I went to a bar in a complex of buildings and park area known as Treasure Hill. Apparently this hill housed higherups in somebody’s military a long time ago. It is now divided into a number of units devoted to different purposes, such as artists’ studios, residences, and this bar. It is not a place for casual drug use.

Half of the bumbling but occasionally destructive government here wants to tear down all the old buildings as being against code, while the other half still fondly remembers those military higherups and has seen fit to channel funding to the area–as well as distinction as a cultural site. The buildings are ramshackle and are a strawberry in the plain yogurt metascape I will call my home for a short while longer.

The bar seems to have several other buildings dangling in front of it from above but in reality this is not happening. They are vaguely Japanese, with thick window frames and decisive angles with regard to the awnings, eves, and roofs. The materials are pleasing brown and cream clay or stucco, with bricks and dark-stained planks protruding and possibly they are cantilevered?

The lofted second floor was packed and relied on the friendliness of those below to be thoroughly watered by the cheap whiskey and sake brought in great volume for this event. On the ground floor, crowded shuffling put the chalk-written match schedule in peril, while an inordinate number of black suits sprouted reddened flesh above the collar as sweat fell down bridges of noses and knees and cigarettes flailed like morningstar maces around those seated.

There were about 5 Germans there. I was aware of this but couldn’t help braying with laughter throughout most of the opening ceremony in Munich. They had a bunch of guys with enormous bells attached to their belts, and they would shake the bells to make part of a song. But as their arms tired it fell to their hips to generate the locomotion, and it soon looked like a big ring of guys fucking some bells.

This bizarre insemination ritual was followed by a Berlin-based hip hop group called Seed that was hilarious for most of the reasons German hip hop tends to be. The Germans at the bar also had to contend with a group of Canadians yelling a bunch of shit about Germany and trying to speak with German accents.

The game was being projected on a bed sheet draped in the doorway just inside the building, which made unwitting lovers’ escapades into a Thai shadow puppet show for the amusement of the peanut gallery. I think some people didn’t understand that the game was on this screen. One of the beautiful idiots working at the bar took a break and was kicking it and giggling hysterically until spoken to quite harshly by the assembled crowd.

And of course like most TV events lately it had for me a certain unreality. The unusually high score (4-2 Germany) felt like the rash of home run seasons in Major League Baseball that have led some to suggest corked bats and overwound balls. Plus Barry Bonds’ head forces him to stop at truck scales when he attempts to cross state lines.
As we waited for the game to begin at midnight, the TV for some reason had been left on CNN, which displayed “Breaking News” in a poison yellow box on the bottom right; above that was a photograph of the dead al-Zarqawi and taking up the bulk of the screen was a montage of machine guns being fired set to the voice of a political commentator who seems to think Zarqawi was driven to terrorism by torture in a Jordanian prison.

Also, he apparently kept weapons, uniforms, and other generic terrorist equipment on the floor of his living room. When he says food tastes bad, the food actually tastes good, and he says “I hate you” when he means “I love you”.

This story details the Captain Nemo-like manner of Zarqawi’s death.

What they left out is that in the military ambulance Zarqawi sat up and tried to strangle his captors with all the strength he possesses from his bargain with Satan. A young marine chaplain finally staked his heart with a crucifix, but not before the ambulance careered wildly, spilling medical equipment and causing the stand holding Zarqawi’s IV bag to roll with disabling force into the vigilant and restrained MP officers.

But this gruesome event bookended only the beginning of the match, which ended with a stream of drunks flowing contentedly into a night of sub-tropical rain here and into Munich sunshine there.