MMJ: Prouducts of Kentucky

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


-J.R.

... Weird With It

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

-Oasis, Cigarettes and Alcohol




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


-J.R.

Bone Thugs: It's an Ohio Thing

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


-J.R.

(Angry) Poem

Your Turn To Cry

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

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

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

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

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

Short North Observation

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


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

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

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

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

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

-J.R.

The World Famous Weed Eaters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


-J.R.

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


-J.R.

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.