My First B&E

"I'm not like them
but I can pretend...
The day is done,
but I'm having fun
I think I'm dumb,
or maybe just happy"
-Nirvana, Dumb




Rereading my previous posts I'm starting to realize how publishing online raises my level of disclosure higher than I'd like at times. As long as this blog exists examples of my debauchery, rash decision making, over indulgence and (yes) stupidity are forever documented. True I may exaggerate here or there slightly for dramatic effect but I assure everyone EVERYTHING I've posted actually happened. I'm not embarrassed by any of it. Well I wasn't, until recently when I did the single most idiotic thing I have ever done ...

We'll get to that but first I must save face as best I can and set the context. Living in downtown Columbus I rarely drive anywhere. Besides the now routine 670 work commute five days a week my car stays parked. I walk to the grocery store, the barber, to friend's houses, record shops, restaurants and bars. If I don't feel like walking and I have some extra singles in my pocket, I take a cab. At the most it costs me six bucks with tip. Why would you drive? Honestly, if I could snag a decent gig in the neighborhood I would sell my car in a heartbeat.

That's besides the point. During my multiple treks, especially along Neil Avenue, I've noticed beautiful, well maintained "show homes" that have always peeked my curiosity. Basically they're renovated old homes that are kept up but unoccupied. No one is ever there. The economy is super pissed at everyone so they've stayed on the market and on more than one occasion, always intoxicated, I've peered into a window or two. Usually the dust is an inch thick. All the furniture is covered up. A few lights might be on but there is always a sense of little to no habitation.

Tucked away beside an alley at the the end of my street is one such house. Not once had I seen anyone come in or out. Nor a single figure in any window. I've always admired the three story structure which predates my mother, taking my time whenever walking by. In my mind I'd fantasied about actually entering the house and taking a look around but my curiosity never got the best of me. Until the night in question ...

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

It was four a.m. on a cold morning in November. I had met friends at Skully's for The Floorwalkers CD release show. I'd never seen so many people turn out for a local act. They were hanging off the rafters, smoking dope, snorting powder in the bathroom and generally just carrying on. Thoroughly intoxicated by the end of it all, I wandered my familiar route home. I arrived at the corner of Hunter and Smith. There it was, taunting me. Lonely, unappreciated and daring anyone to investigate. Nicknacks covered in dust littered the windowsills and two weeks of news papers were piled on the stoop. It was pitch black except for the porch light and the first room behind the front door. I couldn't resist taking a peek in one of the windows. Totally deserted. Plastic slips covered the chairs and tables.

I climbed onto the front stoop and opened the screen slowly to prevent the hinge squeak from being too loud. I got a good look in through the stained glass on the front door. The only eliminated room gave me a feeling of vast age and intense comfort. Without realizing what I was doing my hand felt the door knob and gave it a turn. Unlocked. The massive oak door swung open. I flinched, startled at how easily it'd given way. Not a sound from inside the house. For a second I could swear I was floating from above, watching some moron inside my body lean his head inside the doorway. It felt like I was in a dream and I had no control over the next move.

Upon entering the first thing I noticed was the silence. So quite it was almost deafening. Palpable. A total lack of sound. My heart rate was increasing dramatically in response to doing something I knew damn well wasn't intelligent. Every pump of blood into my ears sounded like a bass drum. The place reeked of must and mothballs. Just like grandma's house. It was fairly warm, so the caretaker or whoever keeps the building up left the heat on. A beautiful electric chandelier hung from the third floor ceiling over the marble foyer. Ever square inch of the landing walls were covered with ornately framed paintings. Most originals upon closer inspection. There were also black and white family photos tinted yellow with age. The images were grainy like old movies. Very eerie.

After a minute or so I thought to leave but then I saw the books. They filled countless cases to my left that rounded out the rectangular, red velvet carpeted staircase. This house was worth millions based only on the decor. I rested my hand on the black mahogany banister and looked up. It stretched on for three floors and ever shelve looked filled to capacity. I'd come this far, a voice said in my head. There was no resisting. Might as well go a little further. I climbed the first flight perusing titles as I went.

The books were arranged with a haphazard carelessness. No sense of order whatsoever. Mostly old text books and random works of fiction. I took down a volume of Mark Twain's Life on the Mississippi. Opening to the publication page my jaw almost hit the floor. It was printed in 1903. Looking over my shoulder to make sure no one was around I tucked it under my arm as a possible souvenir. Just for shits and giggles I hide a couple of my "writer for hire" business cards inside a few other volumes. Leaving possible evidence at the scene of a crime. Real fucking bright. In hind sight I'm starting to see what a jackass I can be when I drink. When I entered my intent was never to steal anything but there I was, 10 minutes into a Breaking and Entering rap and helping myself to stolen property. Just then I heard movement below me.

Adrenalin shoot throughout my body and whatever buzz I had left was gone instantly. Panic took over. I had never been more scared in my life. Even taking care to watch my steps during the morning tour, every movement created a very audible creak. If I moved now whoever was below would certainly hear me. There was shuffling on the first floor marble. I carefully looked over the rail just in time to see a hunchbacked old man shut and lock the door I'd entered earlier.

After the deadbolt slammed into place the gravity of the situation hit me like a Buick. I quickly took a look around weighing my options. Hide and hope he went away, escaping later or confronting him and bailing now. He hadn't seen me on the second floor landing directly above him so I decided to find the nearest hiding place. With my feet planted and the book giving me an extra five inches of reach I tried to push open the nearest door but it wouldn't budge. A hacking cough and several sneezes from the foyer. Taking the risk, I took one step, leaned in and tried the handle. Locked. Slippers scuffing against the floor. He was on the move again. I leaned back towards the rail.

My biggest fear was unfolding in slow motion. He began climbing the steps. Terror made every hair on my body stand on end. The old wood groaned and popped with every step, the acoustics of the house and lack of any other noise, amplifying everything. It was my only chance. I set the book down and tip-toed towards the next set of steps leading to the third floor. When I rounded corner I found the steps blocked by boxes upon boxes of even more books. Trapped. He was halfway to the top of the first flight. I was officially starting to freak out. I could feel the cold sweat break out all over my body. My bowels clenched and if I hadn't relieved myself recently I may have pissed in my pants. He hadn't seen me yet but could he smell the sour stench of my fear?

He was now on the second floor but I was safely hiding around the corner, on the first three steps leading to the top floor. By this point I was so afraid I couldn't think clearly. He was so close I could hear his breathing. It sounded labored and weak. Worst case scenario I could take him by force. Kill him if I had too. What the hell was I even thinking? Murder? I wasn't here to rob or hurt him. I was just a curious (idiot) kid taking a look around. I'd pushed my luck too far. He would have every right to shoot me dead. I saw the muzzle flash in my mind, felt the hot led in my gut as I curled into the fetal position, bleeding out at this strange old man's feet. I couldn't bare the thought of either outcome.

Forcing the issue I stepped from around the corner. We were about 8 feet apart. He jumped with a start and his eyes went big with fright. He started to tremble and dropped his cane. I could now see I had every bit of six inches and 60 pounds on the feeble framed geriatric. In retrospect, I probably scared the poor guy more then I had been scared to begin with.

"I'm so sorry!" I spouted, breaking the dead silence. "I thought it was abandon. I was just passing through and wanted to get warm. The door was unlocked. I'm not here to bother you in any way. I'm not a criminal!"

"Have you ben sleepin' ear?" he said in a think English accent. I explained that I hadn't and I wasn't homeless. Before he could say another word I rushed past him to the steps, babbling apologies the whole way down. It was all a blur. He didn't make a move to try and stop me, no doubt just glad I didn't try to push him down. I remember fumbling with the front door for a second before getting it open and just as I was walking out I looked back and saw the 1,000 yard stare of shock on his washed out and weathered face. Nervous/terrified/glad to be on my way out, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind ...

"It's a beautiful home," I said and sprinted into the street. Today, since I made it out safe, that's hilarious. More ridiculous really. I made sure to pass my front door and circle back around before entering in case anyone was on my trail. I laid on the couch with all the lights off, too petrified to move and so juiced up I didn't fall asleep until later the next day.

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

A month has passed since my first B&E. Well technically the door has to be locked for you to break in. So is it just an entering? Either way, I learned a lesson and I avoid that corner like the plague. There's a reason that curiosity killed the cat I definitely used up one of my nine lives after that little stunt. Thank God he was an Englishman. A real, red-blooded American would have been locked, loaded and ready to blast any intruder dead. Hopefully in the future he'll keep his door locked and everyone reading this should do the same. You never know what kind of rift raft might just wander in off the street.


-J.R.

1,000 Hits

There's something to be said for never giving up on a dream no matter how impossible it may seem. It gives the dull reality of day-to-day life meaning. It gives one purpose. My dream would be to write professionally, preferably for absorbent pay, but I'm not the only one. So like all the other hacks, I work when/where I can and write (for free) in the meantime. I do what I have to in order to survive but no matter what the candle of hope remains aflame.

It's not easy though. The world tends to not give a shit about any of us or our candles. Sometimes I get so frustrated I want to blow the fucker out myself. Just give up. To be totally honest I don't know what's more pathetic; the fact that I feel like I've accomplished something after a 1,000 hits or that I even started trying at all. Usually during pity parties like these I get a text, a phone call, an e-mail, a comment on a post. Some sign that it's not all for nothing. SOMEBODY isn't just reading but enjoying what I have to say. Honestly that's all it takes. A kind word can go a long way if it's genuine.

So thanks. Yes, you. The one reading this right now. To all my editors, whom I owe beers for life, thank you. To anyone who has ever read anything I've ever written; thank you. Even that teacher in college who failed me because he couldn't understand how great I was; thank you. To anyone who has even glanced at my blog by mistake ... you get the idea. In the grand scheme of things I know it doesn't mean much but it's a start. A measuring stick showing some level of interest. I'm obviously not an awful writer and if you don't suck at something you can only get better.

Right. So now that I've buttered you all up I only ask for one thing in return for all my efforts. The current shameless self promotion wherever I go has helped but any additional support and assistance is huge. Please recommend my blog to any and everyone who might like it. Better still, recommend it to someone who might get me one step closer to being published. At this point I don't care how or where, as long as I can use it as a clip (Blogspot doesn't seem to count). Who knows maybe one day, after I hit the big time, we can all say remember way back when? When it was just a 1,000 hits.


-J.R.

A Bluegrass Homecoming (pt. 2)

"The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses?
Because here they come"

-Florance and The Machine, Dog Days Are Over




The house was empty when I came to. Awaking from my stupor I had the feeling that I was late for something. Late indeed. I'd over slept and missed my ride to Keeneland. Great. Once again I was on my own. Cursing myself for being such an idiot I got up, went to the bathroom and took a long look in the mirror.

My hair was a mess, sticking up in back. The rest was a bed head mash of half-ass curls. My breath tasted like sour onions. I smelled like an ashtray soaked in beer. And people say drinking isn't glamorous. While brushing my teeth I went over my options. Pregaming solo, hoping to run into someone I knew or plan B. Trying to make nice and crash a total strangers tailgate. Either way I would end up looking pathetic and lonely. Thankfully I heard the back door open and close so someone was still around. I stuck my head underneath the faucet and took a long drink. Brian and his girlfriend Stephanie greeted me in the kitchen.

"Well, well. Good morning fella or should I say good afternoon," he said grinning. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the air mattress this mourning. You look like death."

"Funny. I feel like I'm dying," I said. "Why didn't you leave with the others?"

"Those crazy sons of bitches got up at 8 a.m. We wanted to sleep in. Grab a quickie before we headed out, know what I mean?" he said winking at Steph. She offered a brief, sly smile and looked away. "Better to do it with no one around. Your passed out ass didn't count."

We each took our turn showering and primping. As I've already said, things are different in The South. Everyone and every event is a little bit more formal. At least until people get a few adult beverages down. A true Southern Gentlemen wears dress shirts, ties, even suites to Keeneland. The extra fratty wear Croakies (elastic sunglass straps) and J. Crew dress pants with mini lobsters/Hula Girls/Palm Tress monogrammed all over. Too chachy for my taste. Slacks, good shoes and a nice polo are bear minimum. The three of us were all dressed to the hilt. In our Sunday best for a chance to sin at the race track.

Now I know what most of you are thinking. Who the hell wants to dress up if they don't have to? Normally I'd agree. Anything other then a wedding or job interview I'm probably wearing jeans but there's a nice suite that lives a hermit's life in my closet; he never gets out. Let's face it, almost everyone looks better in formal cloths anyway. Like we're all really adults or something. Passing as upstanding members of civilized society and such. I'm not one to break tradition either, so when in Rome. Besides, no one wants to be the one asshole in the group who is totally under-dressed.

There was only one way to deciding who would drive. Roshambo. One chance, for all the money. Damn! I was the wheelman. We climbed into the truck and huffed an adderall each to kick the hang over blues. When used recreationally it is basically a poor man's cocaine. Similar high (although not nearly as intense) with less of the down. It had us feeling fresh and energized. After a quick stop for supplies we were in the precession of cars waiting to get in.

Much to our displeasure they had closed off our old fraternity tailgate to paying visitors. This caused our group to be scattered all over creation in the free parking. It was past one o'clock so they were already inside the gates anyway. By some amazing stroke of luck a security guard waved us into paid parking without charge. We were a 100 yards from the entrance to the track as opposed to several miles. The three of us weren't asking any questions. I eased the massive ass end of the F150 into a spot and we got down to business.

After polishing off a 12-pack of Bud Lights, a pint of vodka Redbulls and a few bowl packs it was time to head in to the track. Just past the turnstiles was the Paddock where they parade the soon to be racing thoroughbreds for betters to inspect. Stable boys, usually of Hispanic decent, lead the half ton beast around the ring. All muscle, sharp angles and fragile legs. Being so close, watching every fiber tighten with the delicate but deliberate steps, I'm always struck by how powerful these creatures really are. If it had the mind to it could toss the stable boy like a rag doll, jump the fence and bowl its way through the crowd. No one could stop it without the help of a firearm. Thankfully none of the horses I saw felt that itch.

The inside of the grand stand is a people watcher's dream that spans the gamut of economic social classes. On one hand you have the filthy rich. The old money. Horse owners/breeders. High roller handicappers. Movers and shakers in the world of racing. All reaping mass profits in the horse capital of the world (Lexington, KY). It's easy to identify these people. They wear freshly pressed Brooks Brothers suites and bow ties imported from Paris. One of their ensembles is worth more then my entire wardrobe. Walking, talking, Cuban cigar smoking decadents. They enjoy heavy starch on their immaculate white collars.

On the other hand you have the broke. The downtrodden. Life time losers. Degenerate gamblers searching the ground or trash for a misplaced winning ticket. Their uniforms are less obvious. Of course some come in crummy cloths, unkempt, looking the part but don't make the mistake of lumping lower level horse people into the same group. They're dirty from working the grounds, training the animals, not by choice. They're usually trying to use their "inside knowledge" to gain a slight edge. Others still pass as the elite. Spending what little they have keeping up apprentices. Fooling people into thinking they're big shots. An untrained eye thinks these schmucks (who are the worst of the whole lot if you ask me) are actually the upper class. However upon closer inspection you can point them out. They're usually the ones bragging about their hot tip or the big bet they just won. Real winners don't share tips. It hurts their odds. They also rarely tell anyone they're up big. Anyone who has a wad of the houses money doesn't want anyone to know they're carrying it.

The rest of us are somewhere in-between. At the track to spend a little money and have fun betting on a sport no one can truly grasp. Every time I'm there I overhear conversations about so and so's horse likes running on the grass. The number three horse likes the rail or only wins on Sundays. All bullshit really. If you asked the creature yourself and it could talk it'd probably just ask for a carrot or more hay, possibly a hot young Philly. They don't give a damn whether you win or lose. The true champions probably know it's a race but the rest are clueless.

I got in line for the best Bloodymary in town while Brian took a moment to inspect the race forum. He was a decent handicapper, growing up in Louisville, home of the Kentucky Derby. After he mumbled some gibberish about "boxing" this and "exactaing" that I made a bet that was a smaller mutation of his. Basically I picked three horses for $12. They could finish in any order so long as they were the top three. Of course one of the fuckers got fourth, just my luck. Back to the bar.

Brain placed another bet and ended the day up $50. The kid almost always walks away with some of Keeneland's money. It helps to be from down the road as apposed to being from out of state. No one talks horses where I'm from. We were just about to call it a day when I casually looked at the line-up for the next race. The number seven horse caught my eye. He was a three year old named Bonnaroo. Just what a closet hippie and Roo veteran needed to see. I asked Stephanie to hold my drink and I placed my $10 bet on the number seven horse to win (at 3-1). The bugle called them to post. One by one they were loaded into the starting gate. The bell rang. The gates opened and they were off! A stampede of hoofs and pure fluid muscle in motion. He lead wire to wire. My adrenalin spiked as they came into the the home stretch. I hooped and hollered with the crowd, urging, willing my pony to the finish. The beautiful bastard made me $30 richer. Damn it felt good to win.

After recouping my previous loss and covering my tab, I was more than satisfied. Any day at the track is a good day but a winner is a winner! Bragging rights account for a lot and I had a sufficient drinking story for the next month. We cashed in our winnings and walked back to the truck still buzzed on a natural high from our respective pay days.

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Everyone rendezvous at Hojo's place and made plans for the evening. Some had tickets to the game, some didn't but everyone wanted to head back towards campus. Brian, Steph, Devin and I decided to grab a bite and pints at Pazzos which was just how I remembered it. Great pizza, cold beer and terrible service. We sat for thirty minutes before we even got a drink. Some people we knew were already seated. We decided to join brother James group. He had his entire clan in from Cincinnati. Sisters, brothers, mom, dad and everyone's significant other. Brian came back form the bathroom to find our party of four had swelled to twenty. There was some confusion about where we should sit but in the end we got free pie out of the deal, so we sucked it up.

Bellies full, we were all ready for the second tailgate of the day. Students call it the double-dip; all-day at Keeneland followed by kicking of your night at Commonwealth Stadium. There is no doubt UK is a basketball school but seeing the sea of blue along Alumni Drive one had to wonder if the tide was turning in favor of football. Standard "C-A-T-S" cheers reverberated through out the stadium parking lot. I saw a more daring group beer bonging bourbon. We talked with friends and I ran into some old coworkers. Token "how ya been?" conversations began to make my head spin but thank God we were on a tight schedule. I'd scored Devin's extra ticket and lucky for us his brother is a local big wig so the seats were amazing. Right on the fifty yard-line, about six rows up, behind the home team. We left our friends and headed out to get the tickets.

"Just don't embarrass me," Devin's brother said after giving us the goods. We were feeling quite drunk after some pulls on a Makers bottle and apparently it showed. "Some of my bosses will be sitting right next to you guys."

Pot always seems to level out my drunk. A quick one hitter and all was right in the world. Unless of course I'm too far gone. Then I enjoy cold sweats, the spins and ultimately my face in the toilet bowl. I try not to think about it. Without incident we filed through security and stumbled to our seats. They were almost too good. We were so close it was difficult to see over the freakishly tall players. It was the closest I had ever been to a game during the heat of battle. We'll battle might be generous to Kentucky. Georgia was doing all the fighting. They handed us a 28-10 beat down by half time. So much for home coming. Too disgusted to stay we left before the third quarter. They'd make it respectable by the end but barely. Basketballs supremacy would reign in Lexington for the foreseeable future.

Before kickoff we had all agreed to meet at the only bar everyone HAS to go to when in from out of town; World Famous Two Keys Tavern. If my time spent blacking out in college could be quantified in one place this would be it. If I could tabulate how much money I'd spent there chasing the dream I'd probably cry. Other then some renovations, the atmosphere was exactly the same. A clusterfuck of coeds begging for booze, taking up every square inch of space inside and out. The girls were all blond bouffant beauties, younger then I remembered or I was just older. More of the latter I'm sure.

Devin and I packed ourselves in where we could and pounded shots. I went out for a smoke and that was the last time I saw him. Some shitty cover band was blaring so loud inside I couldn't hear people talking right next to me outside. I was bumping into someone every three seconds, spilling my whiskey and coke in the process. Staying there was pure madness. A total waste of time. I saw a group of my people making their way out so I followed suit.

There were about ten of us heading downtown. The Captain (See Bonnaroo 2010 posts), other frat bros and a group of girls. They were Kapas who used to live next door to our fraternity house. We hadn't seen each other in years and chatted as we walked. Before I knew what had happened The Captain and Bill had bailed. Both were in far worse shape than myself. Cap was unable to speak coherent sentences and he had a seven hour drive back to North Carolina in the morning. Calling it a night early was probably the best thing for him.

Sticking with the survivors, I entered The Penguin, a dueling piano bar that had just recently opened. We reveled, danced and drank. All smiles and good times. An hour in, I was approaching the point of no return so I took a step back for some fresh air. One of the girls, Erin, joined me. I had always had a slight crush on her and had the mind to kindle a flame that was never lite way back when. We shared a cigarette and summarized the last four years of our lives. She was working on her PHD at Northern Texas (Mean Green!) hoping to become an English professor. I gave her my song and dance, zoning out in spite of myself. Lost at sea in her green eyes. I imagined the feel of her feminine shaped mouth against mine, intrigued by her lips which were always in a slight joker smile. I went for it.

"Ummmm what are you doing?" she said when I leaned in. "Jacob I can't make out with you. There's this guy back home. He's watching my dog. I just feel bad. Otherwise I would."

It was awkward for a moment but we went back in and had a shot to forget the mistake that almost was. I took mine down slowly, letting it burn in the back of my throat hoping it would wash away my embarrassment. I felt like an ass.

"Sorry that was weird," she said. I told her not to worry, creeps like me can't help ourselves. She laughed and we danced to another number just as the the lights of last call sparked to life.

Leaving, we were all a total wreck. I gave Erin a leg up onto one of the random horse sculptures in front of Rupp Arena. I took some pictures with her camera. Her posing on the plastic beast, me the photographer, both of us laughing hysterically the whole time. The last of us took off in a cab with the police swarming just behind us. The next day we found out there had been a stabbing not a block from where we'd been standing. Close call.

A hang over is all we'd have to worry about. I lay on the couch and recapped my failed make-out attempt. The timing was off but better to go down swinging then always wonder. Even striking out, it had been an amazing return to the Bluegrass. I even managed a meal at all my favorite haunts. Breakfast at Ramsey's the following morning brought me full circle. The perfect pre-drive meal (minus fried chicken livers) before the long journey home.


-J.R.

A Bluegrass Homecoming (pt. 1)

"There's nothing more to it ...
And nothing's going on ...
This night has lived too long."
-The Walkmen, Lost in Boston




Breaks from the mundane are the only things keeping me sane. There's nothing better then kicking the tired old routine to the curb in exchange for a change of location. The night before a road trip I often stay up late unable to sleep in anticipation. I'm usually an early packer. I like having everything ready so when the time comes I can just take off. Anything that will ensure my mini-vacation runs smoothly. God knows I'd earned it. Six day work weeks are enough to crush anyone's soul.

Thankfully the time had finally come. I was ready for my triumphant return to Lexington Kentucky. The city and I had parted on bad terms. Striking abruptly, as they always do, a fire cost me an apartment and almost everything I owned. It felt like I'd been robbed and then I was forced to watch the bastards destroy their plunder. Thank goodness no one was injured but I still got fucked. Moving back in with mom and dad is not ideal for a college grad. My parents probably weren't too crazy about the idea either.

Obviously I was bitter at first, asking all the pathetically narcissistic questions like "why me?!" I did the blaming yourself and bathing in self loathing routine. However, the trauma hasn't tainted my memories of The University of Kentucky, or the fair residents of LexVegas. Even so it has been two years since I crossed into the Bluegrass State, other then one day trip to Rupp Arena with my dad. I couldn't wait to spend an entire weekend in the place I called home for five years.


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


It was a wonderful day to travel on October 22nd, 2010 in the year of our lord. Clear skies and sun shine. I had never been more excited to hit the road. UK's homecoming celebration and Keeneland awaited. The latter is a thoroughbred race track 70 plus years old. It is also the world's most prestigious thoroughbred auction, only open to the public two months out of the year for a fall meet (October) and a spring meet (April). This years fall meet was winding down and I wanted to get it in while I still could. Twenty of my fraternity brothers felt the same way. We were all coming into Lexington from various corners of the U.S. seeking strong drink, fast ponies and general mischief. Most of us hadn't seen each other since college. Hilarity and fun times would abound.

I'd been up late the night before but thankfully my things were already in order. After a noon breakfast I was on the road and a bowl pack deep before merging onto I-71 S. Marijuana is crucial if your going to spend any serious amount of time stuck in an automobile. Maybe an hour into the drive I start to zone out. Staying focused on controlling the vehicle of course but eventually the music takes over. Everything else shuts off except the part of my mind responsible for motor functions. Just tunes and the hum of tire against pavement. The flat southern Ohio country side's endless acres. Some plowed, some overgrown. Occasionally a silo or farm house to keep me company.

Traffic was already rush hour thick when I arrived at half past three. You can never be in a hurry to get anywhere in Lexington anytime of the day. This resulted from a combination of lackadaisical motorists and a city that has been poorly planned since its' inception. Perpetually late is the status quo. Anywhere in The South, pace of life is dialed back about five notches. Their speech is drawn out, meals take hours, and they all drive like the elderly. Of course people in Chicago say the same thing about people in Ohio and we're all stuck in neutral according to New York Minute standards. All relative. None the less I was remembering what I did NOT miss about Kentucky.

After making a left on green, ignoring the mysterious red turn arrow (still not sure what that's all about about), I was forced to stop at every light. Enough was enough. I was ready for a drink. Deep inside my gut a growing hunger was also making it's presence felt. There was only one thing on my mind. Pep cheese from Charlie Brown's. I'd been frothing at the mouth, dreaming of the golden brown, deep fried pepper jack goodness since my last visit. CB's is a must for anyone who's into greasy food and ice cold beer. I waited tables there in college and it will always have a special place in my heart as do the regulars and my former co-workers. After parking the truck on Euclid Avenue, I skipped through the familiar wood and stained glass door.

Time loses all meaning inside Charlie Browns. Like a black hole, it sucks you in. Day fades into night, night into morning before you even realize how many drinks you've had. My shifts usually started just after sunrise. I'd get off work, have a few and the sun would be down. Once I didn't see daylight for a full month. Stuck in "the cave", cut off from the rest of humanity. Cell phone reception was terrible. It was also far enough away from campus that no one from outside the CBs circle ever bothered you. You were in your own world. The normal rules of society need not apply. A safe haven from whatever ails you. Patrons are always friendly and probably a few drinks ahead but ready and whiling to help you play catch up.

The lights are always low, nearly off completely. Every table has a small kerosene candle, muted by a red glass shade. The walls are lined with ancient books selves filled to capacity. Some volumes predate both World Wars. Others are crisp and new. Anyone is allowed to borrow, so long as they bring a replacement. In winter fire places are lite to shake the shivers. No booths, just scattered two-top tables and chairs. The signature hand-me-down couches for lounging. Beyond informal. You eat off plastic plates and use trunks as coffee tables. It feels like your best friends apartment. Cozy. The most prominent feature is a massive enclosed bar taking up a third of the floor space. An archaic jukebox plays old 45s for free. The Doors, Roger Miller, Doobie Brothers, Motown. The only new additions in the last twenty years are a couple flat screen TVs. The smell of frying meat and bourbon hangs in the air. A Lexington staple steeped in lore and nostalgia. A place where no one ever forgets a face.

"Jacob! I'll be damned. How th' hell are ya," I heard Steve's familiar voice say. He was a regular during my tour of duty. Obviously not much has changed. "Long time no see! Let me buy you a drink." I ordered a Rolling Rock and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dingy lighting.

We chatted for a bit. I enjoyed my pep cheese and gobbled down a prime rib sandwich, in-between dips of pipping hot au jus. After eating I made the rounds, saying hello to Hesler, Dani, Billy, Scottie, Beth and rest of the crew. It was like we'd never missed a beat. I felt right at home. Everyone was in good spirits and business was steady, as it always had been. A few dirty jokes and many beers later, a cab dropped off my little brother (frat speak) Devin. He was just in from Orlando and eager to get the night going. After doing our best to get him caught up, we closed our tabs and headed out.

Walking to the truck we noticed a new bar had opened across the street. Dubbed the Beer Trappe it had hundreds of imported bottled beer presented in the build your own six-pack tradition. The kicker was the addition of a fulling function bar where you could sample some of the beers before purchase. Devin had recently been to England and had a hard-on for Fuller's London Pride, so we had a few pints each and shopped around. An hour and many samples later I was drunk and carrying two arm loads of beers I couldn't pronounce. It was already almost 9 p.m. Incessant text messages informed us everyone was starting to trickle into town. After bagging the to-go beers we made hast to meet up with the others.

The rally point was our fraternity brother Hojo's town home just out side the city. There were seven of us crashing. We took turns freshening up and changing in the bathroom. Once situated a group of four left for down town, while the rest decided to take it easy. Weary from longer travels, saving themselves for a long day of tail gating at Keeneland Saturday. Not wanting to squander any of my vacation time, I hopped in with the bar rats. We stopped by Bill's apartment for more Sigma Pi Alum love.

A shot or two more buzzed, our posse of twelve descended on Bluegrass Tavern. Exponential growth had sprouted up all over down town. Tavern, a hole in the wall when I was a student, was apparently the place to be now. Sandwiched between two new bars it was a mass of humanity. All three spots shared a covered pavillion, also brand new. We flirted with some underage coeds and managed to run into lots of people we knew in from out of town. I became fast friends with the outdoor bartender, leaving him $5 tips every visit. He'd make my order and then poor two extra shots of Bullet Bourbon on the house. Cheers! Well you can imagine the state I was in after about three or four trips to see my new buddy. Six hours of day drinking to boot. I was in a bad way to say the least. A solid hour of my time there is erased from memory all together.

My senses came back briefly a few hours later at McCarthy's, a shoulder to shoulder Iris Pub affair up the street. Much to my dismay I'd lost track of all my friends upon entering. Checking my wad I realized being such a "sweet dude" before, buying everyone drinks and tipping vigorously, had left me a little short. Forty dollars worth of build your own six pack was also detrimental. I was down to $20 ... not even enough for the cab ride across town to where I was staying. No cash and no friends. Too drunk to work a phone properly. I did the only thing I could do and began hitting on anything with a vagina in hopes of finding a couch to sleep on at the very least. After some foggy conversation a pretty blond (premed or something half-way intelligent) bought me a Irish Car Bomb. Fade to black out.

I woke up in a patio chair. It was 5 a.m. A vibration in my pocket. Ten missed calls. I'd deal with it tomorrow. There was a group of us sitting around the fire pit in Hojo's backyard smoking dope. Apparently someone from our group had found me. Thank God. Who knows what kind of swamp donkey I might have shacked up with if left to my own devices.

"He lives!," Brian said with a giggle. "Man, you were wasted! We found you in McCarthy's talking to some chick. You were so excited to see us you stumbled backwards and knocked a few pictures off the wall. The girl started laughing so you grabbed her hat and took off. We had to chase after you to get it back. She was pissed!" The last thing I remembered was the Car Bomb. The rest was news to me but I didn't doubt any of it even for a second. By this point not much was going on and I was tired of being the punch-line . Embarrassed by my actions, I said au diue and went to bed. The night had lived far too long and Saturday promised to start earlier and push on even further.


-J.R.

Just For Fun ...

***Note: This is response to a friend and fellow Blogger's recent post Dwindler's Lists. You can check out the original that spawned my imitation at her blog Junk on the Train.

If you read her post first it will probably make more sense. The girl is hilarious, I highly recommend you follow her. Enjoy and feel free to leave comments or your very own Dwindler's Lists.



Things I'm currently into ...


1.) Corn Beef Hash: a delicious, old school breakfast that's easy to make.

2.) Bands: Metric, The Black Keys, Cee Lo Green, and Oasis. Those guys broke up and nobody said shit about it. They fucking rock.

3.) COD Black Ops: That's Call Of Duty for all the non-video game nerds out there. What can I say, making little kids cry online is hilarious.

4.) Using matches instead of lighters. I'm cheap and no one ever steals matches.

5.) Junior's Taco Truck: $3 for an authentic Mexican meal on wheels.

6.) The Goon: Coolest/funniest comic book ever

7.) Hot Apple Cider and Captain Mo. Warming, delicious, drunk.

8.) The Walking Dead: Basically a never ending zombie movie, best show on T.V.

9.) Hot Sauce on everything.

10.) Sleeping in till noon whenever possible.

11). T.S. Eliot

12.) Instant movie streaming via Netflix .


Stuff that's Lame (i.e. I am NOT into it) ...


1.) PBR: Call it Pabst, call it Blue Ribbon or even Pibbers, it's still just shitty/cheap beer. It's fucking gross and it gives me heart-burn.

2.) Bill Collectors: Seriously, stop leaving voice mails. Like I'll call you back ... ever.

3.) People waxing $60 an eighth: Going rate in my town for good stuff is $50. You live here, you know this. Stop being a greedy asshole. I know you smoke for free.

4.) Liver and Onions: Nastiest "food" ever.

5.) Having to Number 2 at the bar: I usually just leave and hope I make it home in time.

6.) Girls texting at 5 a.m. when I'm asleep and then not responding the next day when I try back. There's only one reason to call somebody that late, we can make it happen, stop being retarded.

7.) Adult Braces: Pathetic. Should have got the boob job or hair plugs. You made it this far with fucked up teeth, why waste your money? You'll be dead soon anyway.

8.) Driving a Mustang in snow (aka The Death Sled)

9.) Shitty, old apartment windows that still let the heat out after being covered in plastic that you wasted fucking money on.

10.) Anything Christmas before Thanksgiving: It's real simple. No trees, music, Santas, wreaths, lights, commercials, ect, ect until after the turkey is all gone. Thanks Capitalism. Way to ruin the one good thing most Christians have going for them.

Hope you enjoyed, it was quite fun. Try it yourself. Ranting is encouraged.


-J.R.

Poem

The Fire



Stench of smoke, taste of soot
All possessions charred black
Crunching underfoot

Dozens watching
Neighbors, Police, Fire Crews
A terrible nightmare unfortunately true
What will I do?!
"Take deep breaths," he says
"We'll talk you through."

No one injured, close call
But now left with nothing
caused my own downfall

Tears swell in my eyes
In front of grown men,
who've seen people die,
breaking down to cry?
Who the hell am I?!
Damn lucky to be alive

Something in the rubble,
the guitar still safe
Sealed tight,
in its' fireproof case

I wipe ash from my face
One last look,
all else waste
An entire life misplaced

But trials strengthen the man,
so carry on while you still can
Which now I understand
Years later, strumming with the band


-J.R.

Boo Hoo for Da U

"All of us, we're going out tonight ...
The kooks are out in the streets."

-The Kooks, Matchbox




Life's best experiences are often unplanned and untimely. They come out of left field. A phone call from a friend asking if your interested in going to Mardi Gras, the only catch, you have to leave immediately. A free ticket to that band you love but you work early the next morning. It's usually at this point when people like me say fuck it and take whatever adventure awaits head on while the other half of humanity probably makes the more responsible decision. The aforementioned group, my people, know life is meant to be lived. No one lays on there deathbed wishing they'd passed on more road trips or seen fewer shows.

Once in awhile a surprise comes along that is a total win/win. You have no possible negative consequences to worry about. There really isn't a decision to be made at all. The stars align, the Gods look down in favor and you just ride a wonderful wave of luck ...

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

Buckeye football is your birthright if you're born anywhere in Ohio. If your from Columbus, home of THE Ohio State University, you're a devotee for life. Of course there's always "those people," the ones who root against the home team just to annoy. There are out-of-towners who have other alliances. However, even these outliers know on Saturdays, at any bar in this city, there is really only one team that matters. It often bleeds across state lines. I rooted for the Bucks for my entire tenure at the University of Kentucky. Don't get me wrong, I rooted for UK too, my love of their basketball program is just as intense. Even so, currently living in a sports town that only has pro hockey/soccer, Buckeye football is king.

Like any real fan would, I've coordinated my work schedule to be off for all the big games. During Miami week, my old roommate Shooter stopped by after work for a few beers. We watched The Daily Show and discussed plans for the weekend. I didn't have anything going on but he was heading out to his parents place to pick up a last minute gift. His dad had tickets to the game but was out of town on business until the following Monday.

"Yea, so I have an extra ticket," he told me. "Your more than welcome to come." He said it as if he were inviting me to a $1 movie; nonchalant, in passing.

"Are you being serious? Don't fuck with me," I said, nearly convulsing with shock. "How much?"

"Well, for free dude. I need someone to go with."

"Of course I want to go!" I grabbed another drink and took a large celebratory swig. I couldn't believe how lucky I was. Tickets were selling for $100. Thank ... you ... Shooter. Having gone away to school, I'd only attended a few games at The Horseshoe and they were laughers. Kent State, Northern Illinois, or the like. This would be hands down, the biggest, most important football game I'd ever seen in person. I couldn't wait.

The following evening I got a call from The Captain (see Roo 2010 posts). An Ohio native, currently living in North Carolina, he was coming into town to see his family. He also had tickets and wanted to meet up before the game to tailgate. Who were we to argue? All three of us were Kentucky Alum and it had been about a year since we were all in the same place at the same time. Black outs were a foregone conclusion.

On game day I drove down to Shooters place in German Village. We walked into Planks Bier Garten sporting our newly purchased jersey's; Shooter in Ross Homan's #51 and me in Brian Rolle's #36, our own private linebacking core for hire. At Planks service is poor and the grub takes forever, but it was good for bar food. While sipping Bloody Mary's and watching Game Day we chit chatted with other Buckeye faithful. Three drinks and a cordon bleu later I felt ready to kick into binge mode. Nationwide tailgating is very serious business during football season. Columbus is no different. The RVs show up to the stadium three days ahead of time. Drinking starts at sunrise on Saturday and the scent of charcoal is rich for miles down High street.

After parking the car on 5th Ave, we began to hike north towards campus. It was perfect football weather, a cool, overcast 70 degrees, but rain was in the forecast. Not that it mattered, nothing could damper our mood. The walk was long but enjoyable. Through The Gateway, past the new Student Union, and then east on Lane Ave. There were people everywhere, marching like a giant amoeba across streets, enveloping cars as they passed. Traffic was at a crawl, drivers looking pissed. That usual pre-game excitement/tension was in the air. I'd seen only a few Miami fans along the way and was surprised by the poor turn out. When the Texas Longhorns came to town they traveled in droves, easily twice as many. Whenever a big game comes to town cell phone reception is weak at best.

Finally a call went through. Apparently we'd been walking the wrong direction on Lane for twenty minutes. We turned around and made our way towards the stadium. After a few more garbled phone conversations we found The Captain and his tailgate. His group was in upwards of a hundred people, all from his hometown. The entire parking lot was a sea of scarlet and gray. Our party was just one of thousands in a five mile radius. The air was thick with the smell of charred meat. We munched on finger food and drank warm Guinness, Miller Lites or whatever was available. We toasted to life, friendship, and The Buckeyes. Some pineapple soaked in Everclear also made the rounds.

"This tastes rancid," I heard someone say. "It's awful."

"How many pieces did you have?," his friend asked.

"Six." We munched pieces of our own and walked to the game.

If it had been a contest of pageantry and ritual, we'd have won before kick off. OSU oozes tradition, nationally recognized for its academic merit and gridiron greatness. The university is of a higher breed. What does Miami have? Some national titles and a lot of felons. Da U is a football factory, not a university. Ohio State is a culture, a way of doing things. These clowns from South Beach may never understand.

Our seats were phenomenal, in the south end zone, just above the Block O student section. Marching across the field, The Best Damn Band in the Land indulged in one of the most memorable traditions in all of sports, the dotting of the "I" in script Ohio. During the somber Carmen Ohio the classless Miami fans were chanting and carrying on in an effort to drown out our song. One of them was only a few rows above us to the right. He was a mountain of a man, tan and tone. He looked like he'd just came from season two of MTV's Jersey Shore. A guido in a tight, airbrushed wife beater with Miami's trademark "U" shaved into his head. His Gucci shades were the kicker, considering the sun was no where to be found. As classy as white trash gets.

Through out the game the bleachers were full of would-be coaches and self proclaimed experts. Retired third grade teachers who just wanted head coach Jim Tressell to line-up in an I-back formation and smash these jerks in the mouth. When you stop to think, it's amazing how knowledgeable Buckeye fans are. In very few stadiums will you hear a 50 year old woman call out down and distance with surprisingly frequent accuracy before the PA announcer can make the official call. A father sat behind us with his ten-year-old son. It was the kids first game in Ohio Stadium and he picked a good one, full of hard hits and big plays. If we hadn't spotted them two special teams touch downs it would have been a slaughter but as it played out we were happy with a 36-24 win. Now it was time to really drink. We were going out tonight, to hit the streets and celebrate. We'd dodged the stigma of not being able to win "the big one" for at least a couple more months.

The three of us met up with The Captain's parents at Donatos on campus for pizza and pitchers. We gorged and drank, said our good byes and went off to continue the bender. The first stop was Scarlet and Gray Cafe were an amazing cover band had us grooving and shaking. During a break in the action a group of middle aged woman approached Shooter.

"How do you know Ross?" they asked in reference to the #51 Ross Homan jersey he was wearing.

"I don't," Shooter said. "I just think he's bad ass, so I got his jersey." Apparently the group were all from the starting linebackers hometown Coldwater, Ohio. It was a very small place (population under 5,000), where everyone knows everything about each other. Ross was the star football player from the local high school and he'd always dreamed of playing for OSU. He was very shy, soft spoken and easy going, which is why he doesn't get the attention other players enjoy. We bought them a round and talked for a bit longer about our shared hero before making our way south.

The streets were alive. Not the bedlam of 2002 (the last championship season) but give it time, it was only the second game of the year. Some sad souls were just sitting on the curb, tapping out, drifting in and out of consciousness. We'd pop into a bar here or there and have a drink and than move on to the next. The names of these establishments changes so often I couldn't be bothered with it for this post. I do remember talking to a Hurricane fan at Out R Inn who was still crying about the mentioned 2002 title game, claiming the phantom pass interference call was the reason the Buckeyes ended up champions. Every football game ever played could hinge on a call or a no call. Let it go already, stop feeling sorry for yourselves. They still had their chances after the ref dropped his hanky. I only had one thing on my mind at this point anyway. A frisky female coed. We pounded more shots and flirted with the closest available skirt.

A few hours later, I came out of my drunken stupor at McFadden's, a bro bar in The Gateway. I was attempting to grind with a girl on the dancefloor, unsuccessfully. It was the point in the evening when it was time to make a move or call it a night. My moves weren't working. Obviously my luck seemed to be running dry, so I said bye to my friends pushed towards the exit. On the walk home I got a text from Sophia, a girl I worked with at my old Cafe job. She was young and very pretty. Flowing chestnut colored hair, large brown eyes and a great body. She was also a student at CCAD, the creative type, like myself. I'd always had a thing for her but it never paned out while we worked together. The timing was never right. She had a boyfriend, I was living with my parents at the time ... but we enjoyed hanging out and had kept in touch.

Her text explained she was wasted at a gay bar in the Short North and sick of being fondled by homosexual men. Her friends were bailing on her and she wanted to meet up. It seemed I had one last ace up my sleeve. Apparently lady luck was smiling on me once again. Sophia was newly single and the attraction I'd felt was shared. The timing was finally perfect. We walked back to my place and wasted no time, beginning our intense make-out session in the hallway.

We talked for a bit in bed and than she slowly drifted off to sleep. I'd never seen this coming and was just happy to be sharing a bed with her. I looked at her laying next to me and did a double take, just to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Overall it had been an amazing twenty four hours; a game in The Shoe (complete with a Buckeye 'W'), catching up with old friends over many drinks and a beautiful overnight guest as the icing on the cake. I slept still sporting a grin that had been carved into my face since noon.


-J.R.

Short North Observation

Lately at night I've seen a man around town. There's a reason it's always after dark and he's memorable. A rare disorder has caused boils to sprout all-over his skin. I'm not talking about a cluster of 10 or 20. Literally, every square inch of exposed skin is covered by small to large dangling sacks of liquid. His face looks like a giant raspberry with eyes and lips ... you can't even make out hair or ears. His head is usually covered by a fisherman's hat. He wears gloves and pulls his collar up, anything to help hide his terrible curse, playing the lead in a real life horror movie.

I'll never forget the first time we crossed paths. On my way home from work I'd stopped at the Dairy Mart for a pack of smokes. He was at the counter chatting with the clerk. As I walked in we made eye contact for a split second. Startled, shocked, afraid, a gasp my have even escaped my lips. I looked away and darted to the back of the store, feeling like a child who had just seen the boogeyman. No one could blame me. Nothing can prepare you for that. A visual sucker punch. I never saw it coming.

Despite my unintentional and unavoidable reaction, I was ashamed. I knew that everyday of his life he saw "that look" ... the one that had been on my face. The look of terror, than disgust and finally pity. My response was yet another drop in a depressingly full bucket. Who knows, maybe he enjoys scaring the shit out of people; a small level of payback for the awful hand God has dealt him. It's plausible he doesn't even notice anymore. At the places he frequents most are no doubt used to his condition but in his private moments, when he has time to reflect, he probably hates us all equally. Hates us because we complain about bills and girlfriends. Oblivious to real problems and deep anguish. Hates us because we're normal looking and he's not. He has every right to be the most bitter person that ever lived.

After sliding back into my car I watched him munch on his Cheetos and sip his fountain drink while waiting at a crosswalk. I didn't want to feel sorry for him but did ... deeply. Once the initial shock was gone it was plain to see he wasn't a monster at all. Just another human being roaming the earth. Enjoying a snack from the corner store. As the light changed a motorcycle stopped just in front of him. He was inspecting the bike as he passed through the intersection, an obvious admirer. Before turning his head and walking out of sight I'll be damned if I didn't see him smile. A few seconds later he was gone. I Turned the key and my car's engine roared to life. Shifting into gear, I'd forgotten whatever personal injustice I was worried about when I pulled up.


-J.R.

The Black Keys: Built in Akron, Ohio

"A sinister kid ... runs to meet his maker ... and that's me ... the boy with the broken halo, that's me, the devil won't let me be."
-The Black Keys, Sinister Kid




There's no cheating. You can only pick one. Name your favorite band. I'm only giving you 5 seconds. Go.

Maybe a handful of you could do it. Most can narrow it down to a select few, but it's nearly impossible the more you think about it. I've always struggled with this question. What genre are we talking? What era? I could say Bob Dylan, Led Zeppelin, or Wu-Tang Clan, even Radiohead based on these criteria. The question is much too vague. I could never give a straight answer ... well until very recently, when the solution inexplicably presented itself.

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

Walking to the Lifestyle Communities Pavilion, we sank into our trip slowly, the song of the summer cicadas clicking in our ears. The trek seemed to be taking forever. Traveling south on Neil Ave. the five of us merged into a gang with other anonymous concert goers. Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion. The shrooms and about six or seven beers (in an hour and a half) might explain that. All of us (but one) were big fans. The odd man out had never heard The Black Keys in his life and had no idea what he'd signed up for. I thought of what questions to ask later, intrigued to hear a first time listeners opinion.

I'd been into The Black Keys for over a year but I was still getting caught up with their massive catalog (10 releases since 2001, counting side projects). From the very start they grabbed my attention. The first time I heard Your Touch I knew they were very serious. Curious, I talked to Shooter, my roommate at the time, and asked if he was hip. He immediately burned me Magic Potion and Rubber Factory and I devoured them. Both albums played for a solid month during my drive to and from work. Another friend lent me Attack and Release, which I also enjoyed (all be it slightly less than the other two). I even got their newest, Brothers the day it came out.

All of this happened before I saw them at Bonnaroo, where they tied for my Best of Show honors. Live performance is the most important thing I look for when deciding how much I like a band. They were officially in my top-5 all-time after that. I scored tickets to their Columbus gig the day I got back. Headlining on Friday the 13th, in front of a hometown crowd ... it had psychedelics written all over.

We'd made it in without incident after a short wait ... or so we thought. Once past the initial frenzy, we were down a man. Our gaze darted from face to face but they began to run together. Trying to focus on multiple moving objects is very difficult on serious drugs. The minutes began to accumulate. We grew anxious, the evil mushrooms slowly rotting our brains. The warm up band had finished. It was time to make an executive decision. Finally he answered his cell.

"I freaked out when we walked in and turned around," he said. "Too many bodies, too many staring eyes." In his defense, he's not a big hallucinogen user. Poor bastard never stood a chance really. I'm an experienced user and I was on the edge of a melt down too. Strong batch. Later, after we'd returned from the concert, we found him outside the apartment in the dark, wrapped in a blanket, still wearing sunglasses, writing his "Gospel" in a notebook. Some of it was hilarious but must was undecipherable chicken scratch. We would never let him live it down.

Obligatory phone call finished, we got beers and made our way to the lawn. The show had sold out and was even more packed than the last time I'd been to LC for My Morning Jacket. Drugs almost at their peak, everything made me giggle. This free and easy feeling wouldn't last long. We lodged ourselves next to an alley way, fairly cramped but not unbearable. Apparently some die hard Keys fans had camped out, arriving before the gates even opened. One couple had laid out a blanket beside us, claiming the small piece of real estate for themselves. We weren't encroaching but the woman was starting to get bent out of shape by the people who were congregating in front of her. Occasionally one would step on her blanket, thus invading the personal bubble she was trying to keep sterile.

"This is just ridiculous, you all standing in front of us like that," she said. "We've been waiting in these spots for hours!"

"Pa-leeeease lady," the drunkest of the three said. "It's a sold out show. Standing room only. As soon as the music starts everyone's going to get up anyway."

I could see both sides. She had been there first, they should honor her spot, like we had ... but at the same time she needs to understand that at a sell out, standing room only event you are going to be close. You are going to be sweaty. You are going to be touching people all around you who are totally drunk, stoned or both. That little blanket's worth of grass isn't included with the price of admission.

"If you don't move I'm going to start spitting on people!" she screamed. Arguing began and talk of the cops getting involved arouse. Ugly vibes. We wouldn't make good character witnesses in our current state, so we bolted to the restroom. While grabbing a last minute brew on our way back, we ran into some friends and managed to weasel our way into their spot. It was dead center of the lawn and much closer than where the lady had flipped out earlier. I didn't even want to know what happened to her and the drunks.

Multicolored stage lights clicked on and the two dweebs from Akron walked out to deafening cheers. The gangly one, all arms and legs, crawled behind the drums. The guy with a beard, in the awful plaid shirt, picked up a guitar and quietly said hello into the mic. He started tapping his foot and than smashed a power chord and held it till my ears popped.

The next two hours were probably the most memorable of any concert I've seen to date, easily better than their Bonnaroo performance. The two were in perfect harmony and pushed each others intensity over the top. I've said it before, but the level of sound and energy they put out, for just two men, is mind blowing. You keep looking around for another derelict on a musical instrument of some kind helping to create such racket. With each stomp of the peddle Dan Auerbach's guitar bounced back and forth from heavy Blues to smash mouth Rock 'n' Roll. Every note wailed, the auditory equivalent of getting slapped in the face. However, as a preform he was very introverted. Comfortable on stage with his instrument, but not with the crowd. He spoke very little in-between, his voice soft and sheepish. This was a stark contrast to his soulful and powerful singing. This dichotomy worked much to his advantage. The fact that he's an incredible guitar player helps too. Everything about them is loud and in-your-face. Fast and concussive were the drums. I could feel the reverberations in my chest. Patrick Carney made seizure faces, soaked in perspiration, smashing his sticks to the rhythm. He'd mic'ed his kit perfectly. My hearing was muffled for days.

Halfway through, they brought out the keyboard player and bassist who helped them out with the new album. After some tracks they sent them off and closed out as a duo, just like Bonnaroo (see Day 2 post). Unlike Roo, they came out for an encore after everyone in the crowd refused to leave, chanting "one more song" until blue in the face.

"Ohio," Dan said with a large grin. "Damn it does feel good to be home!" They smashed two more and called it a night.

On the walk back I was dripping with sweat from dancing and carrying on. We'd all been blown away and began talking over one another incessantly, naming our favorite song or an unfulfilled requests. Our Key's virgin was silent, totally shell shocked. He didn't go to many shows and had nearly wet his pants in all the excitement.

"That was the best fucking concert I have ever been to!" He shouted. "I fucking love those guys! I'm down loading all their shit as soon as I get home. They are now my favorite band." I couldn't agree more, and I purchased everything I didn't already own the next day. That's when it hit me. After seeing them twice I still craved more. The show had only gotten better. They were officially number one on my list ... no doubt about it. I had my answer to the impossible question. It was more of a realization than a conclusion. Like it had always been that way, I wasn't making any new discovery, just excepting an obvious truth.

After hanging out for a bit and digesting the night's events, I could feel a incredible headache starting. The type that builds in pressure behind your eyes, later spreading out through the entire brain like octopus tentacles before squeezing the life out of you. I'd made the fatal mistake of drinking alcohol while tripping, without ingesting any water. Both severely dehydrate and I was now paying the price. I hurried home and chugged a gallon of H2O while laying on the couch, a cold wash cloth draped across my forehead. I had once again pushed my luck a little too far, had a little too much fun. Continued abuse of such substances would lead me to meet my maker sooner than later. But they awaken things inside of me and I can't simply let such things be. The pulsing pain was dull and constant. I drank more water. My skull had melted. Drifting off to sleep with feedback still ringing in my ears, I wasn't sure if the drugs or The Black Keys were to blame.


-J.R.