the trivial details that connected him to A.'s mother (such as their respective favorite Disney films), there was one category (Triumph of the Will) which involved physical challenges. Here two drunken players engage in arm wrestling for a randomly determined number of points. Other challenges included Rock-Paper-Scissors, chugging a beer, and recall of an arbitrary numerical sequence. At one point, I was challenged to a muscle endurance test, having to hold a weight in one hand straight out from my body. My shoulders being the weakest of my muscles I lost and blamed my pills. But probably should have blamed the continued blood loss from my head wound.
It seemed as though I used an excessive amount of blood when attempting to recreate Hitler's parting shot to his own forehead. As a result, the wound continued to run throughout the evening, dripping down my nose and off my eyebrows. I spent a good portion of the night daubing with napkins, leaving A. with a trash can that made it look as though he held a slumber party for a gaggle of menstruating teens.
Eventually, the ubermensch won the game with almost double the points of the untermensch, unfortunately validating Hitler's theories. The truth is - the untermensch just drank a lot more and had the misfortune of being burdened with Y.'s wife who, after a shot of whiskey, a glass of German wine, and the misfortune of being selected to chug a beer, was willing to shout whatever answer first occurred to her. She also smashed my camera into the wall.
Those are the sorts of the shenanigans that weary even the dead. We declared the evening a success...
... I popped my head.
And left behind something special.
Enter Führertag!
I spent a good chunk of last week building eight to ten foot high banners that turned out to be longer than A.'s ceiling was high. The room was divided in half based on the two teams set to battle in our trivia challenge. The left side featured the standard Nazi symbolism, including a portrait of Hitler as a baby.
The right side featured Frau M.'s personal logo. During a prolonged interview process (over Popeye's fried chicken the prior Friday), A.'s mother indicated that the iconic representation of her belief system would best be described by a stovetop or a cookbook. I took certain artistic liberties and went with the crossed kitchen utensils instead, feeling they presented a stronger image especially when opposing the swastika. A suitably old world portrait of Frau M. during her heyday was digitally aged and placed beneath her banner.
Arriving guests were interrogated and subjected to measurement of their cranial circumference, data which was subsequently used to divide them into two groups. The half with the larger skulls were placed on the Nazi side while the others were issued triangle badges in a variety of colors based on the Nazi classification system (purple for Jehovah's Witnesses, red for Social Democrats, et cetera) which, in my humble opinion, bears a disturbing similarity to the homosexual community's use of "hanky codes."
I utilized small blocks of buttercream icing and a pressurized black icing dispenser to transform a Baskin and Robbins ice cream cake featuring A.'s mother into a swastika. We initially were going to use black icing for the negative space but, in order to achieve the proper color, a very oily variety had to be utilized, which proved difficult to cut and place. In the end, it all worked out for the best; I feel the pink blocks visually played off the odd red-colored icing scallops that fringed the portrait.
Unfortunately, with the exception of S., who made a half-hearted attempt to dress as a schoolteacher (the profession of A.'s mother), none of the guests wore costumes. In the future, I will be more insistent about this sort of thing at our parties. In addition, most, while understanding and appreciating the irony with which the party was being thrown, were uncomfortable with the idea of being photographed surrounded by swastikas. As a result, the vast majority of my photographs are of myself.
The one notable exception being this gentleman, who desired a Weekend at Bernie's style photograph with dead Hitler. I regret now that the Führer looks more drunk than dead in the picture; I should have let my head loll to the side.
The idea that I was a little buzzed was certainly not inconceivable, however. A. and I opened up the evening with shots to take the edge off. I subsequently imbibed two (or more) cups of coffee laden with peppermint schnapps and whipped cream (apparently a German delicacy).
The cake was devoured in short order and the trivia portion of the evening began. Note that the clipboard utilized for recorded cranial measurements is visible in this photograph.
For the most part, A. played the part of Alex Trebek while I kept score and popped pills. Hitler received daily injections of methamphetamine and took a cyanide capsule before shooting himself in the head. I, however, was eating Mike and Ike's.
Apparently, Hitler's personal pharmacist now works at Safeway.
While primarily a game focusing on Hitler's absurd beliefs, pathetic life and the trivial details that connected him to A.'s mother (such as their respective favorite Disney films), there was one category (Triumph of the Will) which involved physical challenges. Here two drunken players engage in arm wrestling for a randomly determined number of points. Other challenges included Rock-Paper-Scissors, chugging a beer, and recall of an arbitrary numerical sequence. At one point, I was challenged to a muscle endurance test, having to hold a weight in one hand straight out from my body. My shoulders being the weakest of my muscles I lost and blamed my pills. But probably should have blamed the continued blood loss from my head wound.
It seemed as though I used an excessive amount of blood when attempting to recreate Hitler's parting shot to his own forehead. As a result, the wound continued to run throughout the evening, dripping down my nose and off my eyebrows. I spent a good portion of the night daubing with napkins, leaving A. with a trash can that made it look as though he held a slumber party for a gaggle of menstruating teens.
Eventually, the ubermensch won the game with almost double the points of the untermensch, unfortunately validating Hitler's theories. The truth is - the untermensch just drank a lot more and had the misfortune of being burdened with Y.'s wife who, after a shot of whiskey, a glass of German wine, and the misfortune of being selected to chug a beer, was willing to shout whatever answer first occurred to her. She also smashed my camera into the wall.
Those are the sorts of the shenanigans that weary even the dead. We declared the evening a success...
... I popped my head.
And left behind something special.