To Thom, Whom it May Concern

*** NOTE: This was an e-mail I wrote Spin in response to the December '09 issue in which they claimed Radiohead "kinda blow" ... Thoughts? Anyone? Here's the link ... http://www.spin.com/myths

Dear Spin,

Kudos to your magazine, its' amazing editing staff, and surprisingly talented team of writers. All of you have continually exceeded my expectations, unlike other "quality" music mags (ehh hemmm, Rolling Stone), which have done nothing overall but give me false hope and vast disappointment. God damn them for changing the format from the original over-sized, easy to convert mini-poster pages of my youth to the rag I see loitering on newsstands around the world.

And don't even get me started on whom they've given the "privilege" of being on their cover, (Jonas Brothers? Really? Selling your soul to Disney like the rest?) Only because you have shown me the way, which has renewed my faith in all that rocks, will I re-new my subscription that I got as a free gift with my Bonnaroo ticket ... bloody brilliant marketing by the way. Only for a year though, because let's face it, times are tough, and I, like many others, scrap to pay the rent, working jobs I hate. You guys have earned that $7.95!

That said, you're fucking wrong about Radiohead. I'm no fan boy, my musical tastes are extremely eclectic, spanning from Wu-Tang Clan, to Johnny Cash and back again, but I dig Thom and his droogs. They have done what no other band could do; define the undefinable generation ... my generation. Think about it, who is the quintessential band of the last 20 years?

Pearl Jam? Too preachy

Green Day? Too commercial

Phish? Too jammy

Beck? Too strange

Oasis? Too volatile

U2? Too Bono

That leaves only the boys from Oxfordshire in my book. Who comes after Gen X? I heard the term Gen Y thrown around but really we are the Radiohead generation; all ambient noise with no clear path or direction, just like the band. We are a result of the times, and they are a-changin'. We are uncertain, confused, disoriented, and unable to make up our minds... just like said band.

They most certainly do not "blow" as Mr. Norris so aptly put it. He goes on to ask, "must they define a new music language?" I would respond no, they have already defined a generation. He does bring up some valid points,their songs can get repetitive, and I've never seen them live, so some will say I should shut my mouth. However, all of their tunes are designed to function within the framework of an album, which is a lost art in my opinion. Radiohead isn't the best playlist to shuffle on your ipod.

Either way the Dec. issue was a fabulous read, keep it coming guys, and publish this! I fancy myself a writer so there's more where this came from.

-J.R.

Sex, Alcohol, and Grilled Cheese ... but Not Neccisarly in that Order

“Evil urges, baby, they’re part of the human way. It ain’t evil, baby, if you ain't hurting anybody.”
-My Morning Jacket, Evil Urges

I live for Mondays. I know what your thinking, 'is this man high, drunk or simply mentally ill?' Well, the first two aren’t really bad guesses. Don't get me wrong, I used to hate the "M" word too. I had been programed to despise the signal of a new, boringly long school week and now the the beginning of a mind-numbing work week. But recent events have changed my view of this, the most hated of all days.

Like most 20-somethings who work bullshit jobs for modest wadges, the roommates and I are poor and hungry. We are always looking for new, cheap places to eat. If they happen to serve alcohol, well that's always fine by us. My old dinning room manager from the country club, (who has lived in the Short North since before it was cool to do so) recommended Bodega to us a long time ago and we were becoming big fans. It had the rare combination of quality drink specials and good, relatively inexpensive food.

Through the fall, we had begun to congregate at Bodegas often for happy hour on Fridays. On one such occasion in mid October, our favorite waitress Erin told us something that would alter life as we knew it: apparently Monday was $1 grilled cheese day. Throw in 1/2 off all 50 of their ever changing draft pints and you have a recipe for pure bliss. Tony worked at an area pizza shop for extra dough on Mondays so he wasn't able to join us often, but the following week a new tradition was born which Shooter and I managed to stick with surprising regularity. Below is just one of many memorable grilled cheese Mondays ...

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After a brisk walk through the cold and ashy-gray December afternoon, we sat down at our usual spot by the window. Erin came over to take our order and to chat for a bit. Her reddish brown hair was pulled up, hidden beneath her gray, baggy, knitted sloch. Her massive blue eyes demand attention and force you to look away at the same time. Her tight jeans accentuated her very tall and slender frame. She wore a pastel blue Brand New t-shirt which made even a casual gaze blaze. The neck was cut out 80’s style, revealing a pink bra strap that hung on her left shoulder suggestively. I tried not stare at her breasts, but it was hard, because as I said, eye contact can be difficult with her.

When she was talking to you, she had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the world that mattered. Combine this with her looks and her bubbly personality and she was simply infectious; a great server. You couldn't not like her, always quick with a recommendation if you're unsure of what new featured beer to select, or a crazy story about her life growing up abroad.

“We just got the Christmas Ales in,” she would say with a million dollar smile. Shooter ordered the one she suggested but I’m not into holiday brews, with their cinnamon and other added flavors, so I stuck to my old favorite, Columbus IPA. At $2 a pint it's one of the most modestly priced of all the mainstay beers and at 6% alcohol it will bite you in the ass; faster than a zombie on a 2-day hunger strike. For the more adventurous, there are the nine and twelve percenters but I like to keep it local if I can help it.

Bodega is always packed for happy hour from 4-8, and, on Mondays, it's even worse. If you want a table for more than two you have to get there before 4:30 or wait at least an hour, sometimes longer. The vibes are strong but mellow, somewhat bohemian with a heavy hipster after taste. Most of the clientele are trendy and deeply embedded in the Short North art/music/poser scene. A mix of beards, handlebar mustaches, pea coats, false lensed thick frame glasses, bad hair cuts, skinny jeans, sleeve tattoos, new wave yuppies and kids who seem to be still finding themselves.

One of my editors, Deme, has aptly dubbed a noticeable portion of the crowd 'trustfund hipsters.' These people make good money but simply choose to look poor and hang out in dive bars, which is fine, but they seem to be very pretentious about it ... they even scoff at the minimum waggers. It's enough to make those of us who are treading above the poverty line raise their dander in a swell of contention, your kind narrator included.

Honestly, I can't afford to go out any time but happy hour, except on rare occasions; birthdays, out of town guests, dates ... like I said, rare occasions. I also can't afford the finer things in life poor looking rich people seem to enjoy, like $300 vintage jeans size 34 that fit like a size 29, or mosquito-net-thin designer t-shirts that cost more then my entire outfit. Expensive cloths made to look like thrift just seems idiotic to me. An oxymoron, like Tacho Bell's drive through diet or government run heal-care.

Once inside, the ambiance soaks in, warming you, like walking into a toasty apartment from a frigid night. The decor is very modern, the building fairly small with no unused space. Bare bone tables and chairs, exposed AC pipes, a digital jukebox and minimalist decorations, some hanging lights with square white paper shades and two murals. On an unused wall, a modest projector was usually playing Euro football or Cartoon Network reruns. There was also a long 'S' shaped metal bar at the back and a few uncomfortable booths composed of particle board and pleather cushions.

The mural to your immediate right, upon entering, looks like a hundred men from around 1950 in trench coats and bowler hats, walking away from the viewer. Most have their backs turned some are looking over their shoulder. Only beady, white eyes and squiggly silhouettes are distinguishable on the turned faces. All the forms are smudged together, forming a distorted mob.

The second is to the left and is my favorite of the two. It's hung on a exposed brick wall and made of white bathroom tiles with various images printed on them. The artist pressed or rolled the icons onto the tiles in different colored inks/paints (images of an eye, a beaver, a beetle, snowflakes, dinosaurs, letters, numbers, etc.). He or she then took the tiles apart, and rearranged them randomly, giving it the look of a wall sized, yet to be solved, rubix cube.

Shooter and I had a few rounds and feasted on our ample grilled cheese, which comes with kettle chips and a pickle. The Swish and cheddar is served on over-sized pressed penini bread from Rigsby's Kitchen on North High. The tomato basil soup is a must; just enough spice and a stupendously creamy texture. At $4 a bowl it is a killer deal as well and the generous portion can easily be split between two people. We dipped our sandwiches and munched on our potato chips. We were stuffed for less then $5 each ... not counting beer of course.

The two of us never run short on conversation and this occasion was no different. We talked about my writing aspirations and an idea I've been toying with for a book. Shooter asked for advice about a girl he had been talking to. We gave each other council and had a few laughs too. By the time we closed out, for around $13 before tip, I was all set to hurry home and write the great American novel and Shooter felt he was ready to make a date with his lady friend. As we walked up High towards the apartment, we passed one of the many sex shops that line the right side of the road. Strictly on a whim, and with ample booze to fuel our fire, we decided to check one out. We would never be the same.

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Once we entered The Chamber the first thing I noticed was the smell. It was a stench somewhere in the neighborhood of semen, sweat and water based lubricant. I had been to a shop like this before, so I kind of thought I knew what to expect. I was wrong. We were like immigrants taking our first glimpses of Ellis Island. Most of the stuff that hung on the walls or filled the display cases I had never seen before. Of course there were the usual pink, purple, black, flesh colored, double sided, porn star endorsed dildo fare. The 'pocket pussies', vibrators, negliches, flavored whipped cream, edible undergarments, thongs, sensual message oils, cock rings and DVDs ... but have you ever heard of a buttplug?

"Yea, just the other day I had some gorgeous, 19-year-old blond, tiny, cheerleader type, come in and buy one of these," the pale and skeevy employee said, slamming a giant red, rounded, rubber cone onto the counter, which was easily wider at the base then two men's fists. "I asked her if it was for a bachelorette party and she said it was for her. She wanted something bigger then the one she had been using."

We asked him about the $87 sperm guard; a round metal ring with a ball bearing attached via a tiny chain mesh tether. He explained how one would place the ring just under the rim of the penis' head and then insert the ball bearing into the urethra and, you guessed it, block the sperm from coming out. I know what your thinking, 'where does it go?' I wish I could tell you. This was just the 'tip' of the ice berg (ha ha).

There were leather zipper face masks, crotchless full-body latex, and a variety of submissive gags. Metal, wood, plastic, rubber paddles, whips and horse crops. Don't even get me started on the porn selection. Fetish videos I never knew existed; midget lesbian wrestling. Hermaphrodite porn with 'shemales' on the covers proudly displaying both sets of sex organs and mangled fake tits. Bi-porn showing a man fucking a women with some other guys dick in his mouth. You couldn't help but look at the covers, but I wish I hadn't. I felt like I was at a freak-show; there was some macabre fascination for me that I still can't explain.

The entire hour we were there we were peppering the employee with questions. What's that for? Does it hurt? Do people actually do that? Do you do that? He seemed more than happy to help us, the 'vanillas', get our freak-out on. The look of shock and awe on our faces probably got his his engine revving. I decided to stop focusing on him as an individual.

"Whats the deal with the variations in the Gay Pride Flag?" I asked. Living in this neighborhood, exposure to gay culture is an everyday kind of thing, which honestly doesn't make me think twice either way. It's whatever, like dealing with drunk asshole kids on campus, part of the territory. But I had always been curious about the different flags. Apparently there is a lesbian pride flag, an equality symbol (for people who are for gay rights but not necessarily gay themselves) and even a special flag for homosexual men who dig only 'macho' or 'burly' men (aka 'Bears').

There is even a fairly intricate flagging system used by mostly gay men. Colored bandannas are placed in strategic locations to relay very specific messages. For example; if your a gay man, trying to pick up a guy at the bar and your into peeing on people (or getting peed on) you wear a yellow handkerchief in the appropriate back jeans pocket, depending if you want to give or receive said urine. Although this is just a hypothetical example, these 'codes' are legit, there's even a Wiki entry on it ... dead serious, check it out ... http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Handkerchief_code

All this said, by far the most disturbing thing I saw the whole time we were there was the stimulation rods. Basically a long, pencil shaped, round tipped, skinny metal spike, made to be inserted into the urethra of an erect penis. The back end of the rod has a small hoop designed to be hooked up to a low level electrical current. Are you fucking kidding me? Shock treatment for your dick, sign me up, ummm, never.

"I don't even get into that," the scum bag behind the counter said. "I do some freak shit to my sub (submission partner) but even that's too much for me. If you guys are really interested in this stuff, come by a show sometime and check it out. First timers are always welcome. There's fire play this weekend at The Dungeon." We took the flyers but definitely wouldn't be going to any place this degenerate pervert was hanging out.

Scarred for life, we walked the rest of the way home in silence. We just kept staring at our feet, shaking our heads, hoping to knock loose the images and thoughts that had been seared into our brains. After smoking a bowl and trying to discuss anything but our mis-adventure, we went to bed.

Vivid sex-mares interrupted my sleep. Images of midgets fucking goats segwayed into bound, gagged, and crying 18-year-olds getting gang-banged by the village people filled my mind like spam on a porn addicts computer. Sleep was impossible. My evening had just been too surreal. I decided to start this post. Afterwards, I realized there wasn't anything wrong with 'these people', they simply fancied things that were so far off my radar that they never occurred to me as real or possible. Are they deviant from sexual norms, sure, but we all have our quirks right? Granted I don't need hot wax dripping on my nipples to get off, as a matter of fact I'm pretty sure I never want hot wax on my nipples period, but who am I to judge? Whatever floats your boat, just keep your anal beads away from me.

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There have been many Monday treks to Bodega since but this was the first 'most memorable' grilled cheese mission. It was the kind of adventure, however unassuming it's beginnings, that will stick with me forever. Shooter and I still talk about it in passing and laugh, now that the awful images that haunted our dreams for weeks have subsided. There's nothing wrong with what this new found subculture was doing; it's not evil, immoral, or wrong. These people are grown adults in a sort of club, like Swingers but much more hardcore and they're not hurting anyone who didn't want what was coming. Regardless it's always nice to learn something even if your teacher was a scummy 20-year old, walking hard-on, looking for a dark orifice.

Despite this example of culture shock, I now love Mondays so much I have coordinated my work schedules to be off the day everyone goes back on, so I can quench my insatiable hunger for grilled bread, cheese and beer. I relish taking newbies to enjoy my now favorite bar, I just avoid the sex shops. As the months have passed, as winter has VERY slowly begun fading into spring, I can honestly now say it is my favorite day of the week, I even look forward to them. So if you feel like breaking out of the weekly grind join me one week, just leave your whips, chains, handcuffs and lube at home, thanks.


-J.R.

Matt Reed, TGP and you Pronounce the Other Guy’s Name Kwa-lee

"Consider me the entity, within the industry, without a history, of spittin the epitome of stupidity -- livin my life, expressin my liberty.”

BlackStar, Definition

Just like most white suburban kids from my generation, I grew up listening to rap music, much to my father's dismay. If my parents were guided through their adolescents by Lennon, Dylan, Page and Plant, my navigators were Gangstarr, Biggie, Jay-Z, Methodman, and the rest of the Wu-Tang Clan. I had a grunge rock phase, complete with Bush/Gavin Rossdale worship (wish I had hung on to those now chic flannels), but more then half the cds I owned from 1998-2003 were featured on BET's Rap City. I never gave up on rock 'n' roll but I was a product of the times. Hip-hop was popular culture and I was on board.

One of my favorite MC's, whom I became familiar with during this period of my life, is Talib Kweli. His album with Mos Def (BlackStar) easily cracks my top 25 albums of all-time, in any genre. When I heard Kweli was coming to town and that my friend Cliff's band, Matt Reed and TGP would be one of the opening acts I was ecstatic. I contacted my man on the inside to see if he could hook me up.

"No worries," Cliff told me via text message. "I can get you a few free tickets." Wonderful news. This had ‘extraordinary' and 'epic' written all over it. I hadn't been to a hip-hop show since I saw Kanye West in Chicago a few summers back. It really wasn't all that great; an amazing interactive stage, lots of smoke, lights and other effects. But he was the only one out there; THE WHOLE TIME! No guest rappers, no band, no dancers. Just a whole lot of Kanye, gotta love ya some Kanye ... he does. The United Center was over run with white, 14-year-old girls, wearing braces, training bras, and don't forget the Venetian blind shades. I've never looked at the man the same since ... just being himself doesn't help either (i.e. Bonnaroo '08, Taylor Swift debacle).

This would be different though. Talib was all substance, little style, as apposed to the opposite (see above). I had also been to TGP shows many times before and loved their eclectic electric funk, soul, R&B combination. We were all going to really tie one on for this.

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My phone said 9:45 when I returned home from a busy night at the country club, with a little cash in my pocket. This was a rarity, since the patrons are all members and simply sign the check to their member account, neglecting the tip box they no doubt notice when they are eating out anywhere else. My apartment was nearly full of strangers; brothers of acquaintances, and their girlfriends, a few good pals and my roommate Tony. They had been drinking heavily since six. Obviously I hadn't been as lucky, so some catching up was in order. A bowl or two was passed around and I could hear forgotten but familiar bass heavy beats coming from the idock.

The mood was being set for what lay ahead, but I barley had time to sit down. Cliff had been blowing me up since I left work, warning me that they had over sold tickets and we should hurry to Skully's or we might not get in at all. I promised him I would do a post on their show, so there was little alternative for me but to finish my beer, change, and hit the road.

It was a surprisingly chilly night, even for Ohio in early November. Shivering, I zipped my coat and pulled my collar up to keep my neck warm. The sky was very clear and I was almost able to make out the Big Dipper despite the heavy light pollution of the city, which sprawled around me in every direction like mold on stale bread. BlackStar's Astronomy was suddenly playing in my head; background music in a movie I call my life. As I approached the bar, I could see that two lines had formed.

Unsure of what to do, I called Cliff, who informed me that the line to my left was for pre-sale tickets only. The poor bastards in the right line where trying to buy their tickets at the door. They had no idea that they wouldn't even make it to the guy checking IDs. Waiting in the line which was actually moving, I noticed my friend Janis and her boyfriend, standing in the stationary line to my right. We chit-chatted for a bit and I told them the situation. They were not pleased.

"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news," I said shrugging my shoulders. "I'll give you guys a shout after." I gave the door guy my ticket and walked in, feeling like a very important person. I texted Tony and told him to hurry his ass up.

Waiting at the bar, I saw Cliff and our mutual friend Constance K. Cliff is a pretty low-key guy but tonight he was geeked up for his gig. Matching his intensity, CK was (and always is) a bounding ball of energy; ridiculously fun to be around. The last time I saw her was in Chicago, her adopted home, when I was visiting for Kanye. I had no idea she was going to be in town. Matt Reed and TGP were employing her to take some pictures for their Facebook page (fan them). In addition to being a close friend, she is a gifted photographer. All her amazing photos reside at www.eyeshotcha.com ... be sure to check them out. Tonight she was sporting a shiny, black, sequenced stretch top and stylish jeans, both of which which match her personality; a little bit of flare but never out of vogue. She hugged me tighter then my mother does and told me to order a drink on her tab. Feeling classy while jotting in my notebook, I ordered a gin and tonic and began shooting the shit with my compadres.

Facing out, with my back against the counter, leaning on my forearms, I surveyed the scene. It was a cross section of America; blacks, hispanics, asians, arabs and surprisingly high white representation. However, this is not the thing that stuck out the most in my mind but rather the fact that everyone was getting along, mingling even. We had all gathered for the same reason. This was a perfect example of what makes our nation great; the ability for an incredibly diverse population to all unite under a common cause, in this case Talib ... and in Kweli we trust.

Constance K. and I were on our own after the first round, Cliff had to get ready for his set, they were just one of many warm-up acts, pretty customary at hip-hop shows. The first group, who had just started, called themselves the Liquid Crystal Project. They were very mellow, jazzy even, with a strong Roots vibe. The drummer even looked like Questlove, minus the afro. They played some covers, in addition to originals, and scratched samples in-between.

People continued to file in; crowded wasn't the appropriate word. Teeming or squished came to mind. I felt like a spawning salmon trying to swim up stream the few times I got brave enough to try and take a leek. It was by far the most people I had ever seen at Skully's ... ever. Throughout the night, whenever I saw flashing lights drive by, I held my breath, hoping it wasn't the Fire Marshal, come to shut us down ... or worse. A vision of headlines reading 'Fans Trampled to Death at Rap Concert’ flashed before my eyes. After the first group finished up we pushed our way to the exit leading out back for breathing room and fresh air. Outside we ran into Tony and some other friends.

"Nice to see you made it," I said shaking Tony's hand.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," he responded after a long toke on a spliff.

After it was out, the three of us (Tony, Constance K., and me) headed back in. "Make a hole!" she shouted. Raising her large telescopic lensed camera into the air. She acted as our lead blocker, despite being six inches shorter and sixty pounds lighter then both of us. It was assholes to elbows now, beyond dangerously crowded. We parted the masses and made our way upstairs to the balcony, finding a spot just in time for Matt Reed and TGP.

Having seen the guys on several other occasions, I felt like this was probably the biggest crowd they had performed for yet, and it showed a little bit. They started off nervous but finished very strong. It didn’t help that a baboon was working the sound booth as well; the guy was really fucking up. Cliff and his mates took it in stride though, and still managed to kick ass. Matt Reed was the perfect frontman in his debonaire striped dress-shirt, tie, suspenders and fedora. He's got tons of charisma, and works the crowd to perfection. Jeff Trasin’s fingers danced effortlessly over the keys and turntables. His crooning voice is enough to make all the girls we... well you get the idea. Jon Hammond and Cliff’s rhymes are top notch and they all harmonize beautifully together. My favorite part of every show (besides Cliff's percussion) is when they break it down Temptations style on Still Here. The synchronized dance moves are cold as ice.

“Alright, this one is for the ladies,” Jeff said into the mic. Cue the lights, and break it down. All that was missing were the white leaser suits.

As they went through their set, Constance K. was growing more and more fidgety. She couldn't get the shots she wanted from where we had hunkered down. That would simply not do.

"I'm heading back down, to get closer to the stage," she said. We both told her there was no way in hell we were going to fight through it again. We would try to catch up with her later. Watching, as her thick mane of black hair bobbed and weaved through the crowd with a quickness and spunk that equaled the Energizer Bunny’s, we had to credit her on the tenacity.

After the set, we impatiently waited through another act, all the while pounding beers. It was well past midnight and no Talib. One of our friends, from earlier, found us and waited as long as he could before throwing his hands into the air and giving up altogether. Tony and I laughed about it later; not even ten minutes after he left the man himself came out and absolutely killed it. He started off slow, with Brown Skin Lady. From then on, the tempo picked up. Every bar was on point; sharp as knives. The speakers were just right (guess the sound booth got its' shit together) and the speed of his cadence, which I never truly appreciated until I saw him live, was mind blowing.

The Brooklyn based MC did 10-15 bars form his Reflection Eternal hits like: The Blast, Move Somehtin, This Means You and Down for the Count ... all at blistering speed. He even did his parts from some BlackStar songs. The crowd was supremely hyped and no one seemed to be angry about the lack of personal space anymore. All my feelings of worry and impatience melted away. During Definition, Tony's favorite song, I noticed he was standing up on the bar’s foot rest, supporting his weight with his hands in order to get a better view. He was totally shitfaced and enjoying ever second of the show. Surprisingly, no one fucked with him, including the bartenders.

"I can see everything from up here!" he shouted over the bass. He stayed perched up like that the rest of the show. At a break in the action, Kweli addressed his fans.

"I've been in Ohio a lot recently, working on my new album with Hi-Tek (a Cincinnati based producer)" he explained. “Actually, I just drove up I-71 to get here tonight and I seen a lot of heads, between here and there, who love hip-hop. Who's got love for hip-hop out there?" He asked. We responded with ruckus cheers. "I can’t hear you! Ya'll gotta let everyone know how ill Columbus Ohio really is!" He dropped Get By next and everyone had a conniption. After a few new tracks he addressed the crowd again.

"If it's alright with you guys, I'm gonna spin a little after the show. Stick around for the after party, with your man, DJ Kweli."

This was fucking amazing. Talib Kweli DJing the after party? I could only imagine how jealous all of our hip-hop head friends would be. He spun classics like Anti Up by M.O.P, and Biggie's Who Shot Ya? ... ( not to be confused with www.eyeshotcha.com ... seriously, check it out). We danced with some random chicks we saw on the floor as the crowd slowly thinned out. Before we knew what had happened, it was after 2 a.m. and the flood lights were on. Everyone who had looked attractive five minutes ago was now rendered hideous by the unflatteringly bright white lights. We were pretty soaked with sweat ourselves by this point, being up close and personal with a couple hundred strangers will do that. We closed our tabs as C.R.E.A.M by Wu-Tang Clan banged out behind us.

On the walk home, in-between drunk high fives and some street meat, we discussed the events that had transpired. It was easily the best hip-hop show either of us had ever seen and we were thrilled we waited it out till the end. Matt Reed and TGP had won over Tony as well and we looked forward to seeing them perform again soon. We tried to get ahold of Cliff and Constance K. but we were really in no shape to entertain more guests. We made it back to the apartment unscalthed ... for the most part.

"My fucking hand is totally numb dude," Tony kept saying. "I can't figure out why, I hope the feeling comes back by tomorrow." I tried to explain to him that it was probably from supporting his weight the whole time he was on his bar rail perch. Luckily, he would be fine, but for two days after he had no feeling in it what so ever. “Totally fucking worth it,” he kept repeating. We fell asleep on our respective couches fully clothed, TV blaring and all the lights on. And we wonder why the electric bill keeps going up.

Although I truly love (almost) all music, hip-hop will always have a special place in my heart and Talib reminded me why that night. No matter what you grow up listening to, it will forever be the music you associate with your youth. Elvis or Tupac ... it’s really irrelevant. All that matters is that it reminds you of a simpler time, when your biggest problems were how to finish your algebra homework and where you were going for open lunch. When I think back fondly of my time skipping class through the halls of Gahanna Lincoln High, I will always have songs from the Sound Bombing 2 LP and other Rap City classics to provide the soundtrack. We are all products of our environments and whether you’re a white kid from the burbs or (insert your choice of minority) from the inner city some things ring true either way... like a love for good music.

- J.R.

***Be sure to peep Matt Reed and TGP’s latest at ... http://www.youtube.com/thegreenplan

The Night I Met a Ruthless Cunt and Other Old Hallows Eve High Jinks

"She'd love to leave for some place all alone, and she'd love to live far from every face or name she's ever known ... No, I can't say I blame her."

Heavens, Dead End Girl





Halloween is a lame excuse for a holiday once you're past puberty. Honestly, what are we really celebrating? Isn't it just another angle for Walmart to push more products onto us that we don't really need? Look honey, a giant inflatable spider and witch's cauldron. Is it an excuse for college coeds to dress like hookers, and parade themselves around town, auditioning to be the next date rape victim? Let me guess, you're a slutty nurse/cop/fireman/sailor/catholic school girl etc, etc, etc ... not that I'm complaining.

Purists would say it's the one chance we have every year to be someone else for a few days. Better yet, the opportunity to live out some fantasy that's been festering in our skulls for the last eleven months. The parties are always fun anyway. I used to give a shit, and even tried to get into my characters. One year I spent $60 on a Pope get-up, which was a real crowd pleaser, depending on who you asked at the party. I blessed the house, door, table, toilet, the Jagger bombs we were drinking, the various girls I was trying to hit on ... pretty much anything I came into contact with. Some people were definitely offended. Maybe it was the part where I told them I'm actually Jewish and this was the closest I would ever get to accepting JC as my lord and savior.

"Don't worry, New Castle is kosher," I told everyone. "Now let me just bless this chip dip, incase it's been compromised by Satan. The power of Christ compels you!"

This year, the Thursday before Halloween weekend, I had purchased a bare bones pirate costume at Yankee Trader ... real original, I know. For just under $8 I got an eye patch, plastic sword, false gold tooth, and Jolly Rodger wrist band. I added to the look with a pair of old, very worn khaki shorts, a red bandanna, sandals, and a soiled looking, long sleeve thrift thermal. I ripped a spare dress shirt into a vest and wrote 'Captain Plunder' on the back in sharpie to relieve any doubt about my intentions. Shooter bought a flight suit at the Army Surplus store, which was a little tight in the crotch("Totally splitting my pins dude"). He threw on some Aviator shades and called it 'Maverick'. A pilot and pirate, quite the pair; taking the night by air and sea.

On the evening of Friday the 30th, the two of us headed to a house party in German Village. Upon walking in, we immediately scarffed down two Jell-o shots each. We played water pong (it was BYOB, so you just drank some of your beer when someone hit a shot ... lame). The host was a friend of a friend. I was really there to see the latter. Her name was Tatiana, and she fancied herself a writer as well. She loved to discuss only the important things, like literature, music, the arts ... or the finer points of a frosty pint. She was average height, very tan, with dark brown hair and steely blue eyes; definitely exotic looking. She was of Russian decent, but I guessed Italian when I met her for the first time. She was also the type that couldn't be bothered with a costume. When I was still in Gahanna, living with my parents, we often met up for drinks at Butter's. It was a sleazy local joint, in the armpit of a strip center, nestled amongst an aging apartment complex. It was the perfect place to meet welfare moms, divorcees, and local yokels that I had been trying to avoid for the four years I spent away at college. The only reason we went there was because it was where all the restaurant people in the area went, and we were both servers. It really is a post in of its self, but I'll save it for another time.

The party was fun enough, but most of the guests seemed to be old friends. We polished off most of the case we brought and had more then our share of shots, but we still didn't really feel at ease. I knew the host, Tatiana, and Shooter. Shooter knew me ... and that's it. He isn't really the outgoing type, unless he has to be or someone else takes the lead. I found myself shaking a lot of hands, guessing costumes, and having contrived conversations. My favorite look was Ash from Army of Darkness and his zombie fiance. Soon we realized almost everyone was engaged or already married. Even Tatiana was there with her boyfriend. Great. So we were at a couples party. Awesome. The older I get the more I find this happening. It's certainly a far cry from the shindigs I used to frequent at the University of Kentucky. Some fucking party; let's talk about wedding plans, babies, and what type of wall paper we're thinking about for the bedroom. No thanks. We decided to call it a night early; tomorrow was the real deal anyway. Highball was going on right down the street from our apartment, and it was at the top of our to-do list.

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It was chilly in the apartment when I awoke the next morning. We had windows built sometime before WWII, and it showed, badly. As a result drafts came in and out easily. In the summers, when I tried to open them, chips of lead paint the size of quarters popped off, no doubt spraying particles into the air for me to breath; definitely not up to code. My room also faced east, with only thin blinds over the large and ancient edifices, protecting me from the harsh sun during one of my favorite past-times, sleeping in. I was becoming an early riser against my wishes. I have never been mistaken for a morning person, especially when I've been up drinking until 2 a.m. the night before.

Rejoicing on a rare Saturday off (and Halloween to boot!), I pulled on my favorite sweats, hoodie and prepared for a tough day of laying on the couch. Shooter and I knew we wanted to go crazy later, but after smoking some pot we just bummed around the house most of the day. Tony was in Cincinnati visiting friends so it was just the two of us. We watched college football and enjoyed being slovenly and unshowered. Of course the highlight was OSU rolling over New Mexico State 45-0. I loved shut outs the most; defense was always my favorite part of any football game. Shooter's brother Mike stopped by to get a bite on his way back to Chillicothe. We were forced to shower and change, much to our dismay.

We planned to walk the length of Highball; to check it out and find a place to eat. We weren't going to bother with costumes just yet, since Mike didn't have one. The block party was literally right outside our front door, but they still expected us to pay $5 each to 'get in.' Pay them for inconveniencing us; the people who lived on this street, who had no parking for the weekend, who had to deal with a couple hundred extra assholes hanging around. Technically I was already in when I exited my apartment. If I wanted to walk to a restaurant down the block that was extra. Cover for a block party? Screw that noise. We decided to head further north, towards the Gateway, where we had a less than stellar chain-restaurant sub.

After Mike hit the road, it was almost ten, and we hadn't really started drinking or done anything resembling getting ourselves together for the night. We were supposed to go to a costume party in Clintonville, but we kept putting it off and false starting. We wanted to go out, since it was Halloween and all, but the pot made every task seem impossible and unworthy of the effort. That, and it's harder to bounce back than it used to be. Staying out till 2, mass beer and liquor consumption, and poor late night eating habits are a recipe for disaster. Hangovers have a funny way of sticking around now. Five years ago binge drinking three or four days in a row was nothing. Now, going back to back nights was twice as difficult. Finally, by quarter til eleven we were costumed, buzzed, and in route to the party.

Bethany and James were good friends of mine from high school. They started dating after college and recently gotten a place of their own. It was an older house, in good condition, with an up town area code. They had put a lot of work into it; remolding, wallpapering, painting ... the whole nine yards. There were beautiful hard wood floors and contemporary furnishing in most of the rooms. It was a preconceived notion these two would be the next to get married. I had actually run into the pair at a mutual friend's wedding the week before. See what I mean about couples, their parties, and me lately? It's enough to make any single, 25 year old reevaluate things.

Our hostess was 'Flow' from the Progressive Car Insurance commercials and James was dirty laundry, literally ... wearing a specially rigged hamper, cheap and clever. There was an 80's kid, someone claimed to be Lady Gaga (gag), the Twitter Bluebird made an appearance and a few weren't in costume. It was fairly low key, compared to the other party, but I knew everyone there so I was having fun. I found myself losing track of the time as I caught up with old friends. Sometimes it's just like that when you go out; you get a late start and before you know it the nights almost over. In classic shitty roommate fashion, I forgot Shooter knew no one, again, and was probably not having a good time. Before we left our place, he had implored me to make it a quick trip so we could make it back for the end of Highball.

Unfortunately, I had dropped the ball. By the time we got back to our place it was 12:30 and everything was winding down. At least we could wander where ever we pleased without having to pay anyone. Unsure of what to do, we walked into the nearest bar, which happend to be Circus. After a few visits over the course of the past several months, I had officially designated it a Goth bar, for better or most likely, worse. Nothing wrong with stepping out of your comfort zone though. Halloween is Christmas for Goths and everyone there seemed to be in the spirit. The lady working the door was Gene Simmons, with full face make-up, body leather, and spikes. Almost everyone inside was in costume ... or maybe they weren't. Shinny latex, piercings, and heavy eyeliner abound, three hundred and sixty five days a year there, but this was taking it to another level. The musty smell of sweat, alcohol, and bodies rubbing filled the air. I tried not to touch anyone as I made my way to the bar.

"Excuse me Matey," I said in my best pirate voice, pushing my way through the mass of humanity, feeling my costume was very pedestrian in comparison.

While patiently waiting our turn to be served, we noticed a girl sitting next to me that was surely fresh out of Tim Burton's wet dreams. She was pale and tiny; maybe 5"3, part Punk, part Goth, and heavily tattooed. She wore a tight pink Patten leather corset, black Patten leather mini skirt, and five inch thick, knee high, combat boots. Despite the black lipstick, shellacked eyeliner, and skunk stripped wig, she was very attractive, in a living dead girl kind of way.

"I like your costume," I said. "Who are you supposed to be?"

"What the hell are you talking about," she barked in a surprisingly gruff voice. "This isn't a fucking costume."

Well, this was going to be interesting. We introduced ourselves, and she said her name was Victoria. She was the manager of a campus area all-night eatery and a regular at Circus. All her tats were memorable (like the fairy pissing on a rock or the cat pooping in a liter box) but the one that catches your attention the most was the one on her chest. Honestly, I couldn't make up shit this good if I tried. Right there on her sternum, just above her breasts, where Superman wears his S, were the words 'Ruthless Cunt' outlined in pretty purple flowers. Blam! For the world to see. Now if that's not a conversation starter, I don't know what is.

"It's actually a group on MySpace," she informed me, after I asked the obvious questions. "Me and my bitches just roll around doing what we do. We just don't give a fuck." The whole time we were talking she was digging in her butt/crotch, pulling out cocktail napkins, wadding them up, and nonchalantly placing them on the bar in front us, before retrieving fresh ones to replace those she had dislodged.

"What are you doing?" I asked, a little taken aback.

"No panties," she replied casually. "Not worried about leaving a twat spot or anything, I just don't want this seat giving me crabs."

She said this as if she spoke from experience. Before I could delve any deeper, (which I hadn't really planned on doing), the unknowing bartender came by and picked up the pile of napkins with his bare hands. In shock and awe of the events that had just transpired, I was unable to warn the poor bastard. I sat there for what felt like thirty minutes; at a total loss for words, which believe it or not, doesn't happen to me often. Shooter was totally dumbfounded as well. She threw back the shot of Wild Turkey we bought for her without batting an eyelash, hocked a loogie, and spit it on the floor. There was no 'thanks' or 'nice meeting you' as she promptly stood up and strut her way to the dance floor; a ruthless cunt indeed.

Industrial house music and pasty, misogynistic ecstasy users were starting to get the best of us. It was time to be on our way. As we walked south, Shooter seemed to be pretty bummed about missing Highball. I told him not to fret; we still had time to make up for it. Just then we were passing Skully's and I could hear a band playing. On a whim, I asked the smokers standing by the entrance what the cover was. Batman informed me admission was free. No cover Saturday night, with a band playing, on Halloween? The gods were showing us favor, we would be fools not to take advantage.

The place was packed with every type of costumed hooligan. Even the band was dressed up: lead singer as a clown, lead guitar a wizard, bass player a Beetle (not sure which) from the Sgt Pepper's album cover, violinist a witch, and a second guitar player as some sort of swinger but in retrospect I'm not sure that was really a costume. They called themselves the Spike Drivers, and they were jamming the fuck out. It reminded me of a cross between Phish and Stevie Ray Vaughn, with other flavors sprinkled in. Later we found out the band was comprised of local musicians from other bands, a Columbus all-star group if you will. They truly had a little bit of everything: drums, bongos, three guitars, harmonica, an electric stand up bass, and an electric violin/fiddle.

"Weeeellllllll, I'm built for comfort," the clown sang. "I aiiiiinnnnnntttt built for speeeeeeeed."

He came out with his acoustic, and harp on a neck harness for a slow track that reeked of Bob Dylan, much to my delight. We had worked our way to nearly the front by then, and I noticed he had a snake skin guitar strap, very bad ass. Shooter was floored by the skills of the Wizard and the Swinger, who began to duel via guitar solos.

"These guys are the truth man!" he shouted over the noise, almost giggling with delight. His smile was a mile wide. Mission accomplished Maverick.

Drunkenness had taken over from that point on. We hippie danced to the beat like the rest and headed out after last call. Overall I felt the night was a success; another Halloween in the books ... although, with each passing year they have begun to lose their luster. As a child I lived for the sugar fuelled feast that came at the end of October. As a young adult I reveled in the drinking, debauchery and false decadence that presented itself as a great ass in tight, red, boy shorts (slutty devil anyone?). But I find myself at a crossroads now. I grow older, the parties grow staler, and everything just becomes an excuse to get drunk. The magic has gone but we still buy (or make) a costume, dress up, and act a fool, because what other choice do we have? After all it's a holiday, right? Or is it a sham? Either way you make the most of it, even if you miss the (High)ball.

-J.R.