A Bluegrass Homecoming (pt. 1)

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




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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


-J.R.