“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.
