Roo 2010: intro

Note from the author: The following series of posts are dedicated to Thomas and Brittany Cox, who's wedding I had to miss to attend Bonnaroo. I still feel awful about bailing and figured this is the least I can do. I wish them the best on their new journey together. Miss you guys and hope to see you soon!

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It was a very merry Christmas, especially for a Jew. Well actually a half Jew. My father is a Episcopalian and the only stipulation he had to his children being raised Jewish; we would still celebrate X-Mas. It is his most beloved (and only) Christian tradition. As a result I get the best of both worlds; Christmas and Hanukkah. We aren't a terribly religious family so no one gets their toes stepped on. The actual meaning of both is pretty much irrelevant to us, like most American's who celebrate either. It's all about the pageantry, spending time together ... and presents of course. I know, bite me, you would take both too if they were given to you.

The cause for extra celebration was receiving my ticket to Bonnaroo 2010 from my old man. Hands down the best gift I had gotten in years, for any reason. He is an old school Rock 'n' Roller who likes to live vicariously through his son. Growing up, some peoples dads take them to ball games or out hunting. Maybe they work on cars together. Not mine. He took me to shows. Before I was 16 I had seen Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, AC/DC, Tom Petty and Soundgarden just to name a few.

By February I was already in the planing stages of my trip when a "save the date" arrived at my apartment. My good friend Thomas was marrying his long time girlfriend Brittany, right smack dab in the middle of the festival. My heart dropped to the bottom of my stomach. Beside myself with anxiety, I called our mutual friend Charlie. He suggested trying to attend both (skipping out on the first half of Roo). I decide it was one or the other. Why pay full price for only two days? If I was going to miss any of it, I'd just sell my ticket. He was a groomsmen so he would certainly be at the ceremony, come hell or high water. The discussion was helpful but ultimately it was going to be my call.

I pretty much ignored the problem until the last minute. Maybe I wouldn't get invited. Maybe my invitation would get lost in the mail. I would be off the hook. But it finally came and after toiling and writhing over it for a week I sent my "regretfully decline" notice. Even now, I feel like an ass but Bonnaroo is my one big thing. My break from the mundane. My chance to do something I truly love; see live music. Four full days of it, once in a lifetime shows. Obviously I'm just trying to rationalize my decision. Marriage is a huge deal, and everyone involved hoped it would also be once in a lifetime. I had never wanted to be in two places at the same time more in my life. It was never meant as a slight to them, whom I hold dear, but I would understand if any size grudge was held.

With the necessary unpleasantness behind me, (only a total dick would not respond all together), I got my final plans in order. I had a brand new tent and a small armies worth of food/gear ready. I packed up my pop's truck on the afternoon of Wednesday the 10th. A light rain was falling. I hoped it wouldn't follow me to Tennessee.

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Driving solo seven hours is a bitch but I had music to keep me company. Dylan, one of the crew from last year, had given me a massive care package to get me Roo ready. Basically a bunch of tunes from people I would be seeing. I started off with The Black Keys' Rubber Factory. The Akron based blues rock duo was bar-none my top must-see. I had been a fan from the first time I heard them but hadn't seen them live. Dan Auerbach's howling vocal, Patrick Carney's powerful, abrasive drumming mixed with simple yet profound lyrics is mesmerizing. It's fun to root for the home team too.

After the Keys I blasted through most of Dr. Dog's catalog. Their psychedelic-indie rock sound is an acquired taste and I dug it, but I found myself skipping tracks often, unfamiliar with most of it. Giving them at least a once through was a must considering they were also towards the top of my list. My Morning Jacket, Black Joe Lewis, Frank Turner, KOL and Fleet Foxes got heavy play as well. All of them wouldn't be performing but they seemed to fit the various moods I was in on my long journey. It was a peaceful drive but also very boring. Other then the sunset leaving Cincinnati, I was driving at night. The scenery was rendered moot.

After grabbing a burger outside Nashville, I met up with my crew at a Walmart. It was a buddy of mine from college and two of his friends from his current place of residence, Asheville North Carolina. He has demanded to be called The Captain for the duration of these posts. One of his friends asked to be called Road Dog, and the last member of our group simply by his last name Burke. Who am I to argue?

With the last few things checked off our supply list we were ready to head out. The Captain hopped in with me and the other two followed in Road Dog's Dodge Caravan. We entered Coffee County Tennessee around 4 a.m., ignoring the massive and unmoving line facing the opposite direction. Continuing east bound, we took exit 127, same as the year before, but it was broad daylight last time. Now it was pitch black. We were the only people on the back roads and many times we thought to turn around and join the freeway line but we carried on, following "event" signs. Finally we caught up to some others.

Check in was a little hairy since the line was sparse. The cops were walking up to vehicles to look around. They seemed to be targeting large groups, randomly asking a vehicle to pull-over for a search. Other then a joint we'd already smoked and a stash hid in my shampoo bottle, we were clean. We had almost made it through when one crew cut, muscle bound, gun packing freak approached us.

"I just saw this new, beautiful Ford F150 and had to check it out," he said, resting his arm on my open window ledge. We bullshitted with him for a few minutes. I told him it was my dad's, our family was a Ford family and blah, blah, blah. He shined his flash light in the truck bed then back in our faces, pausing ever so slightly. Did he sense we had dope? Was he seeing a decade's worth of drug use in my redden eyes? Could he smell our fear? After what felt like a lifetime, he waved us on. Disaster averted.

We were huddled into the campsite, intentionally parking far apart to steal any extra bit of space we could. Springing into action with the grace and speed of gazelle, we unpacked and set-up our tents with only head lamps as our guides. Our neighbors, who were already finished, turned their headlights on to help us out. Very Roo of them. We began drinking Kentucky Tavern and PBRs by 6 a.m. and watched the sunrise. All in all, counting the time we were in line and set-up, it had only taken about 3 hours. That's half the time I spent doing the same tasks a year before.

Continuous, growing cheers sprung up amongst the revelers. Bud Lights were scattered about freely as if they had been dropped by a passerby; the Johnny Apple Seed of beer. Pulling out his guitar, Burke began playing Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound. After a pull on the handle of booze he paused.

"Woo hoo! Might be too early for that one," he said in his subtle but ever present North Carolina drawl. He settled on one of his originals Part-Time with Benefits, clever and catchy with a Rockabilly flavor. "Working part-time, in the mean time getting tore up," he sang. The Captain played a mean harp lick in tune. Spirits were high, but we were all exhausted after the drive. As I lay my head down to sleep I could hear the first whispers of, "Molly ... Headies." Drug dealers never sleep at Bonnaroo.


-J.R.

Getting Weird with It ... Yet Again

"Always the last, to see the moment has passed, and I need to admit my defeat ... Try as I might, I can't stop, until I've squeezed out every last Drop."

-Frank Turner, I Really Don't Care What you Did on Your Gap Year




Sipping a Mojito at 2 am, watching people break dance to house music, I couldn't help but wonder what I could be doing at that instant infinitely more productive. Something meaningful like writing, curing cancer or even sleeping. I never drink trendy cocktails with exotic names. I'm usually a Bourbon and beer kind of guy but Matt, my bar tender, assured me they were his specialty. I can't lie, they were fucking outstanding. The concoction was 80% rum but smooth with little or no burn. Four down, plus beers and I was knocking on Mr. Blackout's door.

Inebriated or not, Bristol Bar isn't usually my scene. Well, not unless I'm on some serious drugs. Luckily on that fine evening I was and very much into the trance, electro, dub step spirit. Acid is probably my favorite drug to do on rare occasions. When feeling frivolous, some people break out a fine single malt scotch or a Tawny Port that's been aging longer then I've been alive. Not me. I just place a piece of blotter paper on my tongue and kiss reality good bye for awhile. Maybe to some people this makes me a bad person; a drug addled flunky. They probably aren't the people I would want to spend a Tuesday night carrying on with anyway.

The evening had started normal enough, with the usual suspects. Janis, Georgina, Shea and I had planed on heading to Bristol for a few drinks. But before the bar, we stopped by Oldfields parking lot to score four hits of LSD. A friend of Janis' had extra and was looking to get ride of it cheap. I'm an opportunistic drug user. I rarely seek out the hard stuff but never shy away from it either. With Bonnaroo coming up, I considered my shenanigans "Drug Camp" training.

We procured the narcotics and ate them immediately. It was the second time in a week I had taken heavy drugs in that parking lot (see Weird With It post). A month ago I didn't know this place existed. Now I was popping pills and taking doses there on the reg. I couldn't help but laugh to myself. Many will ask: Why do mind altering substances? To which I reply: Why do people climb Mt. Everest? Because it's there.

With the black paper dissolving on our tongues, we headed to our destination. Road to Nowhere by The Talking Heads was playing on the radio. Very apt. Bristol is part club, part bar and ultra trendy but not in a negative or unoriginal sense. It takes up the first floor of a very old apartment building. However, the inside has been totally remodeled. New hardwood floors, walls covered in sheets of bamboo, clever lighting, high ceilings with exposed air-ducts and framing. Stainless steel bar tops, chairs and tables fill the first entryway as you walk in. As you turn to the left you enter the club portion; a very large open area with a square of cushioned seats in the middle, a few places to sit around the perimeter, an expansive DJ booth to the rear and floor to ceiling windows facing the street. The decor screams modern with a obvious LA overtone.

Not surprisingly the crowd was small. This spot is relatively under the radar of most. Average Joe isn't ready for the raver, hipster, cyclist, candyflipper demographic. One wirer kid was in tight cut-off green denim jorts, a brown wife beater and fatigue colored baggy slouch. He was bounding around, hips gyrating frantically, his reddish brown hair matted to his forehead with sweat. When he bent over we could see the faintest hint of lace connected to a pair of woman's underwear. He was a characture of the stereotypical effeminate gay male. We decided that his attire, mannerisms and boyish face reminded us of Peter Pan.

An hour in the drugs started to take hold. Acid is a different beast then it's club-drug cousin Ecstasy. Much more intense, the high coming to you in waves. X is a more ever present, pulsating with each pump of the heart. Both give a heavy body buzz but LSD also has the added advantage of visuals. I've never seen little green men or pink elephants but any light, pattern, or random occurrence gives the tripper an out-of-body like experience. Are those bricks trading places? Is there a halo around those purple lights? Did that chick really just take her tit out to show her date a tattoo? At least that's how it was for me ... Both are great when a DJ is involved. You can feel ever bass hit, ever tweaky high note, every word, as if they came from inside of you.

DJ Moxy Martinez was tearing through her set while we danced and pounded drinks. Her transitions were flawless, easily the best of any DJ I had ever seen in real life. She played 50-Cents In Da Club before splicing it into Dub Step infused version of Feel the Noise without anyone even realizing what the hell had happened. She combined songs perfectly, never missing a beat. This was not your kid brother dicking around with turn tables and a mixer in your parents basement. She was a professional and had earned major respect in my book. I was a former hater, now converted lover of house music.

The words I had been writing seemed to wriggle and worm across the bar napkins. I began feeling very excited and anxious, like when your climbing the lift hill of a roller coaster in anticipation of the drop to come. I went out back to regroup. The cool night air felt good on moistened skin. Peter Pan was out there too and obviously rolling even harder. He kept approaching me and telling me how beautiful I was. He aggressively tried to lick my face. It took most of my strength to keep him from coming in for the kill. The butterflys in my stomach were flapping their wings faster. I felt nauseous. I was starting to loose my cool.

"Ummm I wouldn't do that," Shea said, coming to my rescue. "He's not gay and he's tripping"

Peaking and drunk (you have the drinking ability of 10 men when dosing) we decided it was time to leave. We walked to Georgina's apartment and crept to the basement, trying our best not to wake her roommates. Safe at last. No more crazy ravers to worry about. Mr. Blue Skies was playing and we were all giddy with laughter like school kids staying up past their bed times on the first night of summer. "This is my selection," Shea said. "I hope you like it, but I don't care of you don't." She was making crazy designs on a laptop art program. It looked like vomit. "This isn't for you," she said. "You don't understand. Your not abstract enough."

At the drop of dime the drug can turn on you. One second everything was perfect sitting inside. The next we craved action and the outdoors. We were too confined in the basement. We were inmates in a prison of our choosing. We dashed back outside as if we were being chased by the devil himself. Wide open spaces; safe once again. Splashing in parking lot puddles we were beside ourselves with good vibes. Out of nowhere Georgina and Janis took off.

"Fuck it, we'll go skiing!" they said as they wondered off. Shea and I followed, beginning or three hour outdoor LSD odyssey. We wandered around Victorian Village. Each large tree that lined the cul-de-sacs seemed to have a lifetime of stories to tell. Shrubs were lost souls who longed for life outside the city. Old vacant estates beckoned to us, begging to be explored but they were all locked. It was past 5 am by this point and the newspaper delivery people were out, hard at work. Shea become convinced they were following us and up to no good. Bad, ugly vibes. The acid had turned on us yet again.

We ended up at the Gothic church on King Ave. It's massive oak doors and five story bell tower reminded me of Medieval Times. We explored the court yard awhile longer before heading back. The girls sat on the bed, eating bananas and I was gripped by an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. Me laughing made them laugh and we were all a total mess, rolling around on the floor and clutching our bellies.

Laying on the soft shag carpet, the last thing I remembered before drifting off was Janis dancing above me to Wipe Out. She looked like the bouffant B 52s lady, hanging ten on an imaginary surf board. One moment I wanted to laugh, the next I wanted to sleep. I couldn't do both at the same time. The moment was passing, the drugs waning but I didn't want my adventure to end. Eventually, exhaustion won and I passed out. Another evening of getting weird with it. Dancing green fairies and castle like churches filled my dreams.


-J.R.

Short North Observation

There's a used Trojan on my street. Looking down at the dead latex litter, smoking my cigarette, I can't help but wonder how it got there. Did they fuck outside, right here? Did they fuck in a car and simply discard said condom when they were finished?

Like an unlucky lotto ticket that hadn't won anything, it was now trash, after giving some level of enjoyment if only for a brief moment. The love glove stuck to the pavement like a fish carcass washed up on the sand. Dead now, it served no further purpose. At least someone was getting laid. I put out the butt of my smoke and went inside, plotting on how to spread used prophylactic around my fair city as well. A lone wolf in a sheep skin contraceptive.


-J.R.

MMJ: Prouducts of Kentucky

"It's a mystery I guess ... just the way that he sings, not the words that he says."
My Morning Jacket, The Way That He Sings




A sunny day always shines brighter on your day off. Not that I need the sun to shine. It was a glorious day despite the poor weather forecast. I had been a My Morning Jacket fan for a long time, and tonight I had tickets. During my entire four year stretch at the University of Kentucky I had failed to catch the Louisville based rockers. Inexcusable I know, especially since I was 77 miles from ground zero during their slow but steady rise to notoriety.

But no more. A source who shall remain nameless gave me a fifth of Bullet Bourbon and by 5 pm the whiskey was running warm in my blood. My friend Gus came over with a blunt rolled. We had been friends since grade school. Tonight was going to get very serious in the best way possible. We smoked and played It Still Moves top to bottom.

Joining our fellowship, Dave and a friend came by and pounded shots to catch up. I had met him through Stacey, a girl I worked with at the Cafe. They were engaged and had just had their first child together. Being a new dad, he never got out of the house. I could tell already that he was ready to tie one on. No fiance or child to worry about for the evening, he was a man on a mission.

After a quick Wendy's run we were en route to the show. Rain had already started to fall but we didn't give a shit. It was going to be an epic night no matter what. All-terrain rain jackets are a must for outdoor venues. Mine would manage to keep me dry.

We piled out of Shooter's car, thanking him for being our sober chauffeur. Taking our spot in line I realized Dave was still eating his Spicy Chicken Sandwich. Before he was half finished we had reached the ticket taker. In one quick motion that can only be described as elegant he crammed the remainder into his face, chewed and swallowed.

Once we entered we immediately got in line for beer. I'm not sure why, but I was feeling the need to pound heavily. Dave's wanton joy was the fuel to my fire. Besides, I hadn't had a day off in far too long. Might as well make the most of my freedom. Beverages procured, we found a nice spot on the lawn. It was an out door amphitheater with standing room only lawn seating and a concrete "floor" area for seats. The grassy knoll was at the perfect increasing incline so no one had a bad view.

They opened with One Big Holiday. The familiar high-hat and guitar riff sent chills down my spine. Drunken high-fives were exchanged and satisfied grins filled the crowd. Jim James came out wailing on his signature Gibson Flying V. He wore a red flannel with tie under a blue crush velvet vest. He had a six shooter holstered on his hip and the bravado to match. They followed up with Off the Record, Gideon and then I'm Amazed. They closed each with a prolonged jam that never seemed force, but necessary. Four for four and just getting started. As the rain fell Jim sang ...

"Sitting here with me and mine all wrapped up in a bottle of wine, little we can do, we gonna see it through somehow."

Joints were lit and passed. We talked to our neighbors who were in from Cincinnati. They had seen the fellas over twenty times and they said it got better every time. Dave was beside himself with excitement. At one point he began spastically dancing through the crowd, bobbing then weaving by people like Mohammad Ali.

Georgina stopped by with her mom and hung out for a song or two. Her mother was a hip, hip lady to be at MMJ. She had kind eyes and Georgina's smile; or was it the other way around? After The Way That He Sings the two of them pushed up to the front for the rowdy Lay Low. The guitars were heavy and deliberate. I never wanted to be a rock 'n' roll star more.

They were blending slow and fast tracks beautifully, it was the best set list I had ever heard. The sun had set, the lights shut off. We enticed them back on stage with lighter waving and chants of "One more song." For the encore, Jim came out in a cape that matched his vest. He pranced around stage during Wordless Chorus with six large eye balls staring at us from screens behind the band.

We missed the opening act, The Preservation Hall Jazz Band, but luckily Jim brought them out to finish their set with a New Orleans inspired cover. It ended up being a ten minute session culminating with vehement dueling guitar solos and a Jazz Band member smashing his acoustic on stage. A final release of enthused passion. The heat and chemistry between everyone on stage was palpable.

At this point Gus had taken a very wide stance on the hill to keep his drunken frame upright. He was holding a half empty beer that was piss warm. He'd been clutching it for the last five songs and hadn't taken a sip; it was more a prop at this point then anything. He was in a bad way but still kicking despite his inebriation.

On the way out I talked to a kid in UK gear that I happened to be standing next to. He was up from Lexington for the show. On a whim we started a "C-A-T-S" cheer, Kentucky's equivalent to "O-H ... I-O". Randomly 20-30 people in the crowd joined us. It felt good to have my alma mater repping in my home town. Wildcat love was in the air. We cabbed it back to my place and went our separate ways, able to check another quality band of our bucket lists.


-J.R.

... Weird With It

"I was looking for some action, but all I found was cigarettes and alcohol."

-Oasis, Cigarettes and Alcohol




The Ecstasy was rolling Strong. I could feel it's basement engineered chemicals rushing to my head. Important questions floated in and out of my consciousness. When did I have to be at work? What time is it? What's the meaning of life? I couldn't focus on much of anything for longer then a minute or two, so I just I sipped my beer listening to the birds chirp on an apartment roof. The first yellow/orange rays of sun light were peaking over the horizon.

Until this point it had been a rather uneventful night. I guess if I wasn't on a Class A narcotic it would have still been relatively uneventful but I was having a good time getting weird with it. This was a term being thrown around lately, propagated by my new friends Brian and Matt in honor of their bands new EP Summer of Weird. The George Elliot Underground's sound is a mess of southern rock 'n' roll, blues and a dash of KOL pop rock.

They really are one of the better groups in the local scene. The Floorwalkers and Spikedrivers also come to mind for those of you taking notes. I recommend them all very highly. I digress, back on track.

I started my night at Garage bar in the arena district. I have to give it credit, for being located in the "Bro" hotbed of Columbus it really wasn't that bad. They had PBR talls, so I fit right in. Janis, Shea and I were there to see GEU, who was opening for Chelsea Automatic, yet another local group who had been getting good pub as of late.

Unfortunately we had missed Brian and Matt's set. When it comes to Chelsea Automatic let me tell you, don't believe the hype. They weren't anything to write home about. The show wasn't awful but certainly not good. Their best song was an Arctic Monkeys cover I was only half paying attention to. They did have nice representation though. Local kids who probably went to high school with the guys in the band. We hadn't, so we weren't feeling it.

I had a great conversation about the finer points of Ryan Adams with Matt and Brian over a cigarette. Although we all had a different favorite track, we all agreed his version of Wonderwall blew Oasis' out of the water.

"I love Oasis," Brain explained. "But it's no longer their song." I couldn't agree more. Even Noel Gallagher has acknowledged that Ryan's version gives the song it's soul .

They both looked their parts. Brian, the drummer, was a cross between Animal from the Muppets and the guy with the hair from Mars Volta. Matt, the singer, had an Irish Caleb Followill vibe. They both wore tight shirts and filthy jeans. Regardless, I was enjoying talking to people so into music.

The bartenders made last call. Janis and Shea started to say their goodbyes but I was beginning to catch my buzz and had the urge to prolong it. I tagged along with my two new compadres to an after hours bar on North Campus.

We walked down High, chattering loudly. Once we got to Outfields we veered left into an alley. There was a beat-up plywood door on the side of the building. Some shady characters were hanging outside. They were a cross between country and ghetto. You know the type. They densely populate areas like Pataskala or other out cropping counties still close enough to infiltrate Columbus' decent drinking society.

"This is it," Matt said as he handed one of them his ID and a twenty dollar bill. Apparently cover is taxed after hours. We walked into the crudely fashioned door and up some steps to the second floor of Oldfeilds. It was an intense check-in process. We were all frisked and patted down. We gave our IDs to a third bouncer who wrote our names on a sheet of paper. Next, a number was etched on our hand in sharpie. I felt like a lab rat in a maze, being tagged for an upcoming experiment.

A couple names for the place had been tossed around on our long walk. Afterhours, World Peace Bar but it should have been called the Rave Cave. Glow stick twirling and intense house music was the fare of the evening/morning. Digiraatii was on the mix and a lot of people were doing what appeared to be dancing on the raised floor.

The crowd was a bizarre mix of scene kids, homeless looking drunks, college aged coeds and high rollers. We had all come together, united under one cause, a few drinks more then last call usually aloud. One guy in a three piece suite was seated next to what had to be am escort, judging on her intense make-up and skin tight lime green mini-skirt. He probably had two wives and a girlfriend as well. I could see the sleaze beading up on his forehead like sweat.

Since it was past 2 a.m. and no one was aloud to "serve" alcohol, the bar at the rear was excepting donations. Basically you paid $5 for a ridiculously small vodka and Hawaiian Punch and didn't bitch about it. We posted up and people watched. Some guy with a mullet walked up and said, "hi" to Brian. He had on a black cut-off NWO (of wrestling fame) tee. I took to calling him Whackgyver the rest of the night.

Attractive women were sprinkled throughout the crowd. One hipster chick caught my attention especially. She was very thin and attractive in a Kate Moss ugly model way. I tried to dance with her but she gave my house music moves one look and wasn't having any of it. I was out of my element for sure, what had we gotten ourselves into?

Many over priced drinks later, we decided it was time to go. We stepped outside into a surprisingly large crowd which had gathered in the alley. Pot smoke was in the air and we mooched on a bowl or two. We struck up a conversation with some random guy who offered to sell us Ecstasy at $10 a hit. He took a large drug baggie out of his pocket. The multi-colored pills looked like a sack of smarties in his hand. None of us wanted to pony up the dough and were about to walk away when his inner salesman came out.

"Take a hit each and if you like it give me a call sometime." Matt declined but feeling drunk and adventurous, Brian and I took the offer. I noticed it was in the shape of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle head just before I popped it into my mouth.

We cabbed it back to Brian's apartment, chain smoking Marlboros and listened to tunes on his roof as we watched the sunrise. The X was definitely good shit. It was a mellow body buzz with a cocain-ish upper sensation. Our new supplier would most certainly be receiving a call in the future.

Totally wired we decided we hadn't had enough. We went to Mike's Bar in the Short North looking for some action. It opened at 7 a.m. and the three of us were slamming shots of Kentucky Tavern by 7:30. I was now in a very bad way. I had to have nourishment. Breakfast happened at Vic's Cafe, some mesh of corn beef hash and scrambled eggs I scarfed down with out thinking twice or tasting it. Strong coffee brought me back to reality.

Out of no where, Janis and Shea busted in as Brian was playing a acoustic guitar set up for open mic at the cafe. Things were officially starting to freak me out. It felt surreal to see them after being out on the town with them earlier in the night/morning. I was starting to realize how absurd my behavior was. I began questioning my morals and life choices. The drugs were wearing off.

Before I could dwell on it, I was on my feet and out the door. I walked out on my check, which I never do. I was beyond fucked up. I stumbled back to my place and peeked into my parked car. There was a half eaten birthday cake in the back seat and I had no idea how it got there. Shit had definitely gotten too weird for me. My bed never felt so good.


-J.R.

Bone Thugs: It's an Ohio Thing

"Boy with a coin he crammed in his jeans, then making a wish, and tossed in the sea."
-Iron and Wine, Boy with a Coin




I had been seeing Mary Jane on a fairly regular basis for the past month. The two of us had been friends for almost a year but after loosing touch for a bit, we had recently reconnected. We'd go out for a drink or a movie. There were kisses on occasion and daily correspondence via text, so I guess we were qusi-dating, although we never got to the title stage. I was into her on a romantic level but the feeling would NOT grow to be mutual.

One night after work, I went over to her place to hang out. I'd had a very shitty couple of days for reasons I won't get into for the sake of time. We always seemed to enjoy each others company and I was hoping to take my mind of things for awhile. It was a typical night for us: wine, weed and tunes. I was starting to cheer up, until she brought up our foggy at best situation.

"I enjoy your company," she said. Uh oh, I didn't like her tone. "I feel a connection but I don't want to press feelings that aren't prominent." Sweeeet. These are the kind of phrases any guy with a crush hopes to never hear.

We talked about it for awhile and I had the feeling she thought I wanted more from her then I really did. Maybe she felt pressured. She shouldn't have. I was totally satisfied with being stranded on first base. I was in no hurry. We had just started to share the bed, after about three weeks of me sleeping on the couch. I felt some sort of progress had been made and I was content. The strange part was I didn't even mind being relegated to the living room. For the first time in awhile, I was in no rush to sleep with a girl I was into.

Regardless, from that night on we would be just friends. My feelings were hurt but I was cool with it. Nothing had gotten serious and we'd only been an "item" for a short while. We had made plans to go see Bone Thugs-n-Harmony the following Thursday. Since I already had tickets, we decided to go anyway. Could be awkward but I was willing to try. After all we had been friends first and I wished to return to our previous form.

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The day of the show everything was planned. After work she would come over to pregame, we'd get PODed and then head out. She had packed an overnight bag so she could crash at my apartment and shower in the morning before heading back in to work. I had cold beer in the fridge, a few blunts rolled and a killer Bone mix ready to go. I even gave the bathroom a quick scrub down so she wouldn't have to bathe in man filth. But at the last minute she bailed.

It wasn't her fault, she had gotten sick at work. Bad burrito or something of the sort. She tried but wouldn't be able to shake it off in time for the concert. In addition, she had forgotten her over-night bag, which I found somewhat suspect but it didn't matter at that point. She wouldn't be going. Bummer.

Irritated and slightly pissed while still trying to be understanding, I frantically started making phone calls to find a pinch-ragger. I only had 2 hrs before the doors opened so I had to work quickly. After four no's from friends that claimed to be Bone fans, I called Janis who is always down for whatever. She wasn't working and had no plans so my search had ended. I went over to her place to get my buzz on.

Six PBR Tallboys and a blunt later we were walking to Newport. It was a sold out show and the line was massive. Janis stashed the rest of the weed in her bra and we got through with no problems. 99 Problems by Jay-Z was bumping through the speakers as we ordered our first Labbat Blue pints. The song seemed appropriate to my current situation.

Warm up, after warm up performed. At least four total, pretty normal for a Hip-Hop show, but still annyoing. We got drunker and we grew more agitated by the minute. Get to the meat and potatoes already! I don't give a fuck about so and so's boys from Akron trying to act gangster and rhyme shitty raps. They were all trying to be Bone Thugs, unsuccessfully.

Just before the headliners took the stage, Janis and I crept our way to the rail on the ground level. The lights cut out. The subs barked to life. East 1999. The crowd exploded. They were all in gray or red, in honor of Columbus and OSU. Krayzie Bone was even wearing a James Laurinaitis jersey. Their rhymes were lighting quick and sharper than broken glass. The sound man was on point. Dayz of Our Livez was also cd perfect and then they addressed the crowd.

"It's personal," Layzie Bone said into his mic. "It's an Ohio thing!" They launched into Thuggish Ruggish Bone next and I felt euphoric. I had always liked Krayzie the best growing up, but I found that Layzie was the best live. He strode around stage and interacted with the crowd more then the others. They were all there minus Bizzy and Flesh who had some legal troubles keeping them from traveling with the rest.

We sparked an L during 1st of tha Month and made friends with a couple standing next to us. The girl was a pretty blond and the boyfriend was the whitest black man I had ever met. We passed them the blunt and grooved to the music. By the end of the show the boyfriend and I were high-fiving and hugging. We both knew every word to every song and became temporary best friends.

They did Easy E's Still Cruisin' and Notorious Thugs with the crowd rapping every word of Biggie's and Easy's verses in unison. Prolific amounts of pot smoke filled the air. Bone was smoking on the stage as was nearly everyone in the crowd. Weed was everywhere; in line for the bathroom, while waiting for beer, even the security guys were blazing.

After a new song that was absolutely awful (we thought it was an April Fools joke, the show was on April 1st) they did some freestyling and a short encore featuring Thug Love. They closed with an old 70s Motown song I recognized but couldn't name.

We made the short walk back to my place and Janis immediately passed out on the couch. I was lucky to call her my friend. She had saved the day for sure and I was thrilled to see one of my favorite groups from my childhood. However, laying in bed I couldn't help but wonder how things would have gone if Mary Jane had come. Despite the amazing night I had hanging out with Janis, I found myself asking the obvious questions about MJ, wishing for what could have been. I wished for a lot of things when it came to her but they wouldn't come pass.

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

In hind sight, I've decided Mary Jane and I are better and more comfortable as friends. We don't talk as often but still hang out on occasion. Sometimes I long for how things were before we had "the talk" but life doesn't work like that. It keeps moving forward in a predetermined direction we can't navigate ahead of time. What is meant to be will be. Maybe someday things will be different for me and her. I doubt it, but no one can predict the future.


-J.R.

(Angry) Poem

Your Turn To Cry

Your beauty will fade
Then what are you left with
Some sad stories,
and the dress you slept in

You say no one loves you,
but you've never given me the chance
Sleep with whomever gives you a passing glance

Being lonesome isn't an excuse
Used us all anyway,
so whats the use

You said you tried but failed
Your boat is sinking,
and you tossed your pail

Why didn't I learn?
For years I've been burned
So let the tears come,
now it's your turn

Short North Observation

***Note: This will be a series of short segments I'm going to start doing on a regular basis to keep the blog flowing, enjoy.


It was our first week in the new apartment. The only furniture we had at the time were two couches, a dinning room table and a few chairs; the rest of our stuff was still in boxes for the most part. In celebration of our new found emancipation (Tony, Shooter and I had all been living with our parents) we had a few friends over for brews.

Everything was uncharted and exciting. The promise of a new future on our own, post undergrad, produced a strange thrill that had us in high spirits. We drank and smoked copious amounts of Marijuana, had some laughs and order our first DP Dough from the Calzone shop downstairs. At one point our new neighbors came over and we exchanged tours of our digs. We didn't know it at the time, but we would become fast friends. The two of them were also recent college grads striking out on their own.

Our posse walked down the front steps to pick up the food when we noticed something interesting across the street in an alley between the laundry mat and the coffee shop. A young man and woman, obviously quite intoxicated, were making out and heavily petting one another. We laughed but wouldn't have thought much about it until things started heating up.

The man lifted up her dress and slide her underwear down to her ankles. The woman started fiddling with his pants. These two were definitely about to start fucking and they were totally oblivious to their growing audience (the neighbors joined us) hid conspicuously behind our front door. The best part was how awful the spot was they choose to get it on. A busy section of High Street, in a well lit alley. Basically begging to get caught by passersby or worse, the police. A hard dick has no conscious.

Just then one of the employees of the 24-hour laundry mat came out and broke it up. Startled, they ended their embrace. He fixed his belt and buttoned his pants. The woman shot up, her underwear nearly tripping her as she took her first step. Before they could scamper off, we burst through the front door applauding and cheering loudly. I could see her face reddening from across the way. He took a bow and they quickly made their way down the street; creatures of the night that we would forever refer to as the High Street Lovers.

-J.R.

The World Famous Weed Eaters

"And people, they don't understand ... Your grandsons, they won't understand."
-The Strokes, Last Night

The last three months had been brutal. The blizzards and frigid temperatures seemed endless. Massive snow banks made ever walk an expedition. Stranded cars littered the side streets. All-time records for accumulation were shattered a week into February. Overcast was the forecast. Columbus' gray skies and the vitamin D deficiencies they cause can really get to you. The experts call it Seasonal Affective Disorder, but anyone who lives in the Midwest just calls it winter.

Looking out my window with a free and easy feeling (no work PLUS it was Friday), I was very pleased to see the sun making its presence felt. I honestly couldn't remember the last time I awoke to clear blue skies. I had to go outside to have a cigarette, just to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Sometimes killing yourself with tar smoke, on a beautiful day, really makes you feel alive. When I got back upstairs I had this voicemail waiting for me.

"Yo, Jacob, it's Steve from work. Me and the guys are hosting a function tonight at The Vault. Corner of Gay and High. We'll be playing. There will be some DJing. Should turn out to be a righteous gathering. It's Mardi Gras themed, so grab some beads or a mask at Yankeetrader and come check it out. Good people and good vibes man. Hope to see you there, check ya later."

I loved the way this guy talked. Jerry Garcia meets Dave Mathews. A product of the sixties and a throw-back hippie all at the same time. He possessed a kind soul, he was a family man and a genuinely good person. Positive chi hung around him like gold chains on Mr. Tee's neck. Without a doubt, one of the bright spots of a shitty part-time job.

Steve had been asking me to come check out his band for awhile. I would try to make a show after work but hadn't. A couple times he would have a rehearsal for me to check out, which would then fall through. Tonight would be different.

After Shooter got off work, we headed downtown. Javan and Suzie met us in the alley beside the building, next to the pink dinosaur mural. I had been pals with both of them for awhile. Javan is a gifted local photographer, check out his stuff at http://theculture-vulture.blogspot.com/ ... stat. The four of us, (all wearing gold, purple, and green Mardi Gras beads) crept into the side of the building through the maintenance door.

The outside of the building is regal, professional and dated. The structure is an old reception hall, built in the late 50's to host weddings and other such events. However, looking through the first floor windows, the interior looked clean and up to date. I wouldn't get to inspect things up close. We would be spending the evening in the building's basement.

Walking down some stairs, following sharpied signs through cramped hallways, we found The Vault. It must have been a large storage room at one point, but now it was drywalled and carpeted. It had been made into some sort of frat house-esque party basement with a stage area for live performances. The partially punched-out walls, musty couches, and soiled carpet was a stark contrast to the glitzy facade of the upper floors.

A wide mix of people put dollars in a basket and poured their own beer from the keg. We were all on the honor system. There was a DJ mixing some old school hip-hop, just loud enough in the background. I Introduced Steve to my buddies and we had a laugh over a drink. He told me the story about how he got hooked up with The World Famous Weed Eaters.

"Well I sat in for a session," he explained in his soft, slow and mellow tone. "They asked me to play guitar a little bit. I told them I would help them out till they found somebody else, I was pretty much done with being in a band. That was two years ago man! Now here I am." We talked a bit longer then he had to start setting up. We rolled a spliff and waited for the music to start.

They opened with a cover of Dark Side of the Moon that got the crowd grooving. There were seven of them crowded onto the stage area: Todd Reed on vocals, Steve Moc on the acoustic guitar/harp, Mike Cooper on electric, Paul Mattox on bass, Dre Walker on drums, KGB on the turn tables and Nicole on flute/sax.

"Damn, they got more band members than people at the party," Psyco-1 (aka Todd Reed) said into the mic after the first song. Their sound was very eclectic; a mess of jam band, rap, DJing, and wood wind instruments. Some people won't understand, but I dug it very much. An original called Who Am I? had a lot of energy and flow. The crowd bobbed their heads in appreciation.

Psyco-1 was the perfect front man. He was tall and slender with bleached blond dreads that were surprisingly good, considering they sprouted from a white man's head. He had "Pain" tattooed on his stomach, in an appeared homage to Tupac's "Thug Life" tat. Part Perry Farrell and part Lil' Wayne. He oozed confidence, strutting on stage like a peacock, nappy white and yellow feathers blazing.

Each song seemed to highlight someone different in the group. A flute or sax solo here, a scratch session or guitar riff sprinkled there. I liked the experimental sound they are going for a lot. Crossroads was another personal favorite of mine and the harp on Sunshine was stellar. I've dabbled with harmonica but this man had it perfected. There isn't a hobo riding the rails across our great nation that has shit on Steve.

Walking to the bathroom, I was struck by the feeling that I had returned to college. The atmosphere was very campus but we were downtown. This sense of duplicity mixed with the alcohol made me feel like I was back in Lexington, at the Sigma Pi frat house. I drunkenly walked into the woman's bathroom by accident and went into the closest stall. While releaving myself, I saw "Crab's jump off here" scribbled on the wall with an arrow pointing down at the seat. I had a laugh and zipped my fly.

While washing my hands, a girl walked in and gave me a look like she recognized me from a picture on the sexual predator notices. I quickly glanced around and realized why. I mumbled something to the affect of "Sorry about that, they're drowning cats in the urinals next door," and hurried out.

The four of us had a few more brews and decided to leave. It was getting very cramped and the only places to stand were right in front of the speakers. Not a good idea if you value your hearing. We liked the tunes but we were out of smoke so it was time to go.

Outside I almost collapsed with laughter. Parked on the street right in front of us was a Mustang painted like Superman. Literally, the top half was red and the bottom blue. The owner even had the "S" decals on the doors. Congratulations pal, every 9-year-old in the neighborhood wants to be your friend on Facebook. Good luck getting laid, unless your dating Wonder Woman.

After some more silliness and tom-foolery, it was time to call it a night. A great Friday out and a wonderful show that I couldn't wait to write about. Check out their web site ... http://www.theworldfamousweedeaters.com/ ... for gig dates and info. Of course nothing can compare to my trip to New Orleans for Mardi Gras in '07. Planning to post the article I wrote about my experience in Cajun country soon, so stayed tuned! That and much more to come.


-J.R.

A Strange Evening Indeed (The Return of Butter's)

"Hang me up to dry, You've wrung me out too, too, too many times."Cold War Kids, Hang Me Up to Dry



It was an unspectacular Tuesday. Tony and I had just finished watching Easy Rider for the first time and we were both picking it from our teeth; digesting it slowly. I'm not really sure what I expected but it was not what I had just experienced. For a 'classic' I didn't think it was all that great but as time has passed it's grown on me.

Earlier in the day I had bumped into Janis and Georgina on High Street. They were grabbing a bite to eat before Janis had to head into work, tending bar at one of my former haunts Butter's in my home suburb Gahanna. Saying I was a frequent customer when I first moved back to Ohio and lived in my parents house (less than a mile away) would be the understatement of a lifetime. I was on a first name basis with the owner. I knew all the regulars and got love on my tabs but still managed to spend half my pay checks. It was where all my coworkers congregated. I met a women I ended up dating there as well as a fling or two. Classy, I know.

Since moving downtown, I hadn't returned and part of me was very curious to see how the place was holding up without me. Surely it had gone under. How could it possibly go on? In my mind I single-handily kept them afloat. With the way I tossed my Visa around people thought I was working on my Disc Golf game.

With the movie finished, I felt a strong itch for booze. I said bye to Tony and took off. The Cold War Kids had been getting heavy play in my car stereo of late and as I blasted down the freeway at 95 MPH their off-beat riffs and poetic lyrics coursed through my speakers. My high powered machine cut through the night air like a white shark through water. I made it to the burbs in 11 minutes flat.

Apparently business was fine. The only thing unable to stay afloat in my absence was the deflated ego owned by yours truly. They obviously didn't need me around to keep asses in the seats. Everything was just how I left it. There was a large, rectangular bar in the middle, a pool table to your right, two more to the rear and a modest dance floor. Dirty Dave was up to his old tricks in the DJ booth, enthralling the surprisingly large crowd with Def Leppard or something equally shitty from the 80s that most of us are happy to forget. He followed it up with (insert new auto-tune rap song from the radio) before sneaking in Cotton Eye Joe just as people seemed ready to dance. The crazy bastard was all over the place ... as usual.

Gahanna, New Albany, and Westerville high school alum of varying ages littered the room: hometown heroes, lifers, townies ... fiends and degenerates mostly. People who still live in the same zip code they grew up in. Sometimes in the same house even. Not that I can say much, I was one of them six months ago and some still call me a degenerate lowlife. The rest were residents of the neighboring apartment complex or randoms stopping in to find Mr./Mrs. right-now. The place can feel a little sleazy at times but I wouldn't have it any other way. To truly appreciate clean you must first get dirty. I was glad I'd moved downtown just the same.

Sitting at the bar, I caught up with Georgina who had just gotten back from a trip to Oregon to see her mom. She had been gone four months so there was a lot to talk about. First thing I noticed was her hair, which was now blond as apposed to the auburn I remembered. She showed me her camera full of photos and told me how things had been on the West Coast. Having never seen the Pacific I was captivated.

Janis kept the draft PBR's flowing, which are $1 all-day everyday at Butter's. I even saw some of my old high school crew who stumbled in. Shots were poured and laughs were had. Everything was copasetic until it was time to close out.

Some jerk on the other side of the bar had been giving Janis grief all night and it was escalating. He was a young fucker. Maybe 21 or 22 at the oldest and lousy at holding his liquor. After talking to her, I found out he was a regular and usually a problem. His ride had left him and someone was going to have to take him home because he'd bailed on so many cab rides without paying they refused to pick him up. After studying the guy, I couldn't blame anyone for hanging him out to dry.

"Well depending on where he lives, I may be able to take him home," I said to Janis and Butter, the owner.

My buzz was healthy but not unmanageable and I felt I owed him a solid for the many nights he had hooked me up in the past. He thought a second and then walked to his register. He returned with some green backs and slapped them down on the counter in front of me.

"That's $30 cash," he said. "Your tab is taken care of. I'm not dicking around. Please get that kid out of my fucking sight."

After little thought, I realized for better or worse I had just signed up for a possible suicide mission. I didn't know this guy from Adam. He might be a psychotic killer, or worse, a Jesus Freak ... but probably not the latter considering how smashed he was. Either way I was going to find out. I waited until he went to the bathroom to break the ice.

Once I was standing next to him at the urinals I made some small talk. Asked him where he went to high school, where he worked, where the after party was. He was an unemployed, high school drop-out but he had beer at his place. He just had no way to get there. Perfect segue.

"Well I can give you a ride," I said with a forced but convincing smile. "Long as I can snag some of those beers."

"Thanks man," he said. "That's no problem. Let me close my tab. You're such a kind soul."

Well who's soul wouldn't get kinder when cash money is involved? Of course I didn't tell him about the bribe. We hopped in my six-cylinder chariot and started to leave, Cold War Kids blaring. Apparently he was also a fan and he couldn't stop telling me about it. He was one of those drunks who keep repeating themselves, over, and over, and over until you just tune them out completely. Nodding as your mind drifts in any direction opposite the blather spewing out of their mouth.

Half way to his parents house (where he was living ever since he'd dropped out of high school) he decided he was hungry. God bless the McDonald's all-night breakfast menu, especially since it was on his dime. After stuffing our faces I dropped him off and told him I was going to have to pass on the beers. Busy day of sleeping in ahead of me but I made up some believable excuse about having to work early.

Pulling away I watched him lumber up the massive driveway to his parents palace. Part of me felt sorry for him. Based on his sob stories, people had been hanging him out to dry for as long as he could remember. A perfect but tired example of someone who's been 'screwed over' their whole life. This coming from a kid who lived in a million dollar mansion in New Albany, with his parents. Rent free. The irony was killing me.

As a result the other part of me wanted to slap him around out of disgust. Another spoiled rich kid who was pissing away his life. Wearing out his welcome at local watering holes ... but am I really any better? True, I have a job. I graduated from college but I've been run out of a bar or two in my day. I've felt sorry for myself and hoped to find the answers to my sorrows at the bottom of a bottle. Maybe he just needed some time to be a fuck up. He might grow out of it. Start taking responsibility for his life. I did but somehow I doubted he would.

Heading back downtown a richer man than I'd been when I left, I reflected on my night. It'd been fun but I was more relived then anything that it was over. I could go back to my new home in the Short North, away from the self-perpetuating hometown cliche. It felt strange being back and it's not everyday you get paid to Chauffeur a drunk stranger around after drinking on the houses' tab. Throw in a free breakfast and you got yourself one eventful evening indeed. It'd be awhile before I returned but I hoped my next visit to Butter's would be as lucrative.


-J.R.