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
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
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."
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."
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.
Monday, February 8, 2010
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.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
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.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
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 ...
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 ...
****************************************************
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.
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.
"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.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Matt Reed, TGP and you Pronounce the Other Guy’s Name Kwa-lee
BlackStar, Definition
Just like most white suburban kids from my generation, I grew up listening to rap music, much to my father's dismay. If my parents were guided through their adolescents by Lennon, Dylan, Page and Plant, my navigators were Gangstarr, Biggie, Jay-Z, Methodman, and the rest of the Wu-Tang Clan. I had a grunge rock phase, complete with Bush/Gavin Rossdale worship (wish I had hung on to those now chic flannels), but more then half the cds I owned from 1998-2003 were featured on BET's Rap City. I never gave up on rock 'n' roll but I was a product of the times. Hip-hop was popular culture and I was on board.
One of my favorite MC's, whom I became familiar with during this period of my life, is Talib Kweli. His album with Mos Def (BlackStar) easily cracks my top 25 albums of all-time, in any genre. When I heard Kweli was coming to town and that my friend Cliff's band, Matt Reed and TGP would be one of the opening acts I was ecstatic. I contacted my man on the inside to see if he could hook me up.
"No worries," Cliff told me via text message. "I can get you a few free tickets." Wonderful news. This had ‘extraordinary' and 'epic' written all over it. I hadn't been to a hip-hop show since I saw Kanye West in Chicago a few summers back. It really wasn't all that great; an amazing interactive stage, lots of smoke, lights and other effects. But he was the only one out there; THE WHOLE TIME! No guest rappers, no band, no dancers. Just a whole lot of Kanye, gotta love ya some Kanye ... he does. The United Center was over run with white, 14-year-old girls, wearing braces, training bras, and don't forget the Venetian blind shades. I've never looked at the man the same since ... just being himself doesn't help either (i.e. Bonnaroo '08, Taylor Swift debacle).
This would be different though. Talib was all substance, little style, as apposed to the opposite (see above). I had also been to TGP shows many times before and loved their eclectic electric funk, soul, R&B combination. We were all going to really tie one on for this.
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My phone said 9:45 when I returned home from a busy night at the country club, with a little cash in my pocket. This was a rarity, since the patrons are all members and simply sign the check to their member account, neglecting the tip box they no doubt notice when they are eating out anywhere else. My apartment was nearly full of strangers; brothers of acquaintances, and their girlfriends, a few good pals and my roommate Tony. They had been drinking heavily since six. Obviously I hadn't been as lucky, so some catching up was in order. A bowl or two was passed around and I could hear forgotten but familiar bass heavy beats coming from the idock.
The mood was being set for what lay ahead, but I barley had time to sit down. Cliff had been blowing me up since I left work, warning me that they had over sold tickets and we should hurry to Skully's or we might not get in at all. I promised him I would do a post on their show, so there was little alternative for me but to finish my beer, change, and hit the road.
It was a surprisingly chilly night, even for Ohio in early November. Shivering, I zipped my coat and pulled my collar up to keep my neck warm. The sky was very clear and I was almost able to make out the Big Dipper despite the heavy light pollution of the city, which sprawled around me in every direction like mold on stale bread. BlackStar's Astronomy was suddenly playing in my head; background music in a movie I call my life. As I approached the bar, I could see that two lines had formed.
Unsure of what to do, I called Cliff, who informed me that the line to my left was for pre-sale tickets only. The poor bastards in the right line where trying to buy their tickets at the door. They had no idea that they wouldn't even make it to the guy checking IDs. Waiting in the line which was actually moving, I noticed my friend Janis and her boyfriend, standing in the stationary line to my right. We chit-chatted for a bit and I told them the situation. They were not pleased.
"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news," I said shrugging my shoulders. "I'll give you guys a shout after." I gave the door guy my ticket and walked in, feeling like a very important person. I texted Tony and told him to hurry his ass up.
Waiting at the bar, I saw Cliff and our mutual friend Constance K. Cliff is a pretty low-key guy but tonight he was geeked up for his gig. Matching his intensity, CK was (and always is) a bounding ball of energy; ridiculously fun to be around. The last time I saw her was in Chicago, her adopted home, when I was visiting for Kanye. I had no idea she was going to be in town. Matt Reed and TGP were employing her to take some pictures for their Facebook page (fan them). In addition to being a close friend, she is a gifted photographer. All her amazing photos reside at www.eyeshotcha.com ... be sure to check them out. Tonight she was sporting a shiny, black, sequenced stretch top and stylish jeans, both of which which match her personality; a little bit of flare but never out of vogue. She hugged me tighter then my mother does and told me to order a drink on her tab. Feeling classy while jotting in my notebook, I ordered a gin and tonic and began shooting the shit with my compadres.
Facing out, with my back against the counter, leaning on my forearms, I surveyed the scene. It was a cross section of America; blacks, hispanics, asians, arabs and surprisingly high white representation. However, this is not the thing that stuck out the most in my mind but rather the fact that everyone was getting along, mingling even. We had all gathered for the same reason. This was a perfect example of what makes our nation great; the ability for an incredibly diverse population to all unite under a common cause, in this case Talib ... and in Kweli we trust.
Constance K. and I were on our own after the first round, Cliff had to get ready for his set, they were just one of many warm-up acts, pretty customary at hip-hop shows. The first group, who had just started, called themselves the Liquid Crystal Project. They were very mellow, jazzy even, with a strong Roots vibe. The drummer even looked like Questlove, minus the afro. They played some covers, in addition to originals, and scratched samples in-between.
People continued to file in; crowded wasn't the appropriate word. Teeming or squished came to mind. I felt like a spawning salmon trying to swim up stream the few times I got brave enough to try and take a leek. It was by far the most people I had ever seen at Skully's ... ever. Throughout the night, whenever I saw flashing lights drive by, I held my breath, hoping it wasn't the Fire Marshal, come to shut us down ... or worse. A vision of headlines reading 'Fans Trampled to Death at Rap Concert’ flashed before my eyes. After the first group finished up we pushed our way to the exit leading out back for breathing room and fresh air. Outside we ran into Tony and some other friends.
"Nice to see you made it," I said shaking Tony's hand.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," he responded after a long toke on a spliff.
After it was out, the three of us (Tony, Constance K., and me) headed back in. "Make a hole!" she shouted. Raising her large telescopic lensed camera into the air. She acted as our lead blocker, despite being six inches shorter and sixty pounds lighter then both of us. It was assholes to elbows now, beyond dangerously crowded. We parted the masses and made our way upstairs to the balcony, finding a spot just in time for Matt Reed and TGP.
Having seen the guys on several other occasions, I felt like this was probably the biggest crowd they had performed for yet, and it showed a little bit. They started off nervous but finished very strong. It didn’t help that a baboon was working the sound booth as well; the guy was really fucking up. Cliff and his mates took it in stride though, and still managed to kick ass. Matt Reed was the perfect frontman in his debonaire striped dress-shirt, tie, suspenders and fedora. He's got tons of charisma, and works the crowd to perfection. Jeff Trasin’s fingers danced effortlessly over the keys and turntables. His crooning voice is enough to make all the girls we... well you get the idea. Jon Hammond and Cliff’s rhymes are top notch and they all harmonize beautifully together. My favorite part of every show (besides Cliff's percussion) is when they break it down Temptations style on Still Here. The synchronized dance moves are cold as ice.
“Alright, this one is for the ladies,” Jeff said into the mic. Cue the lights, and break it down. All that was missing were the white leaser suits.
As they went through their set, Constance K. was growing more and more fidgety. She couldn't get the shots she wanted from where we had hunkered down. That would simply not do.
"I'm heading back down, to get closer to the stage," she said. We both told her there was no way in hell we were going to fight through it again. We would try to catch up with her later. Watching, as her thick mane of black hair bobbed and weaved through the crowd with a quickness and spunk that equaled the Energizer Bunny’s, we had to credit her on the tenacity.
After the set, we impatiently waited through another act, all the while pounding beers. It was well past midnight and no Talib. One of our friends, from earlier, found us and waited as long as he could before throwing his hands into the air and giving up altogether. Tony and I laughed about it later; not even ten minutes after he left the man himself came out and absolutely killed it. He started off slow, with Brown Skin Lady. From then on, the tempo picked up. Every bar was on point; sharp as knives. The speakers were just right (guess the sound booth got its' shit together) and the speed of his cadence, which I never truly appreciated until I saw him live, was mind blowing.
The Brooklyn based MC did 10-15 bars form his Reflection Eternal hits like: The Blast, Move Somehtin, This Means You and Down for the Count ... all at blistering speed. He even did his parts from some BlackStar songs. The crowd was supremely hyped and no one seemed to be angry about the lack of personal space anymore. All my feelings of worry and impatience melted away. During Definition, Tony's favorite song, I noticed he was standing up on the bar’s foot rest, supporting his weight with his hands in order to get a better view. He was totally shitfaced and enjoying ever second of the show. Surprisingly, no one fucked with him, including the bartenders.
"I can see everything from up here!" he shouted over the bass. He stayed perched up like that the rest of the show. At a break in the action, Kweli addressed his fans.
"I've been in Ohio a lot recently, working on my new album with Hi-Tek (a Cincinnati based producer)" he explained. “Actually, I just drove up I-71 to get here tonight and I seen a lot of heads, between here and there, who love hip-hop. Who's got love for hip-hop out there?" He asked. We responded with ruckus cheers. "I can’t hear you! Ya'll gotta let everyone know how ill Columbus Ohio really is!" He dropped Get By next and everyone had a conniption. After a few new tracks he addressed the crowd again.
"If it's alright with you guys, I'm gonna spin a little after the show. Stick around for the after party, with your man, DJ Kweli."
This was fucking amazing. Talib Kweli DJing the after party? I could only imagine how jealous all of our hip-hop head friends would be. He spun classics like Anti Up by M.O.P, and Biggie's Who Shot Ya? ... ( not to be confused with www.eyeshotcha.com ... seriously, check it out). We danced with some random chicks we saw on the floor as the crowd slowly thinned out. Before we knew what had happened, it was after 2 a.m. and the flood lights were on. Everyone who had looked attractive five minutes ago was now rendered hideous by the unflatteringly bright white lights. We were pretty soaked with sweat ourselves by this point, being up close and personal with a couple hundred strangers will do that. We closed our tabs as C.R.E.A.M by Wu-Tang Clan banged out behind us.
On the walk home, in-between drunk high fives and some street meat, we discussed the events that had transpired. It was easily the best hip-hop show either of us had ever seen and we were thrilled we waited it out till the end. Matt Reed and TGP had won over Tony as well and we looked forward to seeing them perform again soon. We tried to get ahold of Cliff and Constance K. but we were really in no shape to entertain more guests. We made it back to the apartment unscalthed ... for the most part.
"My fucking hand is totally numb dude," Tony kept saying. "I can't figure out why, I hope the feeling comes back by tomorrow." I tried to explain to him that it was probably from supporting his weight the whole time he was on his bar rail perch. Luckily, he would be fine, but for two days after he had no feeling in it what so ever. “Totally fucking worth it,” he kept repeating. We fell asleep on our respective couches fully clothed, TV blaring and all the lights on. And we wonder why the electric bill keeps going up.
Although I truly love (almost) all music, hip-hop will always have a special place in my heart and Talib reminded me why that night. No matter what you grow up listening to, it will forever be the music you associate with your youth. Elvis or Tupac ... it’s really irrelevant. All that matters is that it reminds you of a simpler time, when your biggest problems were how to finish your algebra homework and where you were going for open lunch. When I think back fondly of my time skipping class through the halls of Gahanna Lincoln High, I will always have songs from the Sound Bombing 2 LP and other Rap City classics to provide the soundtrack. We are all products of our environments and whether you’re a white kid from the burbs or (insert your choice of minority) from the inner city some things ring true either way... like a love for good music.
- J.R.
***Be sure to peep Matt Reed and TGP’s latest at ... http://www.youtube.com/thegreenplan
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