Running Amuck in Asheville and Barking at The Orange Peel with Dr. Dog

"Cause no one should be sorry,
we're just another day
You can say you'll be back,
but you won't ever go away."

-Dr. Dog, My Friend




Driving through the Great Smokies and lower reaches of the Blue Ridge puts things into perspective. Raised on flat farmland in the Ohio River Valley, I have little or no experience with real mountains. Their beauty fascinates me, tickles my curiosity, like seeing an unknown vixen passing me in the street. What's their story? They also remind me that there is something much greater than "us". In the grand scheme of things we are bacteria; nothing but a speck. Before the roads and the tunnels, before there was a Untied States, before people were around to name them, they stood. When it's all said and done, when every one of us is dead and gone, as long as there is an earth for them to rise from, they will stand.

During my latest journey through Appalachia I made a conscious effort not to get lost in the scenery rushing at me from every direction. Making his daily, often grand exit, the sun left just a hint of red & orange light peeking over the mountaintops. With a misty rain falling it gave everything a sort of mystical glow. It reminded me of some fabulous landscape painted by Bob Ross. If there were anywhere to pull-over on the narrow highway I would have stopped to take a picture.

There was no such place. The roads connecting Tennessee to North Carolina are very tight with little or no shoulder. Dangerous, rolling 45 MPH curves keep drivers on their toes. A good leg of the drive features an 8 foot cement barrier to the left, preventing a head-on crash into on-coming traffic. To the far right there's only a thin guard rail to keep vehicles from sailing over the edge and down a densely vegetated cliff. I couldn't tell from where I was sitting but I had the feeling it was a very, very long way down. It can get a little hairy at times as massive convoys of semis, familiar with the roads, sail past in the truck only lane.

An hour after sundown the temperature dropped 20 degrees and the light drizzle was turning to sleet. From there things continued to deteriorate. Soon a steady stream of fat, wet snow flakes drastically limited my visibility and accumulated in piles all over the interstate. The proverbial shit was hitting the fan and it was being sprayed all around the room. The only thing keeping me from certain death was following the ruts left by the car in front of me. Regretting the one-hitters I'd been firing up for the last four hours, I was taking the curves at 10 MPH for fear of losing control. The trucks who'd passed me earlier were pulling off anywhere they could find room. Some poor bastard behind me lost control and did a 180 before he regained the proper heading. I gripped the wheel so tight my knuckles ached.

So why risk life and limb to drive through a mountain range at night, in February, during a snowstorm? Why for Rock 'n' Roll of course! Well that and to see an old friend. The Captain has become a bit of a regular in these posts (see Roo 2010). He'd been stationed in Asheville, North Carolina since we'd graduated from college and I had been promising him I'd come visit for years. I can't help that the slow season at my job happens to be winter. It's the only time of year I have extended time off. So for now any vacation I have falls between November and March.

Closer to civilization the roads were better maintained and after a while the snow began to let up. I resumed my normal highway cruising speed and made it to my destination on time and in one piece. The Captain's roommate, Road Dog (also of Roo 2010 fame), was the first person to greet me. He looked much better then the last time I'd seen him; pasty and strung out after a three day drug binge. He had to sit out for the last day of the festival and I still give him shit. We joked about it for a minute and then my host entered with cold beers and a fresh bong pack. Apparently we were wasting no time. Fine by me. My vacation was officially starting.

Several beverages/bowls later we met up with their posse at Lucky Otter for burritos. Apparently many of them were in town from various places for the Dr. Dog show as well. We played the introduction game and I immediately forgot everyone's name who shook my hand. Weed tends to do that. Name-tag stickers would have been helpful. Starving to death after seven hours in the car with nothing but sunflower seeds, I scarfed down a Zorba the Greek with minimal chewing. The hunger pains were gone and three margaritas later I was feeling pretty money. With a healthy base of food and alcohol processing in our guts, we reconvened at The Captains house.

The first thing I noticed about Ashevillians were their dogs. I'd been in town all of three hours and seen numerous pups with their owners strolling the streets. There were five in Cap's house including the two that lived there on a regular basis. Throw in the gathering of people and it was starting to get a bit cramped. Flying fur, tails wagging, drinks spilling and paws being stepped on. Don't get me wrong I love dogs but it was very different for me to be in such a "pro-canine" environment. It helps that Asheville has so much wide open space for man's best friend to enjoy. The Captain had a good sized yard himself so the dogs played out back while we played in side.

Over fantastic locally brewed beers I enjoyed my first ever game of Apples to Apples. I was dominating at the start but I slowly lost interest after becoming drunk. It was a school night for The Captain who had work waiting in the AM and most of the others were getting tired as well. I on the other hand wanted to soak in as much scene as possible in the three days I was in town. Luckily Bert was down to rage with me and he didn't mind playing tour guide. A friend of a friend was truly your friend in Asheville.

He was tall and slender with a full, bushy beard but his million dollar laugh was by far the most memorable thing about him. It had a way of building to crescendo, infecting those in ear shot until one had no choice but to chuckle along. We quickly became good friends and I had the feeling if we'd met each other without a go-between there would have been similar results.

We hit a dive bar and sampled even more home brew. I was partial to the Shiva IPA but after trying four different micros everything starts to taste alike. Totally smashed, we smoked a bowl with the bartender and called it night. Later, laying in The Captains guest bedroom, I reflected on day one of the Asheville Experience. I couldn't believe how receptive everyone was towards out-of-towners. Being the unknown introduced into group of old friends can make anyone feel tentative but halfway through the evening I was totally at ease ... like I'd been hanging out with these people for years, not hours. Looking at my notes now, there was a bit more but it's illegible. A good sign and a precursor of what was to come.


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


Uncompromising joy, laughter and euphoria swelled inside me until I could stand it no longer. The drugs circulating through my system made sounds purer, lights brighter and every random thought a potential masterpiece. Whatever I jotted down in my notebook was sure to be New York Times Best Seller worthy. Flailing like a Muppet, I danced, jumped and shouted along to my favorite songs. I slipped my $5 shades down over my eyes to hide my identity and help me cope. Suddenly they burst into a massive jam session melting my skull in the process. Some cover I've never heard of (Heart it Races). Amongst other things, Bert's toothy smile beaming through his mountain-man beard was fucking with my head. The tint of my sunglasses made it look like his teeth were floating independently in space. I was starting to feel uneasy like a colony of Gardner Snakes had taken nest in my stomach. A persistent dizziness had my head spinning.

Easy man. Don't lose it. Deep breaths. You're with friends and you're going to get through this. Take a step back.

I posted up at the bar and ordered a 24oz draft Woodchuck Cider, chugging it down in three gulps. I don't even like hard cider but I was dying of thirst and it sounded better then beer at the time. It felt like the Molly had tripled my body temperature. Profusely sweating I ordered another cider and took it a bit slower. I was getting my freak-out under control. They were playing a slow jam so I took some time to collect my thoughts. I went over the day's events in my head, starting from the beginning ...

Waking up in a cold, unfamiliar bedroom is nothing new for me but it's always disorienting. After a few seconds of bewilderment I felt composed. Helping myself to a glass of ice water I was surprised at the mildness of my hangover. After smoking a roach any remaining ill affects of the night before were eliminated. I had taken the phone numbers of The Captain's friends so I could meet up with them for lunch and as I've said before, never in my life have I met a group of people so willing to accept a new member into the hive. We ate at a wonderful breakfast joint called Sunny Point Cafe and Cap joined us since he was only working half a day. In an Oscar worthy performance he had been setting up for weeks, he claimed his roommates had come down with something that he was now suffering from. I was just glad we would be able to pre-game together before the show.

After a short food induced coma, the two of us picked up Evan and his girlfriend Jennifer (part of the posse) and we went on a tour of downtown Asheville. It reminded me of a smaller, hillier version of downtown Nashville. We stopped at Urban Outfitters for Toby (Dr. Dog singer/bassist) inspired v-necks and a baggy slouch for Jennifer. We ducked into The Bier Garden for a few pints and a shot or two in honor of Evan's birthday. I stepped out for a smoke and met a kid from Charlotte also in town for the show. He was in his early twenties and very friendly but bit of a talker. Not to the point of being annoying but the type to dominate a conversation making it difficult to get a word in edgewise. He told me of his aspirations to be a musician and I told him about my Blog. We talked tunes for a while and exchanged cards but I was glad to get back to my friends, whom I'd been neglecting.

As we drove back to West Ashe I was mesmerized, like a kid watching Saturday morning cartoons, by the sun setting behind the Blue Ridge Mountains. I thought of all the songs I knew dedicated to this very sight. Having seen them now in person, I felt all the lyrics would have new meaning and strike a deeper chord. I attempted to take a picture with my cell phone but it would never do the moment justice.

We met the rest of the crew at Mamacitas to enjoy some Mexican which seemed to be Asheville's favorite ethnic food. The night before I'd talked to one of the girls about procuring some party drugs and she did not disappoint. Ashley was attractive in an unconventional way with a flowing mane of copper red hair. She had a tone, athletic build, a laid back disposition and a cute smile. I sat down next to her and handed over the cash. She placed a cellophane filled with white powder inside my palm. It looked like Molly was definitely coming to the concert with us. I love when pretty girls give me good drugs.

While cashing out my tab I made the startling discovery that I'd forgotten my Dr. Dog inspired shades. I'd stopped for gas in Kentucky on the way down and the neon yellow Aviators grabbed my attention immediately. I purchased them without a second thought, feeling they would be perfect for the show. Sunglasses, inside, at night. Yea, I was that guy. Heartbroken I pleaded for a ride but everyone was ready to head towards The Orange Peel, which was on the opposite side of town in relation to my car. Jennifer, in an act of pure awesomeness, lent me her car to retrieve my essential accessory. Once again, I could not believe how cool everyone in this town was. After some hastily written directions I was off and back (shades in hand) before anyone knew I was gone.

I'd been warned that it was impossible to smoke weed inside so three of us walked to a nearby house party to get our minds right. The Captain, Lisa and myself said hello to the hosts (friends of friends) and snuck into the laundry room at the rear. Lisa was short with a cute baby face and a crows nest of loose dark brown curls sprouting from her head. She was a chiller, a kind soul and a throw-back. The spiting image of how I imagined Hippies were during the free-love movement. Her unconditional kindness and over-all good vibes stuck with me the most. She sparked a spliff and we broke out the Molly into three equal parts. I toked the herb and huffed my share in one fluid motion. It burned my nose like Jewish horseradish, clearing out the sinus cavity. I sniffed the running snot back into my head, unwilling to waste a single drop of the wonderful narcotic. I knew it was good shit when my entire face went numb.

We entered The Orange Peel and found our friends. In classic Doc Dog fashion they had hand-painted back drops behind the stage resembling stained glass. Crafty bastards. After securing a place in the crowd, I started talking to a pretty brunette who was a new addition to our group. By that point the Molly was starting to take hold, so I was no doubt speaking drivel at a 1,000 MPH. I remember rambling relatively incoherently. She humored me by listening and she even asked a few questions, helping the conversation limp along.

Eventually we got to the topic of my writing and then she was really fucked. The next 30 minutes was a one sided barrage of blather until her apparent boyfriend showed up, making it painfully obvious that she was spoken for. Damn. I gave her my card anyway and wandered off to find The Captain. The lights went down and they came onto stage in white Rockstar shades and "Where's Waldo" inspired beanies. Other then a birthday shout out for Evan (no idea how/who got that up to them) the next couple hours were a bit of a blur ...

I do remember them all wearing matching denim suite jackets for the encore. They brought out a local guy, also in matching jacket, who's name eludes me. I can only imagine how awesome he must have felt. After his song, they did The Beach and then closed with Jackie Wants a Black Eye, my favorite song off the new album. The chemicals in my brain were starting to level out. The Molly was wearing off. I still felt the Speed like up but the Ecstasy-ish body buzz was long gone. I was a little bit glad. I didn't know how much more of it I could take.

"We're all in this together now, as we all fall apart," he said in his Bob Dylan croon. "And we're swapping little pieces of our broken little hearts." We all sang along (off-key) to the chorus, voices hoarse from hooping and hollering. As my favorite verse ended time seemed to stand still.

"Yesterday's love defines you and today that love is gone, tomorrow keeps you guessing, the roller coaster's rolling on." Never until that moment had those words rung as true. After the show I said good bye to my new group of friends and we all went our separate ways. The Captain and I had a little fight left in us so we grabbed a beer or two on his side of town before calling it for good.


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Spending the following day planted firmly on the couch, I reminisced about my short stay in Asheville. It's a tough place to sum up in words but my overall impression was very good. Basically it's a hippie retirement community with numerous amazing locally brewed beers. A dog lover's paradise where people tend to land when they trying to ditch whatever town they're from originally. The cities population is so transient the local minor league baseball team is called the Asheville Tourists. The only negative thing I can comment on is the growing hipster infection on the West side of town. Cliches include (but are not limited to); guys in girl's skinny jeans, multi-colored Chuck Taylor All-Stars, black thick frame glasses, PBR 40 ouncers and suspect tattoo choices.

Equally unimpressive was The Orange Peel. I heard murmurs the first night that it was one of Rolling Stone's top-25 best venues in America but I would have to disagree. With no balcony, the stage wasn't high enough to offer a great view but lucky for me I'm approaching tall so it wasn't awful. The sound was great, as it always is at a Dog show, and their performance was almost as impressive as the Bonnaroo set I'd seen a few months back.

Gripes aside, the people were hands down the best part of the trip. I had never been more welcome in unknown territory. Passing brief pleasantries with the locals and spending extended time with The Captains friends left a large and positive impression. Even the mentioned scene kids were cool once you got to talking with them. I only wish I'd come in the summer to enjoy the outdoor activities Asheville has to offer. However something tells me I'll be back before too long, as long as Asheville will have me that is, but judging by this trip that won't be a problem.


-J.R.

Birthdays

"I'm going down to the well tonight
I'm going to drink till I get my fill
Sitting back trying to recapture,
a little of the glory
Well time slips away
Leaves you with nothing mister
but boring stories ..."

-Bruce Springsteen, Glory Days




Whether we like it or not, none of us are getting any younger. Today I turned 27. Like most twenty-somethings watching the sun set on the best years of their lives, birthdays have little or no significance to me what so ever. The protesters will say, relax. You're just a kid! A pup, wet behind the ears, green and untested. The truth is I don't feel young. Not like I felt when I was a starry eyed underclassmen with a university of possibilities laid at my feet. I thought jobs would come begging after graduation. Figured I'd be well on my way to beat reporter for a major newspaper in some big city by now. Maybe not The New York Times but at least The Post, right?

How wrong I was. The world is much more brutal then any of us could have ever imagined. A leg up is rare. Most are too worried about covering their own ass. Life can suck. Regardless today I will celebrate my birth. I will go out to a nice dinner with friends, bar hop, drink too much, do my best not to puke on my nice cloths while still trying to get laid (guaranteed three of those five things will happen). What I won't do is freak out. Even if the lid to life's pressure cooker is slowly starting to seal. The water simmering and the tension mounting. Thirty is staring down the barrel of a shotgun with the intent to slaughter whatever inner-child I have left. Adulthood has reared its' ugly head. I'm making decisions now that will set a course for the rest of my life. My youth, waving it's white flag, is dying a slow death.

Well maybe I'm freaking out, just a little bit. To be honest birthdays have always been kind of bizarre to me. At 11:59 p.m. the day before you're one age, sixty seconds go by ... wham! You're one year older. Like you magically matured in the blink of an eye.

"Oh I'm sorry kid, I can't serve you that beer ... oh wait ... Yes sir! Sit down and have a frosty one on me." Who's to say when someone can or can't drink responsibly? I know grown men and women, older then myself, who have no business touching the sauce but it sure as hell doesn't stop them.

Everyone knows it's all downhill after 21 anyway but the truth is growing older happens gradually. We all mature at different rates physically and mentally. It's a gracefully process for some but others aren't so lucky. One group are old souls, wise beyond their years. The other cling to their youth, stuck in a never ending midlife crisis, grown men and women who behave like children. They go an entire lifetime without maturing cognitively at all. So unlike tangible aging, growing wiser is much more of a choice. Everyone's body peeks physically at some point and inevitably begins to break down. If you eat right and exercise yours will last longer but do the same rules apply to our minds?

In other words, at what point are we each smartest and will it all be down hill from there? My generation, which has the attention span of a retarded chimp, wants the answers to quandaries like this right NOW! With the rise of the internet, social networks, Wikipedia and the like isn't everyone getting smarter faster ... and at a younger age? Probably the exact opposite. The problem is there are no easy answer to the questions worth asking. As I've gotten older I've come to except this. Truth is more of a murky gray as opposed to a black or white but it's taken me 27 years to come to peace with it.

I've heard tales that we all have three periods of "cognitive awaking" at different points in our lives. The first comes at puberty, the change from child to young-adult. The second at midlife, (young-adult to adult) and the third in later life, when we accept our immanent mortality. Some may have one, none or all three of these awakenings. Personally, I feel I'm on the cusp of the second. So with the passing of each year I no longer become melancholy but rather hopeful. I've traversed the path of childhood and I'm no longer a young-adult: naively optimistic, impressionable and gullible. On some level I've grown up, all be it ever so slightly. My mind has renewed vigor, purpose and direction. For the first time in awhile I'm thinking more clearly and critically. The words flow from my fingertips to the keyboard easier then ever before. I'm not at midlife (hopefully) but my first steps across the adult threshold have been taken and there's no turning back.

Maybe similar realizations are just around the corner for you. Keep all this in mind when your next day of reckoning comes. Birthdays are simply a way of documenting the passage of time, for posterity sake. They really don't mean anything. One person's 27 is anothers 21. Either way it's just a number and it has a different meaning to everyone. Don't despise becoming an adult, enjoy the experiences along the way that have earned you that rank. Learn from them. They are a badge of honor, not a curse and as sand trickles through your hour-glass spend the time growing wiser, not older. The former is totally in your control and the latter happens whether you like it or not.


-J.R.

My First B&E

"I'm not like them
but I can pretend...
The day is done,
but I'm having fun
I think I'm dumb,
or maybe just happy"
-Nirvana, Dumb




Rereading my previous posts I'm starting to realize how publishing online raises my level of disclosure higher than I'd like at times. As long as this blog exists examples of my debauchery, rash decision making, over indulgence and (yes) stupidity are forever documented. True I may exaggerate here or there slightly for dramatic effect but I assure everyone EVERYTHING I've posted actually happened. I'm not embarrassed by any of it. Well I wasn't, until recently when I did the single most idiotic thing I have ever done ...

We'll get to that but first I must save face as best I can and set the context. Living in downtown Columbus I rarely drive anywhere. Besides the now routine 670 work commute five days a week my car stays parked. I walk to the grocery store, the barber, to friend's houses, record shops, restaurants and bars. If I don't feel like walking and I have some extra singles in my pocket, I take a cab. At the most it costs me six bucks with tip. Why would you drive? Honestly, if I could snag a decent gig in the neighborhood I would sell my car in a heartbeat.

That's besides the point. During my multiple treks, especially along Neil Avenue, I've noticed beautiful, well maintained "show homes" that have always peeked my curiosity. Basically they're renovated old homes that are kept up but unoccupied. No one is ever there. The economy is super pissed at everyone so they've stayed on the market and on more than one occasion, always intoxicated, I've peered into a window or two. Usually the dust is an inch thick. All the furniture is covered up. A few lights might be on but there is always a sense of little to no habitation.

Tucked away beside an alley at the the end of my street is one such house. Not once had I seen anyone come in or out. Nor a single figure in any window. I've always admired the three story structure which predates my mother, taking my time whenever walking by. In my mind I'd fantasied about actually entering the house and taking a look around but my curiosity never got the best of me. Until the night in question ...

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It was four a.m. on a cold morning in November. I had met friends at Skully's for The Floorwalkers CD release show. I'd never seen so many people turn out for a local act. They were hanging off the rafters, smoking dope, snorting powder in the bathroom and generally just carrying on. Thoroughly intoxicated by the end of it all, I wandered my familiar route home. I arrived at the corner of Hunter and Smith. There it was, taunting me. Lonely, unappreciated and daring anyone to investigate. Nicknacks covered in dust littered the windowsills and two weeks of news papers were piled on the stoop. It was pitch black except for the porch light and the first room behind the front door. I couldn't resist taking a peek in one of the windows. Totally deserted. Plastic slips covered the chairs and tables.

I climbed onto the front stoop and opened the screen slowly to prevent the hinge squeak from being too loud. I got a good look in through the stained glass on the front door. The only eliminated room gave me a feeling of vast age and intense comfort. Without realizing what I was doing my hand felt the door knob and gave it a turn. Unlocked. The massive oak door swung open. I flinched, startled at how easily it'd given way. Not a sound from inside the house. For a second I could swear I was floating from above, watching some moron inside my body lean his head inside the doorway. It felt like I was in a dream and I had no control over the next move.

Upon entering the first thing I noticed was the silence. So quite it was almost deafening. Palpable. A total lack of sound. My heart rate was increasing dramatically in response to doing something I knew damn well wasn't intelligent. Every pump of blood into my ears sounded like a bass drum. The place reeked of must and mothballs. Just like grandma's house. It was fairly warm, so the caretaker or whoever keeps the building up left the heat on. A beautiful electric chandelier hung from the third floor ceiling over the marble foyer. Ever square inch of the landing walls were covered with ornately framed paintings. Most originals upon closer inspection. There were also black and white family photos tinted yellow with age. The images were grainy like old movies. Very eerie.

After a minute or so I thought to leave but then I saw the books. They filled countless cases to my left that rounded out the rectangular, red velvet carpeted staircase. This house was worth millions based only on the decor. I rested my hand on the black mahogany banister and looked up. It stretched on for three floors and ever shelve looked filled to capacity. I'd come this far, a voice said in my head. There was no resisting. Might as well go a little further. I climbed the first flight perusing titles as I went.

The books were arranged with a haphazard carelessness. No sense of order whatsoever. Mostly old text books and random works of fiction. I took down a volume of Mark Twain's Life on the Mississippi. Opening to the publication page my jaw almost hit the floor. It was printed in 1903. Looking over my shoulder to make sure no one was around I tucked it under my arm as a possible souvenir. Just for shits and giggles I hide a couple of my "writer for hire" business cards inside a few other volumes. Leaving possible evidence at the scene of a crime. Real fucking bright. In hind sight I'm starting to see what a jackass I can be when I drink. When I entered my intent was never to steal anything but there I was, 10 minutes into a Breaking and Entering rap and helping myself to stolen property. Just then I heard movement below me.

Adrenalin shoot throughout my body and whatever buzz I had left was gone instantly. Panic took over. I had never been more scared in my life. Even taking care to watch my steps during the morning tour, every movement created a very audible creak. If I moved now whoever was below would certainly hear me. There was shuffling on the first floor marble. I carefully looked over the rail just in time to see a hunchbacked old man shut and lock the door I'd entered earlier.

After the deadbolt slammed into place the gravity of the situation hit me like a Buick. I quickly took a look around weighing my options. Hide and hope he went away, escaping later or confronting him and bailing now. He hadn't seen me on the second floor landing directly above him so I decided to find the nearest hiding place. With my feet planted and the book giving me an extra five inches of reach I tried to push open the nearest door but it wouldn't budge. A hacking cough and several sneezes from the foyer. Taking the risk, I took one step, leaned in and tried the handle. Locked. Slippers scuffing against the floor. He was on the move again. I leaned back towards the rail.

My biggest fear was unfolding in slow motion. He began climbing the steps. Terror made every hair on my body stand on end. The old wood groaned and popped with every step, the acoustics of the house and lack of any other noise, amplifying everything. It was my only chance. I set the book down and tip-toed towards the next set of steps leading to the third floor. When I rounded corner I found the steps blocked by boxes upon boxes of even more books. Trapped. He was halfway to the top of the first flight. I was officially starting to freak out. I could feel the cold sweat break out all over my body. My bowels clenched and if I hadn't relieved myself recently I may have pissed in my pants. He hadn't seen me yet but could he smell the sour stench of my fear?

He was now on the second floor but I was safely hiding around the corner, on the first three steps leading to the top floor. By this point I was so afraid I couldn't think clearly. He was so close I could hear his breathing. It sounded labored and weak. Worst case scenario I could take him by force. Kill him if I had too. What the hell was I even thinking? Murder? I wasn't here to rob or hurt him. I was just a curious (idiot) kid taking a look around. I'd pushed my luck too far. He would have every right to shoot me dead. I saw the muzzle flash in my mind, felt the hot led in my gut as I curled into the fetal position, bleeding out at this strange old man's feet. I couldn't bare the thought of either outcome.

Forcing the issue I stepped from around the corner. We were about 8 feet apart. He jumped with a start and his eyes went big with fright. He started to tremble and dropped his cane. I could now see I had every bit of six inches and 60 pounds on the feeble framed geriatric. In retrospect, I probably scared the poor guy more then I had been scared to begin with.

"I'm so sorry!" I spouted, breaking the dead silence. "I thought it was abandon. I was just passing through and wanted to get warm. The door was unlocked. I'm not here to bother you in any way. I'm not a criminal!"

"Have you ben sleepin' ear?" he said in a think English accent. I explained that I hadn't and I wasn't homeless. Before he could say another word I rushed past him to the steps, babbling apologies the whole way down. It was all a blur. He didn't make a move to try and stop me, no doubt just glad I didn't try to push him down. I remember fumbling with the front door for a second before getting it open and just as I was walking out I looked back and saw the 1,000 yard stare of shock on his washed out and weathered face. Nervous/terrified/glad to be on my way out, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind ...

"It's a beautiful home," I said and sprinted into the street. Today, since I made it out safe, that's hilarious. More ridiculous really. I made sure to pass my front door and circle back around before entering in case anyone was on my trail. I laid on the couch with all the lights off, too petrified to move and so juiced up I didn't fall asleep until later the next day.

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A month has passed since my first B&E. Well technically the door has to be locked for you to break in. So is it just an entering? Either way, I learned a lesson and I avoid that corner like the plague. There's a reason that curiosity killed the cat I definitely used up one of my nine lives after that little stunt. Thank God he was an Englishman. A real, red-blooded American would have been locked, loaded and ready to blast any intruder dead. Hopefully in the future he'll keep his door locked and everyone reading this should do the same. You never know what kind of rift raft might just wander in off the street.


-J.R.

1,000 Hits

There's something to be said for never giving up on a dream no matter how impossible it may seem. It gives the dull reality of day-to-day life meaning. It gives one purpose. My dream would be to write professionally, preferably for absorbent pay, but I'm not the only one. So like all the other hacks, I work when/where I can and write (for free) in the meantime. I do what I have to in order to survive but no matter what the candle of hope remains aflame.

It's not easy though. The world tends to not give a shit about any of us or our candles. Sometimes I get so frustrated I want to blow the fucker out myself. Just give up. To be totally honest I don't know what's more pathetic; the fact that I feel like I've accomplished something after a 1,000 hits or that I even started trying at all. Usually during pity parties like these I get a text, a phone call, an e-mail, a comment on a post. Some sign that it's not all for nothing. SOMEBODY isn't just reading but enjoying what I have to say. Honestly that's all it takes. A kind word can go a long way if it's genuine.

So thanks. Yes, you. The one reading this right now. To all my editors, whom I owe beers for life, thank you. To anyone who has ever read anything I've ever written; thank you. Even that teacher in college who failed me because he couldn't understand how great I was; thank you. To anyone who has even glanced at my blog by mistake ... you get the idea. In the grand scheme of things I know it doesn't mean much but it's a start. A measuring stick showing some level of interest. I'm obviously not an awful writer and if you don't suck at something you can only get better.

Right. So now that I've buttered you all up I only ask for one thing in return for all my efforts. The current shameless self promotion wherever I go has helped but any additional support and assistance is huge. Please recommend my blog to any and everyone who might like it. Better still, recommend it to someone who might get me one step closer to being published. At this point I don't care how or where, as long as I can use it as a clip (Blogspot doesn't seem to count). Who knows maybe one day, after I hit the big time, we can all say remember way back when? When it was just a 1,000 hits.


-J.R.

A Bluegrass Homecoming (pt. 2)

"The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses?
Because here they come"

-Florance and The Machine, Dog Days Are Over




The house was empty when I came to. Awaking from my stupor I had the feeling that I was late for something. Late indeed. I'd over slept and missed my ride to Keeneland. Great. Once again I was on my own. Cursing myself for being such an idiot I got up, went to the bathroom and took a long look in the mirror.

My hair was a mess, sticking up in back. The rest was a bed head mash of half-ass curls. My breath tasted like sour onions. I smelled like an ashtray soaked in beer. And people say drinking isn't glamorous. While brushing my teeth I went over my options. Pregaming solo, hoping to run into someone I knew or plan B. Trying to make nice and crash a total strangers tailgate. Either way I would end up looking pathetic and lonely. Thankfully I heard the back door open and close so someone was still around. I stuck my head underneath the faucet and took a long drink. Brian and his girlfriend Stephanie greeted me in the kitchen.

"Well, well. Good morning fella or should I say good afternoon," he said grinning. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the air mattress this mourning. You look like death."

"Funny. I feel like I'm dying," I said. "Why didn't you leave with the others?"

"Those crazy sons of bitches got up at 8 a.m. We wanted to sleep in. Grab a quickie before we headed out, know what I mean?" he said winking at Steph. She offered a brief, sly smile and looked away. "Better to do it with no one around. Your passed out ass didn't count."

We each took our turn showering and primping. As I've already said, things are different in The South. Everyone and every event is a little bit more formal. At least until people get a few adult beverages down. A true Southern Gentlemen wears dress shirts, ties, even suites to Keeneland. The extra fratty wear Croakies (elastic sunglass straps) and J. Crew dress pants with mini lobsters/Hula Girls/Palm Tress monogrammed all over. Too chachy for my taste. Slacks, good shoes and a nice polo are bear minimum. The three of us were all dressed to the hilt. In our Sunday best for a chance to sin at the race track.

Now I know what most of you are thinking. Who the hell wants to dress up if they don't have to? Normally I'd agree. Anything other then a wedding or job interview I'm probably wearing jeans but there's a nice suite that lives a hermit's life in my closet; he never gets out. Let's face it, almost everyone looks better in formal cloths anyway. Like we're all really adults or something. Passing as upstanding members of civilized society and such. I'm not one to break tradition either, so when in Rome. Besides, no one wants to be the one asshole in the group who is totally under-dressed.

There was only one way to deciding who would drive. Roshambo. One chance, for all the money. Damn! I was the wheelman. We climbed into the truck and huffed an adderall each to kick the hang over blues. When used recreationally it is basically a poor man's cocaine. Similar high (although not nearly as intense) with less of the down. It had us feeling fresh and energized. After a quick stop for supplies we were in the precession of cars waiting to get in.

Much to our displeasure they had closed off our old fraternity tailgate to paying visitors. This caused our group to be scattered all over creation in the free parking. It was past one o'clock so they were already inside the gates anyway. By some amazing stroke of luck a security guard waved us into paid parking without charge. We were a 100 yards from the entrance to the track as opposed to several miles. The three of us weren't asking any questions. I eased the massive ass end of the F150 into a spot and we got down to business.

After polishing off a 12-pack of Bud Lights, a pint of vodka Redbulls and a few bowl packs it was time to head in to the track. Just past the turnstiles was the Paddock where they parade the soon to be racing thoroughbreds for betters to inspect. Stable boys, usually of Hispanic decent, lead the half ton beast around the ring. All muscle, sharp angles and fragile legs. Being so close, watching every fiber tighten with the delicate but deliberate steps, I'm always struck by how powerful these creatures really are. If it had the mind to it could toss the stable boy like a rag doll, jump the fence and bowl its way through the crowd. No one could stop it without the help of a firearm. Thankfully none of the horses I saw felt that itch.

The inside of the grand stand is a people watcher's dream that spans the gamut of economic social classes. On one hand you have the filthy rich. The old money. Horse owners/breeders. High roller handicappers. Movers and shakers in the world of racing. All reaping mass profits in the horse capital of the world (Lexington, KY). It's easy to identify these people. They wear freshly pressed Brooks Brothers suites and bow ties imported from Paris. One of their ensembles is worth more then my entire wardrobe. Walking, talking, Cuban cigar smoking decadents. They enjoy heavy starch on their immaculate white collars.

On the other hand you have the broke. The downtrodden. Life time losers. Degenerate gamblers searching the ground or trash for a misplaced winning ticket. Their uniforms are less obvious. Of course some come in crummy cloths, unkempt, looking the part but don't make the mistake of lumping lower level horse people into the same group. They're dirty from working the grounds, training the animals, not by choice. They're usually trying to use their "inside knowledge" to gain a slight edge. Others still pass as the elite. Spending what little they have keeping up apprentices. Fooling people into thinking they're big shots. An untrained eye thinks these schmucks (who are the worst of the whole lot if you ask me) are actually the upper class. However upon closer inspection you can point them out. They're usually the ones bragging about their hot tip or the big bet they just won. Real winners don't share tips. It hurts their odds. They also rarely tell anyone they're up big. Anyone who has a wad of the houses money doesn't want anyone to know they're carrying it.

The rest of us are somewhere in-between. At the track to spend a little money and have fun betting on a sport no one can truly grasp. Every time I'm there I overhear conversations about so and so's horse likes running on the grass. The number three horse likes the rail or only wins on Sundays. All bullshit really. If you asked the creature yourself and it could talk it'd probably just ask for a carrot or more hay, possibly a hot young Philly. They don't give a damn whether you win or lose. The true champions probably know it's a race but the rest are clueless.

I got in line for the best Bloodymary in town while Brian took a moment to inspect the race forum. He was a decent handicapper, growing up in Louisville, home of the Kentucky Derby. After he mumbled some gibberish about "boxing" this and "exactaing" that I made a bet that was a smaller mutation of his. Basically I picked three horses for $12. They could finish in any order so long as they were the top three. Of course one of the fuckers got fourth, just my luck. Back to the bar.

Brain placed another bet and ended the day up $50. The kid almost always walks away with some of Keeneland's money. It helps to be from down the road as apposed to being from out of state. No one talks horses where I'm from. We were just about to call it a day when I casually looked at the line-up for the next race. The number seven horse caught my eye. He was a three year old named Bonnaroo. Just what a closet hippie and Roo veteran needed to see. I asked Stephanie to hold my drink and I placed my $10 bet on the number seven horse to win (at 3-1). The bugle called them to post. One by one they were loaded into the starting gate. The bell rang. The gates opened and they were off! A stampede of hoofs and pure fluid muscle in motion. He lead wire to wire. My adrenalin spiked as they came into the the home stretch. I hooped and hollered with the crowd, urging, willing my pony to the finish. The beautiful bastard made me $30 richer. Damn it felt good to win.

After recouping my previous loss and covering my tab, I was more than satisfied. Any day at the track is a good day but a winner is a winner! Bragging rights account for a lot and I had a sufficient drinking story for the next month. We cashed in our winnings and walked back to the truck still buzzed on a natural high from our respective pay days.

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

Everyone rendezvous at Hojo's place and made plans for the evening. Some had tickets to the game, some didn't but everyone wanted to head back towards campus. Brian, Steph, Devin and I decided to grab a bite and pints at Pazzos which was just how I remembered it. Great pizza, cold beer and terrible service. We sat for thirty minutes before we even got a drink. Some people we knew were already seated. We decided to join brother James group. He had his entire clan in from Cincinnati. Sisters, brothers, mom, dad and everyone's significant other. Brian came back form the bathroom to find our party of four had swelled to twenty. There was some confusion about where we should sit but in the end we got free pie out of the deal, so we sucked it up.

Bellies full, we were all ready for the second tailgate of the day. Students call it the double-dip; all-day at Keeneland followed by kicking of your night at Commonwealth Stadium. There is no doubt UK is a basketball school but seeing the sea of blue along Alumni Drive one had to wonder if the tide was turning in favor of football. Standard "C-A-T-S" cheers reverberated through out the stadium parking lot. I saw a more daring group beer bonging bourbon. We talked with friends and I ran into some old coworkers. Token "how ya been?" conversations began to make my head spin but thank God we were on a tight schedule. I'd scored Devin's extra ticket and lucky for us his brother is a local big wig so the seats were amazing. Right on the fifty yard-line, about six rows up, behind the home team. We left our friends and headed out to get the tickets.

"Just don't embarrass me," Devin's brother said after giving us the goods. We were feeling quite drunk after some pulls on a Makers bottle and apparently it showed. "Some of my bosses will be sitting right next to you guys."

Pot always seems to level out my drunk. A quick one hitter and all was right in the world. Unless of course I'm too far gone. Then I enjoy cold sweats, the spins and ultimately my face in the toilet bowl. I try not to think about it. Without incident we filed through security and stumbled to our seats. They were almost too good. We were so close it was difficult to see over the freakishly tall players. It was the closest I had ever been to a game during the heat of battle. We'll battle might be generous to Kentucky. Georgia was doing all the fighting. They handed us a 28-10 beat down by half time. So much for home coming. Too disgusted to stay we left before the third quarter. They'd make it respectable by the end but barely. Basketballs supremacy would reign in Lexington for the foreseeable future.

Before kickoff we had all agreed to meet at the only bar everyone HAS to go to when in from out of town; World Famous Two Keys Tavern. If my time spent blacking out in college could be quantified in one place this would be it. If I could tabulate how much money I'd spent there chasing the dream I'd probably cry. Other then some renovations, the atmosphere was exactly the same. A clusterfuck of coeds begging for booze, taking up every square inch of space inside and out. The girls were all blond bouffant beauties, younger then I remembered or I was just older. More of the latter I'm sure.

Devin and I packed ourselves in where we could and pounded shots. I went out for a smoke and that was the last time I saw him. Some shitty cover band was blaring so loud inside I couldn't hear people talking right next to me outside. I was bumping into someone every three seconds, spilling my whiskey and coke in the process. Staying there was pure madness. A total waste of time. I saw a group of my people making their way out so I followed suit.

There were about ten of us heading downtown. The Captain (See Bonnaroo 2010 posts), other frat bros and a group of girls. They were Kapas who used to live next door to our fraternity house. We hadn't seen each other in years and chatted as we walked. Before I knew what had happened The Captain and Bill had bailed. Both were in far worse shape than myself. Cap was unable to speak coherent sentences and he had a seven hour drive back to North Carolina in the morning. Calling it a night early was probably the best thing for him.

Sticking with the survivors, I entered The Penguin, a dueling piano bar that had just recently opened. We reveled, danced and drank. All smiles and good times. An hour in, I was approaching the point of no return so I took a step back for some fresh air. One of the girls, Erin, joined me. I had always had a slight crush on her and had the mind to kindle a flame that was never lite way back when. We shared a cigarette and summarized the last four years of our lives. She was working on her PHD at Northern Texas (Mean Green!) hoping to become an English professor. I gave her my song and dance, zoning out in spite of myself. Lost at sea in her green eyes. I imagined the feel of her feminine shaped mouth against mine, intrigued by her lips which were always in a slight joker smile. I went for it.

"Ummmm what are you doing?" she said when I leaned in. "Jacob I can't make out with you. There's this guy back home. He's watching my dog. I just feel bad. Otherwise I would."

It was awkward for a moment but we went back in and had a shot to forget the mistake that almost was. I took mine down slowly, letting it burn in the back of my throat hoping it would wash away my embarrassment. I felt like an ass.

"Sorry that was weird," she said. I told her not to worry, creeps like me can't help ourselves. She laughed and we danced to another number just as the the lights of last call sparked to life.

Leaving, we were all a total wreck. I gave Erin a leg up onto one of the random horse sculptures in front of Rupp Arena. I took some pictures with her camera. Her posing on the plastic beast, me the photographer, both of us laughing hysterically the whole time. The last of us took off in a cab with the police swarming just behind us. The next day we found out there had been a stabbing not a block from where we'd been standing. Close call.

A hang over is all we'd have to worry about. I lay on the couch and recapped my failed make-out attempt. The timing was off but better to go down swinging then always wonder. Even striking out, it had been an amazing return to the Bluegrass. I even managed a meal at all my favorite haunts. Breakfast at Ramsey's the following morning brought me full circle. The perfect pre-drive meal (minus fried chicken livers) before the long journey home.


-J.R.

A Bluegrass Homecoming (pt. 1)

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




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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


-J.R.

Just For Fun ...

***Note: This is response to a friend and fellow Blogger's recent post Dwindler's Lists. You can check out the original that spawned my imitation at her blog Junk on the Train.

If you read her post first it will probably make more sense. The girl is hilarious, I highly recommend you follow her. Enjoy and feel free to leave comments or your very own Dwindler's Lists.



Things I'm currently into ...


1.) Corn Beef Hash: a delicious, old school breakfast that's easy to make.

2.) Bands: Metric, The Black Keys, Cee Lo Green, and Oasis. Those guys broke up and nobody said shit about it. They fucking rock.

3.) COD Black Ops: That's Call Of Duty for all the non-video game nerds out there. What can I say, making little kids cry online is hilarious.

4.) Using matches instead of lighters. I'm cheap and no one ever steals matches.

5.) Junior's Taco Truck: $3 for an authentic Mexican meal on wheels.

6.) The Goon: Coolest/funniest comic book ever

7.) Hot Apple Cider and Captain Mo. Warming, delicious, drunk.

8.) The Walking Dead: Basically a never ending zombie movie, best show on T.V.

9.) Hot Sauce on everything.

10.) Sleeping in till noon whenever possible.

11). T.S. Eliot

12.) Instant movie streaming via Netflix .


Stuff that's Lame (i.e. I am NOT into it) ...


1.) PBR: Call it Pabst, call it Blue Ribbon or even Pibbers, it's still just shitty/cheap beer. It's fucking gross and it gives me heart-burn.

2.) Bill Collectors: Seriously, stop leaving voice mails. Like I'll call you back ... ever.

3.) People waxing $60 an eighth: Going rate in my town for good stuff is $50. You live here, you know this. Stop being a greedy asshole. I know you smoke for free.

4.) Liver and Onions: Nastiest "food" ever.

5.) Having to Number 2 at the bar: I usually just leave and hope I make it home in time.

6.) Girls texting at 5 a.m. when I'm asleep and then not responding the next day when I try back. There's only one reason to call somebody that late, we can make it happen, stop being retarded.

7.) Adult Braces: Pathetic. Should have got the boob job or hair plugs. You made it this far with fucked up teeth, why waste your money? You'll be dead soon anyway.

8.) Driving a Mustang in snow (aka The Death Sled)

9.) Shitty, old apartment windows that still let the heat out after being covered in plastic that you wasted fucking money on.

10.) Anything Christmas before Thanksgiving: It's real simple. No trees, music, Santas, wreaths, lights, commercials, ect, ect until after the turkey is all gone. Thanks Capitalism. Way to ruin the one good thing most Christians have going for them.

Hope you enjoyed, it was quite fun. Try it yourself. Ranting is encouraged.


-J.R.