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.