Short North Observations: Gypsy Hookah

Imagine for a moment that you’re just an average Joe bartender, very over-worked, and very under sexed. It’s late Frinday night on the drive home. You’ve just worked a double at a barely above white trash (but some how still uppity) country club. You made decent money, but the last thing on your mind is going out on the town to celebrate. Your feet ache, your back is stiff, and the only thing you want to do is get home, crack a beer, sit, and stew in your own juices before passing out; waking in the morning to do it all over again.

You pull onto your street, greeted by the neighborhood hookah bar, located directly behind your building, teeming with people. The owner’s massive family, ranging in age from infant to ninety-seven, were taking up almost all of the parking-lot-converted-patio space. Their flowing, multi-colored robes, scarves and head coverings reminded you of strutting peacocks. They were Arabic speakers possibly, but did not appear to be any type of strict religious sect. Persian maybe, or whatever the Kardashians are. Fucking gypsies even. No way to be sure really, without asking, but who cared enough to bother. The rest of the customers were shit stain high schoolers, or under-age college students who are too stupid to get a fake ID and get into a real bar. The Middle Eastern, disco-techno-tribal music blared through the wall-mounted car stereo speakers damn near all hours.

Lucky for you, the nightmare ends there, but for me it gets worse. For the last three months this awful scenario has been my reality, ever since the bastards opened. Making matters worse, they'd taken to roping off the best street parking spots for themselves or costumers (totally illegal) so any of the twenty people living in my building were shit out of luck, unless they’d gotten home before seven. Bartenders never get home before seven. As a result, I now spend more time looking for parking, once I get off work, than I do commuting from work. Longest it’s ever taken me to find a spot, unless I wanted to park twenty blocks away, was thirty minutes. That’s 1,800 soul crushing seconds.

And the smell! Huge clouds of strawberry apricot, or sour apple bubble gum hasheesh tobacco smoke filled the air form nearly 3 p.m. until well past 3 a.m.If I’d made the mistake of leaving my kitchen window open, billows of the thick and sticky smog would make it’s way into my apartment.

Hookah bars are also filthy damn things to live next to, in a much more broad, general sense. I don’t speak from experience, but I’d bet at least on par with any late night greasy spoon diner, or a rat hole bar. Spent coal ash and wads of used pipe tips litter the alley between our buildings. It looks like a scene from crack-ridden neighborhoods of HBO's The Wire. Globs of half burnt hasheesh tobacco, just left on the street or sidewalk. Step in it, guaranteed to stick to your shoe, and if you’re not careful, and you get some on your hands, good luck getting it off your cloths.

On one night in particular, after much time/effort was spent finding a spot, I made my five-block trek back home super pissed, I passed the proprietor standing outside. A fat man in his fifties, with gray hair covering almost every inch of his body from head to toe. He’s usually sitting back and pompously puffing on his very ornate personal hookah. It’s bedazzled with fake rubies, emeralds and gold platting. This time he’s standing by the sidewalk. He smiles at me when I pass, a single gold tooth flashes in his mouth; mimicking the flash of his pipe.

Opting to just nod instead of punching him in his smug fucking face. I maintained my practiced robotic, expressionless face, remaining as still as possible. In that moment I could have chocked him occasions. Just for an instant I thought about using my size advantage, and knocking him to ground ... plunging both my thumbs into his eye sockets until I felt his brain smush. 

As I walked up the stairs to my apartment, a realization struck. I stopped at the landing to my floor and reflected on the seething hot anger I’d just felt for a complete stranger. In the few seconds we'd made eye-contact, if he had provoked me in any way, I could have easily beaten him to death with my bare hands. Scouts honor. But just as quickly as it had flared up, now it was gone. I was home now and the awfulness of my day was over, however temporary. After drop my keys on the couter, I reached into the fridge and cracked a beer. In one mighty gulp, I downed half of it.

“Ahhhhh"

Strolling over to the couch, I plopped down and melted. All the incredible injustices afford me seemed unimportant now. Well, at least until I needed a place to park tomorrow night. But in the grand scheme of things, being a white man, native-born American is pretty fucking sweet. Matter of fact, the only that makes it better is being rich. All my 'friends' at Gypsy Hookah aren’t so lucky. They’re journey to this country is no doubt fraught with hardships I can't imagine. In the post 9/11 era, they endure senseless hatred, and venomous racism I could never understand. Maybe a shitty parking spot isn’t the worst thing ever. Honestly, I choose to live down town, and sometimes that means a new place opens, and you loose your spot. 

From that moment on I promised myself I’d try not to let the parking situation get to me so much. Live and let live. Right? No more unadulterated rage … well at least until the winter. Halfway through  January he’d probably be out of business, without the help of their ‘patio’. Can’t say I’d miss them, but I don’t wish that on anyone. Turth is it wasn’t really up to either of us if they’d make it till Spring or not. Capitalism and competattive open markets rule here, and they would decide. Here, we’re actually all on our own when it comes down to it. Even in America, you still have to work hard and get lucky. 

-J.R.

Just Being Neighborly ...

**** NOTE FROM AUTHOR:this piece is racy and graphic even for me, parental discretion advised ****

“When you love somebody,

but you find someone

And it all unravels,

And it comes undone …

Post break up sex,

it helps you forget your ex ..”

The Vaccines, PostBreak-Up Sex

I cupped her breast over her cotton tank-top while we tongue kissed on the hill. Cars and people where everywhere. Her nipple started to get hard through the thin material and I felt it first on my palm, then the space between my index and ring fingers. I gently pinched it between my second knuckles.

She reached down, undid the fly of my jeans and pawed for my cock. Pretty soon we were going to be fucking like wild animals on this very spot, less than a block off High Street with Comfest pedestrians everywhere! I wasn’t going to stop her but did I really have the guts to go through with it? Lewd acts are always a fool’s earned, sure to get one caught on tape ... or worse, arrested!

With my free hand I clasped her petite ass cheek. Tight and firm. Being a larger than average man and her being a smaller than average women, my grip had room to spare. This seemed to turn her on very much. She rubbed herself against my leg with increased vigor and had my fully erect member out for all creation to see.

“My ass fits in your hand?!” she said with genuine surprise. I took my other hand off her tit and palmed the opposite cheek, squeezing a gentle conformation.

“I give, take me up-stairs and fuck me with this dick,” she said flopping my wang around like a hot dog.

“No problem,” I said as I put away my piece, taking care NOT to catch my erection in the zipper.

Guess it was finally going to happen with the neighbor girl. I stood up and slung her up onto my shoulder like a sack of dirty laundry. We had to use her key to get inside our building because mine was locked in my apartment. I grew impatient while she fumbled and jangled with the two-pound wad of metal on her key ring.

“Hurry up,” I said. She was still draped over my shoulder so I had to spin around so she was facing the door. After a couple tries we were in. The promise of copious amounts of sex was just two stair flights away.

“You can’t stay the night,” she chirped from her perch as I hoofed-it up the stairs. “Steven and me are on a break, and it’s probably over between us, but he’ll be back from Cleveland sometime tomorrow.”

Whatever, I thought. I’d worry about her significant other and getting into my own apartment later. I didn’t want to get into it just then. At this point I only had one thing on my mind and that was fornication.

In their bedroom I tossed her onto the bed like a kid tosses his book-bag after a long day at school, egger to get outside and play. I sat down beside her, began kissing the nape of her neck and then pulled her shirt over her head. Wonderful quarter-sized brown nipples seem to be staring at me like eyes. She pulled her jean-shorts and cotton panties off in one swift motion.  Her fair-skinned and tone body looked just as nice naked as I thought they would; the fruit of her strict running regiment. I admired the perky and symmetrical B cups before taking one into my mouth.

We began kissing again and she helped me with my pants and underwear. Pulling my t-shirt off, I lay back to enjoy the foreplay she’d already initiated on my shaft. I pulled her chestnut colored hair back into a ponytail held it in place while watching with a critical eye. She licked to the tip and then took 85% of it into her throat without gaging. Impressive.  After I could take it no longer, I sat up and laid her down on her back to start the main event. After I put on a condom I tested the waters by fingering her flower. She was already dripping wet, so I slid my dick in.

“Oooooo,” she cooed. “I’m so glad we’re neighbors.”

I had to smile. Couldn’t have said it better myself but before you go and condemn me know she’d been sniffing around my apartment for a looooong time, this despite living with her long-term boyfriend. There had been a few make-out sessions over the last three years, always initiated by her, with Steven drunk and passed out in their apartment upstairs. The kissing always ended with her a floor above me in bed with him and me alone in my bed below, masturbating my blue balls away.

Of course all things have a habit of coming to a head and our middle-school make-out romance was no exception. What was I supposed to do?! She obviously wanted something from me and it was only a matter of time before she got it. Comfest 2012 just so happened to be the night her craving was satisfied …

**************************************************

Days were growing longer and hotter. Girls were out in next to nothing and the men were puffing their chests out, chasing them around the neighborhood like stray dogs in heat. Patios were open for drinking and the winter was a long forgotten memory. It was June in Columbus and that could only one thing: Comfest.

Short for community festival, it’s basically our towns’ version of a live music fest, with mostly local talent. Much to everyone’s delight the cops were known to look the other why for the weekend when it came to recreational drug use. Apparently even the Columbus Police Department has a little hippie in them. My droogs and I planned ahead and baked two pans of ganja brownies with a half-ounce of good mids in each batch. Throw in many beers and the casual puff of the more traditional joint and you have a recipe for a groovy time.

We were a block away from the Goodale Park, fest HQ for the next few days, when it really hit me. The high from eating laced baked goods is quite different to that of smoking. The tingling body-buzz starts in the stomach, similar to shrooms, minus the queasiness and awful after taste. It spreads outward to the extremities and finally the brain making stimuli cleaner, more intense. Even tapping my leg with my fingertips had a whole new feeling. I quickly realized I eaten way too much.

As soon as we merged into the throng of people I started laughing uncontrollably for no good reason at all. My friends did not get the joke and looked at me uncomfortable and nervous, high off their own respective asses. The laughing tickled my stomach which in turn made me laugh more and the vicious cycle continued.

“I’m sorry,” I managed to get out in-between chuckles. “It’s the edibles.” It was like a bad case of the hick-ups: no control.  Thinking about it only makes it worse.

I separated myself from the group, who didn’t understand what all the hubbub was about and got weird with it by myself under a tree for awhile. The groups smoking high volumes of dope around me, hiding in the shadows from all those things passing for people out there, understood me and understood sometimes you just have to freak-out alone. Once I had calmed down I wondered around the park and enjoyed the tunes while sipping beers. I only casually looked for my friends.

After several hours the party and my high had started to wind down but I had kept on with the sauce, downing one more over-sized beer. My phone had been on the fritz for a week, so I hadn’t bothered to bring it. I wished for at least the fiftieth time that I had already gone to the Sprint store. Walking back to my place I made plans to do just that the following day.

When I reached my build I came to the sudden realization that I’d also left my keys at home. In my stoned and drunk wisdom I’d figured I’d be with my roommate Tony and he had his key. Damn. So I sat my locked-out-no-cellphone-having-ass down on the small hill across the street to wait for my friends to get back … whenever the hell that would be.

After about ten minutes I looked up and saw her walking down High Street. Thoughts about how I’d privately admire her from my window, jogging down the block in her tight running gear, passed through my head. The perfectly even stride. The way her THO perked up through her spandex sports bra when she was sweating. The runners high euphoria on her face when she came to the finish line.

I thought about Steven. Remembered I’d had my tongue in his girlfriends’ mouth less than a month ago. How I almost had sex with her … but than all the sudden I didn’t, because women do that sometimes. Things had not been good between the two of them since before my roommate Tony and I had moved to the building three years ago. I know this because she told me about it--a lot. Also, we heard the occasional blow out screaming matches. Broken glass here and there and slammed doors a plenty.

She saw me when she was about a block away and I waved to her from my seat on the knoll. When she recognized me in the sea of people she waved back and crossed the street.

“Happy Comfest ,” she said. “What are doing out here, all by your lonesome?”

We began talking about our various fest related adventures. She’d met some girlfriends there to party and I explained why I was a moron (key) and how I was also high on weed brownies and drunk to boot. There was no hope for me! I got a playful smirk out of her and it was encouraging.

She looked younger than thirty-seven. She had a decent desk job down town for good pay and for seven years she had been living with a middle-aged, drunk, past his prime … piece of SHIT literature professor. Why?! Sure, he was a functioning alcoholic, but awful when fully inebriated. The type to get so plastered he’d forget his own name and yell at her for things that only drunk people yell about, like not returning a texts they forgot to send.

Tony and I would see him out at happy hour by himself. Often slouched in the corner, where the bar meets the wall, reading a book by Dostoevsky or someone else equally boring. He’d nod a brief sign of recognition and go back to what he was doing; always too cool say hello. On more than one occasion, he’d be so whiskey bent he couldn’t see more than five feet in front of his capillary-riddled nose. A week after we moved in we found him passed out in the common hall and we had to help him to his apartment after he managed to mumble out his unit number. She’d been mortified when she saw us coming up the stairs, one of his arms draped over each of our shoulders. That’s actually the first time I ever saw her.

The humidity made moister stick to her skin. I looked at the tiny drop of sweat hanging above her lip and I couldn’t stop myself from fantasying about how she’d look naked. We reminisced about the last time we’d hung out, at a small gathering in my apartment. My people are a fun loving bunch, to excess some might say and we are always welcoming. Even so, I told her we were all glad she hadn’t brought Stevie with her that night … especially me.

She had once before awhile back and it did not end well. He left after about an hour and got wasted all night God knows where, leaving her alone to wonder what had happened to him. That was the first night I ever made-out with her.

Last time we hung out the rest of the group had just ignored her, like the kid no one wants to sit with in the lunchroom for whatever reason. The “reason” for her was the constant negativity that radiated from her prescience, due in no small part to her terrible living arrangement. Regardless, she was a consummate pessimist and she also came off as condescending with her occasional failed attempts at sarcasm. Basically she was not the party favorite. Steve and her made a real power couple on the rare occasions they were actually out together.

During our current extended conversation I realized she really could be an awesome person when you talked to her one on one. We had some common ground. We both dug Interpol and I enjoyed her dark, quick-witted sense of humor. Of course I was still trying to get past second base, but I’m also intrigued by the outcast. Why am I expectable to people and others are not? Do they always bring the shunning onto themselves or is it situational? I could tell she didn’t mean to be a shrew she just came across that way. It also helped that I found her very attractive.

“Yeah, I’m sorry everyone was being so weird last time we hung out,” I said after a break in dialog. “But I think I know why. I mean, do you really have to be so negative all the time? It bugs my friends. Also, are the chippy comments always necessary?”

There was an awkward pause.

I often do that by mistake. Ask biting, even harsh questions that have been floating around in my head during conversation without taking time to judge how they will sound and feel to a recipient. I don’t do it to be cruel. I just don’t think sometimes. The words just popped right out of my mouth before I had filtered and softened them. Puts me in jackass territory I know, but we all have flaws and drugs and alcohol makes them more pronounced.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean it like …”

“No, I’m sorry,” she interrupted in her familiar, scrupulous way. She was also a little drunk. “I don’t want to be pissed off and upset about Steven being such a piece of shit all the time! I don’t want to have to live with that and deal with it day in and day out. Would anyone?! To be honest I don’t care what your friends think about me but I don’t want YOU to think I’m a bitch.”

And there it was. A single tear swelled in one of her big brown eyes and then trickled down her powder-white cheek. Like kryptonite to Superman; I was powerless. If she wanted to play the sympathy card she would have my hand beat every time.

“Don’t worry,” I said and hugged her for reassurance. “I never did.” We kissed and laid back right where we were sitting. It didn’t take long for things to start heating up.

**************************************************

After we fucked every which way, on again and off again for about three hours in a booze-fueled romp, she was spent. I was too for the most part but it didn’t stop me from rambling on and on about something or other until 5 am. About then I realized she was passed out and probably had been for some time. I sat up and appreciated her frame, rising and falling with her rhythmic breathing and thought about my situation. Both of us, naked as the day we were born, in a bed she shared with some poor bastard who had no idea I had just banged his lady. Time for me to go.

I covered her with the comforter and tried to make the bed look less sexed in. She said she cleaned herself up before he got home but it probably didn’t matter anyway. I’d flushed the condoms and was taking the wrappers with me. The rest could be explained away and I doubted Steven carried anyway based on what she had been telling me.  I got dressed with the birds chirping from a power line outside her window. Fuck! The hangover was already starting and I’d been up almost 20 hours straight. I would not be making it to Sprint today.

Tony had either been thoughtful enough (or wasted enough) to leave our door unlocked, but before making this discovery I admired the happy couple’s book collection. Just to be a dick I took their copy of Friedrich Nietzsche’s The Antichrist. It remembered a conversation I had with Steve about Nihilism. Probably the only real conversation we ever had. He was all about it and wouldn’t shut up about it. What a douche. I saw him in the hall a few days after the crime but if he ever knew anything about me taking the book, or the whole fucking his girlfriend thing, he never showed it. We went on being acquainted strangers.

She stuck to her guns and moved out of the building a week later. We tried to meet up once she got settled in temporarily with a friend but it never happened. By the end of the summer she planed to be in New York, taking a promotion she’d always been afraid to go after when she was with Professor Deadbeat. I planned to leave for Nashville in September out of sheer boredom so that was probably all she wrote for us … but we’d always have Comfest 2012.

If she’s reading this now, she should know I feel guilty about taking her copy of (so and so) … and a little bit about the other part too. At the very least I’d like to get the book back to her if I can but if it’s Steve’s I’ll just leave it at the bar. It’s the first place he’ll look.

-J.R.

Ladies' 80s

"I come home in the mornin' light,

Mother says, 'When you gonna live your life right?'

Oh mama dear, we're not the fortunate ones

and girls, they wanna have fun ..."

Cyndi Lauper, Girls Just Want to have Fun

Everyone dances better in a strobe light; FACT. I don't care if you're the most uncoordinated, blundering, bumbling excuse for a person ever. When the lights start flickering at 100 frames per second the most abysmal moves become strokes of pure genius. It's simple. Sway and sway and sway ... then snap! The Running Man? The Roger Rabbit? The Lawn Mower? Check, check annnnd check. Even the Charleston looks professional grade with the right blink of an eye. At Ladies' 80s you can check your dignity at the door because you have to boogie all-night long and the only rule is everyone dances.

Not that I don't like to dance; In fact it's quite the opposite. I'm not usually self-conscious either. However, making an ass of yourself in front of hundreds of strangers to music that was popular a generation before ones time can make things awkward for anyone. Good thing other then the strobes it's too dark for facial recognition. Anonymity breeds confidence and alcohol release inhibitions; the perfect combination for any dance party. Besides if we can't laugh at ourselves what the fuck are we doing with our lives?

On this night I'd be laughing with my roommate Tony, Janis and Shea. The girls, who I always seem to have a smashing good time with (see this post), had invited us to drink and dance the night away. Tony isn't usually into leaving his comfort zone of marijuana, video games and sports bars but the only reason he agreed to come was because he hadn't gotten laid in awhile I promised to pay his cover. The chances of us bedding some tail were pretty good considering girls got in for free all-night long. We'd both heard about Skully's sponsoring the dance-party every Thursday night but this would be the first time going for both of us.

After a couple social beers and ripping three shots of whiskey we felt properly pre-gamed and walked the block and a half from our apartment to Skully's. The line was long but not insurmountable. Apparently this was a bigger deal then we knew. Some of the college aged kids were dressed in obvious 80s costumes: acid washed jean jackets, brightly colored spandex, huge blond wigs, Cyndie Lauper ruse and eye-shadow, Pat Benatar head/wrist bands. Well, some of them were wearing costumes. After some inspection I noticed the rest were just sheep in the hipster/80s revival flock. They dressed like that everyday. On purpose. The irony was in trying to tell them apart.

The inside of the bar looked like the cast party from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. We ordered at the bar with Men at Work's You Can Dance if You want To playing louder then seemed necessary ... an omen of things to come. We talked about the finer points of Steven Baldwin's acting in Bio-Dome (which featured said song) and sipped our long-necks. Even on discount AND in a bottle PBR tastes like piss. Try if you must, but no one will ever convince me otherwise.

Before long the girls had joined us and we began the customary catching up. Work had been busy for me so it'd been awhile since I'd seen either of them. Tony hadn't seen them in even longer; at a party we threw for New Years Eve. For all four of us no new news was good news. To celebrate the rare chance we all had a night off together Janis order a round of Rumplemintz, her latest obsession. We clinked glasses and drank down the minty death swill. It tasted like I'd swallowed mouthwash and everything I ingested for the rest of the night had a spearmint tinge. In terms of the PBRs taste and the burps that inevitably follow, it was an improvement.

"Oh I love this song!" Shea said as the familiar drum beat to Michale Jackson's Billie Jean coursed through the speakers. "Let's go dance!" She said grabbing our hands.

Snaking our way through the crowd gathered at the back of the building we found a spot by the stage and claimed it as our own. Grabbing my crotch, shuffling backward in an attempt at the moonwalk, I did my best MJ imitation. The others followed suit. By the end of the song we found we were all getting into the flow of things. The unseen DJ went right into Duran, Duran's Hungry Like the Wolf and we all sang along to the "do, do, do, do, do, do" part at the top of our lungs, swaying to the beat and bopping in the colored lights.

On the stage, which was open to whoever was brave enough to climb up, well matched couples did their best 80's moves to the rhythm. One middle-aged man with a slight pudge was all by himself in the corner, stepping side to side and gesturing grandly with his arms below his waste. His manner and build was very Boy George and I imagined that was how they'd both danced two and a half decades ago when I was still in diapers.

After a break for beers we hit the floor again for The Groove is in The Heart which is technically the 90s but no one was that worried about it. I took a look around to size up the crowd of mostly women. Some looked like they belonged in a Breakfast Club twenty year reunion but the vast majority were our age or younger. I liked the mix of people. Everyone seemed to be vibing well despite the age disparities. We were all there for fun, drinks and of course great music.

Violent Femmes Blister in the Sun was next and it was a huge crowd favorite. People were singing along to the well know chorus louder then the speakers. During the quite part of the song people squatted down, closer and closer to floor before erupting to their feet when the hook came back around, similarly to how people dance at weddings to the song Shout. By now I was sweating profusely but no one seemed to want to take a break, so I excused myself for a minute and stepped outside. As I light up my cigarette on the patio the cool spring air began drying the perspiration on my neck and face. I took a look around. I could smell reefer burning with Rick James' Mary Jane playing in the background from inside the bar. Quit appropriate.

"Jacob?" a woman's voice asked from behind me. "It's me, Stephanie." she said even though I'd recognized her right away.

"Oh yea!" I replied, feigning surprise. "I hardly could tell it was you. Your hair is completely differently. How have been?" I asked as she leaned in for the one-armed hug of quasi friendships.

We had worked together at the Country Club I was still toiling away at. She was lucky to get out when she did. I gave her the run down on things since she had left. Not much had changed but she had. Her blond hair was now brown and cut in Karen O like baby-doll bangs. Normally this look does nothing for me but the straight lines of her hair helped frame her long and thin face,  accentuated it and flattering the fact she was thin. So thin in fact her unspoken nickname at work had been Bones. Despite her slightness I'd always found her attractive. Petite girls turn me on for reasons I can't begin to explain in short detail. Even though she was married she'd always hinted at the fact that it was just a formality; she could be down for whatever given the right set of circumstances.

Well read and also quit the free spirit, she had always been someone I wanted to hang out with out side work but never gotten the chance to. Here black cotton jumper exposed her half sleeve tattoos she'd always kept hidden on the job. I'd known she had them and seen pictures but tonight was the first time I saw them presented in their full blazing glory and I took the time to admire/study them while she chit-chatted incessantly about their various meanings. She was speaking very rapidly, even for her (she had always been a fast talker). Before I could even ask any questions she hit me with it ...

"You like to party right?"

"Sure," I said. "I've been know to party."

"Follow me," she she said as she took me by the hand.

I was led to the girls restroom outside where the line was very long. With out flinching she pushed to the front, her narrow frame slicing through the crowd easily; my bigger bulky frame  bumping people out of the way clumsily in her wake.

"So sorry," I said before anyone could protest. "She really has to go."

We were catching very dirty looks but Stephanie didn't notice or just plain didn't care. We found a stall that had just emptied and closed the door behind us. Before I could think of something clever to say she had already taken out a full gram bag of cocaine and prepared a key bump. She huffed the mound in one quick, mighty inhalation that said 'I've done this quit a few times before'. Now I know why she seemed so chatty on the patio a few minutes before ... and for that matter, how she stayed so thin. She loaded one for me and I took it with out hesitation, knowing it's rude to refuse drugs when offered, because drugs are expensive.

"Why thank you," I said after tooting the white powder up my nose.

For my money, cocaine is best when offered for free or when just throwing in a little dough with a group of friends for a wild night out. The number one reason I don't fuck with it much is it's incredibly expensive. Another reason I rarely do it, and even more rarely buy it, is because the high's so fleeting. It's good ... but only for about twenty minutes a rip and as soon as the affects are gone you want more like a drowning man wants oxygen. Everyone's high school health teacher was right; cocaine can be very addictive. And then there are the hang overs ... 

Like I said, I'm far from a coke-head but I've dabbled. It wasn't the best I'd ever had but it was good enough. Immediately I felt the half of my face housing the tainted nostril going numb. My eyes watered. The familiar euphoria and sense of invincibility flooded my mind. She did another and so did I, this time in the opposite nostril to level things out. Now my entire face was numb and and I began to tap my foot to the melodic keyboards of The Eurythmics Sweet Dreams two paces too fast. We each licked our fingers and did gummies just to be sure we'd had enough. God Damn! I felt like a million bucks!

The short high was soon peaked. I started to desire her lustfully and uncontrollably despite the ring on her finger. Why had she dragged me in here? She must be trying to indirectly tell me something. Just as I felt the urge to steal a kiss (thanks to my cocaine acquired superhuman confidence) she had opened the stall door and I was following her to the dancefloor. Once I found my friends I'd lost track of her. Janis and Shea were dancing together and Tony had a curvy young thing grinding against his crotch to the beat of De La Soul's Me, Myself and I. Since they were all busy I wondered to the bar for a round beers.

Before I could pay the intro to Madonna's Like a Prayer sounded and the 75% female crowd erupted with a uniform shriek. I rushed back, trying to get to my friends before it was too late. Simultaneously the hordes rushed to the floor, filling it to capacity. I could see Tony and his new friend were still going strong, making out intensely now. I saw the tops of the girls' heads bouncing around. It was too congested to reach them so I just busted my moves where I was. All the women who weren't dancing with a date seemed too engrossed in the song to give a damn about me. My chances of finding love for the night were not looking good.

The DJ, all-knowing but never seen, wisely slowed things down next with The Cure's Just Like Heaven and everyone seemed to wind down. I caught up with Janis and Shea on their way to the bathroom, leaving Tony with his nameless girl. The three of us did one more shot of Rumplemintz and the combination of the cocaine drip and the peppermint almost made me throw up but I was able to choke it all back. I scanned the room, looking for a helpless victim to claim as my own before last call but the crowd had thinned and none of the stragglers grabbed my attention.

Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers' American Girl was next and The Girls and me continued the dance marathon. Tony had disappear with his trophy. Least one of us would get laid. Despite scoring free drugs it did not appear I'd be scoring any ass. This didn't mean I'd given up. In the corner of the room, near the patio doors, I saw Stephanie and started to make my way towards her. Maybe I still had a chance with her or at least she might want to do more coke. I'd already come down completely and was starting to feel a little shitty.

Before I had reached her I noticed she was talking to another women so closely their faces were nearly touching. At first i thought it was because the music was so loud but a second later they were fiercely jabbing their tongues into each others mouths and from the looks of it they would be doing much more then that once the bar closed. This didn't shock me really. It was the Short North; there were gays and lesbians everywhere. I'd lived in this neighborhood for years so I knew to expect it. The surprising part was her mentioned marriage to a man. I guess I'd kind of peg her right, she was down to cheat; just not with men. Well what her husband didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Only an hour ago I'd thought about trying to make a move myself. Maybe he was cool with it as long as it was just girls. Either way I didn't know him well enough to really care.

I retreated back to Janis and Shea just in time for the last song of the night, The Beastie Boys No Sleep Till Brooklyn which brought the house down. Quit drunk and a little tweaked from the coke, I was also not ready for sleep anytime soon so I walked the girls home and continued the dance party at their place until dawn when things finally wore off and I crashed on the couch. The next day Tony appreciate me continuing my bender because he did indeed get lucky. Having the entire apartment to himself had helped him in his endeavors. Despite one of us leaving empty handed it was now established the potential for a casual hook-up was there and we both agreed we'd be back to Ladies' 80's sooner than later.

-J.R.

Gr8tness

The city erupted. Thousands of people simultaneously poured out of the bars, their homes, cars and clogged the roads like a herd of cattle loose through a broken fence. The police shut down traffic, set up barricades and suited up in riot gear. Helicopters circled the mob from above. Drunk hooligans of all ages and creeds danced in the streets, spraying beer and champagne on everything. FUNS' Tonight We Are Young played at deafening decibels from unseen speakers. A group of frat boys started a 'tits for Cats' chant with young coeds flashing their perfectly shaped breasts in approval. It was pandemonium.

Old ladies. Kids. Whole families. Several generations in succession all joined the make-shift block party. I stood amongst the merry makers with one hand on my forehead and the other gripping an open container in total shock and disbelieve. It felt like I'd waited my whole life for this very moment. It was as happy/nice as a disturbance could be but a disturbance none-the-less and the police didn't even try to stop us. In fact they were high fiving passersby and posing for pictures. We all appeared to be on the same page. The busiest intersection on campus had become a five thousand deep rager in a matter of minutes and things still seemed to be under control. Earlier in the day we'd heard the governor had called in some National Guard reserves just in case the University of Kentucky indeed won their eight national championship (which they had) and things turned ugly (which they would). When I asked one of boys in blue about it he shrugged and said in a cliche southern police officer drawl ...

"We don't need no yahoos in our town."

Just then I heard a call come in over his radio. A News van had been flipped on State Street, the other side of town, and the cops were outnumbered there a thousand to one. It would appear the tone of the drunks was changing for the worse. I stepped away and let the man call in back-up. Just down the street from where we were standing I saw a couch set ablaze. Heavy, dangerous vibes. Where were my friends? Better keep moving before things grew more disagreeable. Guess officer-too-confident might want some 'Yahoos' called in after all .... 

**************************************************

Things had started civil enough. I'd driven down to Lexington late the night before and passed out on Phil's couch almost immediately in anticipation of the day to come.  I'd been through this all the year before when the Wildcats made it to their first final four since 1998. They lost to Uconn in the semis and all hell broke loose at the bar (see this post). This year I decided not to jump the gun and waited until they had defeated our most hated rival Louisville to advanced to the finals. We woke up early game day and went for lunch at Wheeler's Pharmacy, a University of Kentucky and Lexington institution. I'm embarrassed to say in my four year student career I'd never eaten there so this was a long time coming, according to Phil, a Lexington native.

Imagine a 50's era malt shop tucked away in the back of a Walgreens like mom-and-pop convenience store. Burgers cooked to order behind the the counter by your waitress, no cooks in the open kitchen, and hand dipped strawberry shakes. All produce and meat farm fresh, hot and juicy. A throw-back to a by gone era. Kentucky coaching legends have been regulars there over the years including current coach John Calipari. I'd tell you where it is but then I'd have to kill you. It's a local secrete and apparently it gets very crowded on game day so they don't want any tourists or 'yankees' coming in and filling up the very limited seating. We must have hit a lull and managed to zip through in just under ninety minutes.

We had one more errand, hitting Fan Outfitters for some fresh UK gear. Countless t-shirts with catchy slogans, flags, jerseys and an empty table with a brazen sign displayed saying 'Area reserved for National Championship Merchandise.' So much for not counting chickens before they hatch. The immense anticipation was growing by the minute. Everyone was talking about the match-up or the previous victory over UofL. Once we got back to the apartment there was constant ESPN coverage that only made us more anxious. The talking heads were hammering home the story lines of the match-up. The top two winningest and two of the oldest programs in college basketball history. The usual human interest stories about so-so player who grew up poor in the ghetto. It was also player of the year Anthony Davis (UK) against Coach of the Year Bill Self (Kan). The hype grew bigger and bigger as the count down to tip off grew nearer and nearer.

By two in the afternoon we'd had a few beers, a joint and half a pack of cigarets each but not leveled out; keyed up beyond belief. I felt like I was about to suite-up and take practice lay-ups myself. Phil broke out three mason jars filled with clear, purple and golden solutions. Home made moonshine in original octane, blueberry and apple pie flavors. We took turns taking sips of the ice cold hooch which had been resting in the freezer over night. The flavored verity was a tasty and sippable 80 proof but the full strength was a mind numbing 150 proof and tasted like liquid fire. All three jars soon vanished between the seven or eight of us who were pre-gaming together. An hour later my buzz was heavy but I still found myself pacing the deck incessantly like a crackhead on the boulevard needing a fix; twitching, shuddering, talking to myself. This game couldn't start soon enough.

We walked to the one and only Charlie Browns to watch the game. It's not only my favorite bar in town it's the only place I've ever worked that is worth coming back too.The streets were alive with people of all shapes and sizes, all with ear to ear grins, probably just as drunk/stoned as we were.  With the sun shinning and the fans clamoring everywhere it felt good to be alive and even better to be a Kentucky fan. 

We sat down at the bar where we coned some friends who had the misfortune of working into saving us the primo seats. Still four hours and counting. I didn't know if we'd make it but like all things much anticipated it all flew by much too fast. The game was incredibly entertaining and Kentucky lead wire to wire. Kansas never got closer then six points. The Cats were the best team in the field, we had the best players but you still have to win the games and as the clock expired in New Orleans the last game of the season (the one for all the marbles) was ours.

We'd closed our tabs with a minute left so we could sprint to the corner of Woodland and Euclid for the madness ... just like the posters from '96 and '98 most of us had grown up wishing we'd be old enough to experience first hand. I was just fourteen in 1998 and was watching the game with my dad in Columbus, Ohio. Growing up in Kentucky, the old man was a life long fan and that very night the seed was planted in me, where it germinated for the next five years and later sprouted when I became a student at the university.

During my tenure we suffered through the Tubby years. I still love the guy but he was not getting it done at a school that demands national championships and number one recruiting classes. We never made it to a final four while I lived in Lexington and our brightest star was my still favorite NBA point guard Rajon Rondo but even a first round draft pick like Rondo wasn't close to enough for me or any other UK fan. That's not to say I didn't enjoy the hell out of my fan experience as an undergrad but I'd been waiting eight years for this and my team had finally delivered.

**************************************************

After shit got real at the block-party and I'd lost my friends I wandered my way towards down town where traffic was also at a stand-still. People were hooking and flashing there lights in euphoria instead of rage. I slapped high-fives with every driver I passed. The city was one, like I'd never seen it before. I bar hoped solo until I ran into two old friends I hadn't seen since college. We drank late into the night and even talked the bar tender into staying open past the official closing time of 2:30 am.

"One more drink and a shot for you," I begged.

"We close at 2:30," he replied.

"Please ... I drove down from Ohio for this. I waited eight years for this. I'm paying for a college degree I may never use for this."

He caved and we all slammed back another room temperature Makers Mark.

After we were finally kicked out, the three of us completed the college nostalgia trip by eating at the all-night shit hole dinner Tolly-Ho. I inhaled my double-ho burger and cheader-tots, slipping in and out of total black out. By the time we'd finished it was 6 in the morning. I said good-bye and stumbled back to Phil's place where everyone was terrified I'd been arrested, mugged or worse ... crashed with a fat chick. I assured them I was OK and in one piece, all be it an alcohol and burger grease soaked piece. We exchanged stories of revelry and called it until tomorrow, when weed smoke would chase our hangovers away and we'd watch them raise the newest banner in Rupp Arena.

-J.R.