Roo 2011; Part 1

"I'm going where there ain't no fear ...
I'm going where the living is easy,
and the people are kind.
A new state of mind.

I'm going where there ain't no need,
to escape from what is.
Only spirits at ease."

-My Morning Jacket, Wonderful (the way I feel)




Technology is the worst. Without fail, the occasions it chooses to let us down are atrocious. The internet signal goes out just before you can send the most important e-mail of your life. Your car breaks down on a deserted highway and your cell phone is dead. Twenty minutes into a long road trip the iPod freezes. We've all been there; cursing, screaming, sometimes punching. Murphy's Law strikes at random but is unavoidable none the less.

Don't get me wrong, I recognize the advancement and integration of technology is part of our daily lives. You can't get very far without the convenience of a cell phone. Who wants to lug around hundreds of CDs when they can all fit in the palm of your hand? However in some instance I refuse to budge. The latest piece of new age shit to be added to my "waste of time list" are car GPS systems. I've given them a fair shake. Even to places I frequent I've used digital turn by turn instructions. Nine out of ten times they take me off my usual course on a detour longer than the old route. For places I've never been, printed MapQuest directions have never steered me too far of course so I'm sticking with them. Maybe you swear by the annoying computer voice telling you to turn left into a lake by my latest GPS blunder (on the way to Bonnaroo) was the straw that broke the camels back ...

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It was the second tour of duty for Dylan and I. Back in '09 we'd gone together and loved every second of it. Opting in for the Tenth Year Aniversiy seemed like a no-brainer. Last time we'd traveled through Nashville en-route to Manchester, TN home of The Arts and Music Festival. Unfortunately this time the computer had us going through Knoxville, which turned out to be a huge mistake. The unfamiliar directions had us winding along scenic backwood state routes, through tight mountain passes and traversing abrupt 15 MPH curves. The colorful screen that looks cool when it works was really sticking it to us at the moment; bending us over it's knee, burying its' metaphorical phallic deep inside, laughing the whole time without asking us how we were feeling about the whole experience. After denying it for at least 20 miles I finally acknowledged the obvious. We were lost.

Why the hell hadn't we printed directions before we left? That much was our fault but the rest was the bullshit equipment. Automatic updates aren't a given when you're in BFE Tennessee, far from a wifi signal. Alternate routes weren't coming up until we'd already missed the mentioned turn. The ladies voice coming through the car speakers made me want to break things. Shut up you bitch! You didn't know what the hell your talking about! This is why I will NEVER use/trust a GPS ever again.

We stopped at a gas station to get situated and ran into a Roo bound crew all the way from Quebec. Despite being stoned out of their minds they seemed like an interesting group of people. They were most stoked about Arcade Fire, who hailed from Montreal. A bit baked myself from earlier in the trip, their french accented English made me chuckle under my breath. Back in some semblance of society our directions finally caught up and we were in business. The Canucks followed us until we came to the procession ... an endless snaking line parked on the berm of highway 24. The police presence was heavier than I remembered and more than a little bit intimidating. I became nervous about the weed I'd stashed in my shampoo bottle but projected confidence anyway.

After the longest two hours of our lives we'd made it to check in. A cluster of pigs with their police dogs were telling people to turn off on the right. They were going through four vehicles with a fine tooth comb. White latex gloves on their hands and shit eating smirks on their faces, they were eager to find any bookable offense. I instinctively stayed to the left and was glad to be driving my dad's pick-up truck which was easier to search and less suspicious. I felt a little more at ease about my drug mule status. The more I studied the various Roo Crew member searches on our side the less comfortable I became. They seemed to be digging just as deep as the Police. We saw beer bongs, glass bottles, cases of Natural Light, firecrackers and most surprisingly glow sticks confiscated at an alarming rate.

Glow sticks had been a stable of almost every show held after sundown the last two years. Why take them now and simply throw them away? There's no way an environmentally conscious festival would do that. The only conclusion we came to was that maybe the higher ups were using the sticks to buy favor of The Bonnaroo Tribe Indians. Paying for their allegiance in confiscated glowing plastic. This would ensure the tribe knew their roll; crowd control and recon. A set of eyes on the inside ... a non-violent new wave Gestapo there to make sure everything ran smoothly, people stayed safe and most importantly they continued to spend money.

The bright orange VW love bus ahead of us was irritating me. There was no doubt in my mind they'd be searched extra hard. Before I'd finished cursing out hippies to Dylan I was shocked to see them get waved through without being scrutinized at all. We hoped luck would be on our side too. We were approached by staff members in their early twenties who asked the usual questions; no glass, drugs, or fire works. We had the allotted amount of beer (a case per person), no glass/explosives and stated the bold face lie of NO narcotics. They appeared to believe us and without so much as a peek into the bed of the truck they let us through. Splendid.

We parked and sprang into action. Tarps and tent poles flying we got things in order surprisingly fast. After the frenzy that is erecting camp we relaxed and made nice with our co-inhabitants. One of the best things about the whole experience is the new friends you make around homebase. Strangers would quickly became neighbors in the days to come. As always, it was a diverse group. The kids from Jersey right next door, a young couple from Ann Arbor a few tents down and a group of five college students from Michigan State University behind us. Michigan was representing extra hard. The fact that Detroit native Eminem was headlining wasn't lost on anyone. Of all our neighbors the kids from MSU were my favorite. Over burgers, bowls and beers we talked about the finer points of everything. Dylan and I took to calling them the Spartys. Unaware of the ultra-intense rivalry between the two schools, I made the mistake of asking why they picked State over UofM.

"It's hard to get into UofM," one of the girls explained. "They favor Asians and people from the sands ... they're un-American." I didn't peg her as a racist, judging by the fact that she was white and had already mentioned she was most excited to see Lil Wayne. Being a Buckeye by birth I wasn't arguing with her. Either way we all snickered over of the offhand comment. Before long we heard another instant classic. A small group of guys drinking on the footpath nearby were catcalling passing vixens.

"Ladies come join us," one said. "We have honey roasted peanuts." He was so nonchalant and deadpan it was startling. None of us could control our laughter. While cleaning up our tailgate grilling station we were approached by our first drug peddler of the weekend. He had some hash tar and was offering his product at a fair price. It smelled very legit but I wanted to wait it out and see what else came my way first. No reason to blow your wad on day one. Before I knew it, I could hear the faint whine of electric guitars permeating from Center-Roo. The music was starting. After our long chill session with former perfect strangers the familiar vibe of peace, love and excitement was in the air. It was time to head in.

Dylan, The Spartys and me didn't have much of an agenda so we wondered about for an hour or so. The only show I was really digging were the Freelance Whales but we didn't stay long enough for me to get a real strong feel for what they were all about. One of the guys wanted to see Band of Skulls so we stopped by for a song or two. Sorry to say I don't see what all the fuse was about. They weren't bad but the girls were NOT feeling it. One of them suggested an up and coming rapper named J. Cole. He's a protegee of Jay-Z and the first to be signed to the mogul's new Roc Nation record label. I didn't know any of his songs but was drawn in immediately. His rare combination of polish and clear carrying vocals made his punch lines easy to catch. The high quality production value was icing on the cake. We stayed for the entire set. He was by far the best on Day One.

By the next show, rolling on 36 hours with no sleep had begun to take its' toll. I hadn't laid down since Tuesday night. Now it was past midnight on Thursday. I wanted to fully enjoy my first night in paradise but every minute that passed made it more difficult. When The Walkmen took the stage at That Tent I was running on fumes. Sleep would close in on me swiftly whether I liked it or not. I Pictured myself going down hard face first. A broken nose would ruin my trip for sure. Unable to fight it any longer, I high tailed it back to camp at a half jog. Eventually we all have to answer to a higher power. The curtain was closing fast. Within seconds of returning to my tent I was out for the count, sleeping the sleep of the dead.

-J.R.

Intro to Bonnaroo 2011

Who can say they've witnessed the birth of a movement? Whether you're aware of it or not they're spawning everyday. Right beneath our noses counter-cultures collide and then fuse together forming a new more impressive collective. Often scene kids snatch up the next big thing like so many barriers from a bush, assimilating them into their new wave pie, ripe for us (average Joe/Jane) to eat or spite out.

Sometimes movements are easy to spot. They soar into the main stream without warning until we're all saturated to the point of nausea. Most sparkle and fade in the blink of an eye. Others still simmer; generating steam and momentum until you turn around one day and say 'where the hell did all this come from?' It's easy to hop on board once the boat has raised anchor but watching the genesis is a beautiful thing indeed.

For three years now I've seen strange and wonderful things happen just south of Nashville at the Bonnaroo Arts and Music Festival. With crowds of over 80,000 the gathering is larger then some towns. There is a sort of unspoken language between denizens of the temporary city. Arguably the biggest and best fest in all the land has become a staple but I'm more interested in the scene within a scene. Anyone can go to Bonnaroo but who among us can quantify what 'The Roo' really is? It can not be summed up in a single thought, song or blog post. You just have to attend in order to comprehend what I'm hinting at but if you can't (or you choose not to) look no further then it's indigenous people. In them you'll find an answer.

I speak of a new group of the young and dreaming. Large swaths of Generation Y or the Millennial Generation; a demographic without much description, direction or purpose. Lost souls searching for answers in the information age. Flailing for a foothold in a increasingly changing world. They are a hungry group of people eager to cash the bonus checks written by their forefathers. Some of these adrift vagabonds have come together in the pursuit of a common goal. They travel the countryside in search of kicks, good times and crunchy tunes that give this haphazard life meaning. They long for the peace and equality that was advertised by their parents but never delivered.

Armed only with a mission to help and love everyone regardless of race, creed, religion or sexual orientation, they are part of the Bonnaroo Tribe. Just a branch of the Neon Indian army and their numbers are growing. Outsiders choose whether help comes in the form of a drink, a morsel of food, some sound advice or a hit of LSD. No matter your needs, they have you covered. They can be seen wander The Farm in Manchester, Tennessee spreading positive vibes and good cheer. Simply put, they want to make sure everyone and everything is in perfect harmony, if only for a few days every June.

Part Rainbow Family, part fest head with a hint of raver, they are the future and they are already among us whether we like it or not. They aren't hard to spot. At gatherings the men often wear elaborate headdress with beautiful ornate eagle feathers. The women sport a single feather in their headband and both wear intricate Native American beaded jewelry and day-glow war paint. The only conflict any of them ever see are heated drum circles and hula hoop spin offs.

Of course there are the wannabes. Frat boys wearing dyed, dollar store seagull feathers with their un-buttoned button ups, J. Crew khaki shorts mid-thigh in length and boat shoes. Part-time hippie college girls in raw hide skirts and moccasins. Poser imitating the latest trend. Don't be fooled. You'll know the real deal when you see it.

Think of Roo Tribesmen as spiritual guides during the festival experience. If your looking for the best late night show, follow them. If you've been separated from your group and you need fast friends consider the natives a safe bet. If you can't find mushrooms anywhere, odds are they'll have your back. Like children behind the Pied Piper, good times follow everywhere they go. I've seen their tepees in the campgrounds. Sat in on an opium peace pipe session but they are highly secretive and intentionally vague. Much of their ways are still a mystery to me.

Who are these people? How do you join? Who's the spokesperson? Are they affiliated with Bonnaroo brass? What's the hierarchy (if any)? Odds are they're just normal slubs like you and me. College students, bartenders, nurses or cubicle workers who have to return to the 'real world' at some point. Back home to a gig they hate but is necessary none the less. Life happens. There are bills to pay and bar tabs to run up, but part of me still dreams ... imagines them picking up camp after the music is over and heading on down the road to the next fest. A nomadic tribe in constant motion while remaining true to their mission statement. A group of noble, peace loving savages spreading their message and leading by example. Who wouldn't want to run away and join the tribe which happens to be following the circus?

For now I am left with more questions then answers but fear not faithful readers! I'm going to get to the bottom of it all if it's the last thing I do. Along the way I'll document my adventures for your enjoyment, so stick around. Consider this and all my work a declaration ... better yet an invitation; to this movement and all the new ones waiting to be born. I'm on the ball so you don't have to be. In return I ask only that you lend me your ear and keep your mind open. I promise to give both back when I'm finished.


-J.R.

Sore Losers

Without warning she reached over, grabbed a chunk of brown locks and swung. Wild right hooks. More often than not her fist meeting face. I helped Phil the bartender pry them apart but before we could wrestle down the feisty one there was retaliation. This time it was a fist full of blond curls. We heard the sound of haymakers landing home. These girls weren't pulling any punches. A chick fight had just broken out at the bar and I was right in the middle of it.

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You may be wondering 'why all the fuss?' Well friends, I was in basketball country and the home team had just lost. Not a great time to make any kind of off-handed sarcastic sort of statements about the game ... and I'm sure that's all it took. DING! Ladies, come out swinging. In real sports towns the bitter taste of defeat is so palpable it disgusts you; makes you physically ill. Fueled by excessive alcohol consumption, fans' saltiness quickly marinates into a blind rage. I for one have seen actions like this before after tough loses but it's not usually the girls I'm worried about. Female fist-a-cuffs always seem to take everyone totally by surprise.

Of course if Kentucky had won the game, advancing to the finals instead of Uconn, this monologue would have been very different but I can't write that story can I? Brick. Basket no good. Uconn wins and Cats lose. Commence all hell breaking lose.

Only hours early everyone was riding an amazing high. It was UK's first final four appearance in 13 years. Total blasphemy at a school so steeped in basketball tradition. During my five year stay in Lexington The Cats couldn't do it once. Now, four years removed from graduation, I'd returned to live the college sports fantasy I'd dreamt about since I first stepped foot in the Bluegrass state.

The city had never felt so alive. A current of excitement and anticipation ran from person to person like a string of Christmas lights. World Famous Two Key's Tavern had been one-in-one out since sunrise. People were holding down booths, tables and bar stools in shifts. Traffic everywhere was even more of a cluster fuck than usual. Hand painted murals supporting the blue-collar senior Power Forward Josh Harrlison and his now infamous 'jorts' littered the yards' of coeds. If you wore a pair of jeans to my favorite Cajun joint, Bourbon N' Toulouse, they'd give you a free meal if you cut them into shorts on the spot.

Of course there was no doubt in my mind where I'd be posted for the game. I parked in front of Charlie Browns at 11:30 A.M. and pumped a fist full of quarters into the meter. There was a lot of day drinking to do. I wasn't going to be moving it for a long time. I found a spot at the bar that always feels the most like home and ordered my usual. CB's is hands down my all-time favorite tavern. I talk about it at length in this post. It really is the dive bar to end all dive bars and I'm not just saying that because I worked there for two years. It has changed very little and like most things you love that stay the same, my fondness for it continues to grow.

The slight but necessary changes are the TVs. Back when I was waiting tables there it wasn't much of a sports bar. Mostly a forgotten watering hole with good late night grub and a negotiable last call. With three new flat screens it was officially a great place to watch the game. By 4 P.M. it was starting to fill-up. Buzzed, I was about six Rolling Rocks deep and comfortable with my two beer an hour pace. Unfortunately the steady stream of former co-workers who began to come in had me backed up on shots. I was four deep in 15 minutes. It was going to get messy. After the whiskey began to make things fuzzy my primary focus became maintaining my spot at the bar for the rest of the night.

We thought the eight o'clock tip off would never come. Waiting through a lackluster game between Butler and VCU we continued our breakneck pace. I ordered the hot pepper cheese to help soak up some of the booze. The media darling Bulldogs of Butler would finally secure their spot in the title game but none of us cared, all ready for the main event. It was a roller-coaster of emotion from start to finish. Both teams would shoot poorly and UK was atrocious from the free throw line (4-12), which cost them the game. They make two more free throws, they win by one. Regardless, they were in it until the very end. With about two seconds left there was an ill advised three-point attempt from Junior Guard DeAndre Liggins that STILL could have made the difference.

As it clanged off the iron the oxygen in the room evaporated. Some cursed under there breath. Others screamed in disbelief. Some just put their heads down and cried. Before the clock read zero the fight broke out. Total bedlam. Not good in a small bar packed shoulder to shoulder. Once we tore the ladies apart for good the boy friends started getting tough. Things almost got very bad. Heavy, ugly vibes washed over everyone. Somehow we managed to get one entourage out the front and the other out the back and a sense of order was restored.

Everyone was already trashed but now we were drinking in despair. There's nothing worse than a sad or mean drunk and now Lexington was full of both. We cashed out and smoked blunts to oblivion. I slept it off on my friends couch and ended my mini-vacation early. Thanks Uconn. I was back on the road home and reading text message hate from Ohio 'friends' by ten the next morning. Still, I was glad I had experienced Lexington for a Final Four but now I'm convinced that if I'd just watched the game in Columbus, as I had all the other tournament games, the outcome may have turned in The Cats favor. So sorry Big Blue Nation, it's all on me. Next time I'll leave my ass at home.


-J.R.

The Night that Almost Wasn't, with CWK

"... Something is not right with me,
how was I supposed to know?
Something is not right with me,
... I'm trying not to let it show."

-Cold War Kids, Something is not Right with Me




Corpse pale, his eyes were open wide in a blank stare but there was no breathing. Clutching the head of my friend who had just collapsed I felt lost and alone in a sea of people. Panic over-took my buzz. I was scared sober. What the hell was going on? One second he's conversing and sipping beer like nothing is wrong. The next he turns white, begins feeling woozy and boom! He folds like a house of cards in a hurricane. WTF!!

"Is he having a seizure!" someone asked. It was taking everything I had to remain calm and I could feel curious eyes gravitating towards us which only magnified the gravity of the situation.

"Go get help!" I yelled.

Every second was precious. I prepared to administer what I remembered from my high school level CPR instructions. Tilt the head back and make sure airway is clear. Check for a pulse at the neck. Still strong. Thank God. I gently tapped my open palm against his face hoping to get some response. Nothing. A little harder. Still no reply. Finally I cocked back and slapped him harder then I'd ever slapped anyone in my life. Even over the music a smack was audible. I could feel the sting for hours. He took a gasping breath, color returning with the out-line of a hand print reddening on his face.

"Whoa. How long was I out?" he asked in shock.

It'd only been a minute but it'd felt like a lifetime to me. Instinctively the crowd had made room around us. Now they stood motionless, fixated; still curious. After getting him to his feet we passed through for some fresh air. I sat him on the window ledge away from the masses and went to the bar for some water. The warm-up band had finished up so the line seemed unending. Everyone wanted to grab another drink before the main event. I waited for a bit but had to check back with him before too long for fear he'd gone under again. I found him fading in and out of consciousness but still upright.

"I gotta get out here," he said.

I could tell by his expression and body language that he was dead serious. He was freaking out. Sure enough, "The Fear" had gotten a hold of him ... and in a bad way. He was not right and needed to leave immediately. Maybe two joints and half-a-dozen beers each before hand had pushed his limit. Countless other variables leading to the collapse crossed my mind but now was not the time for contemplation.

It was obvious what needed to be done. Fresh and clearheaded thanks to my intense adrenalin high, my instincts took over. I helped him to his feet placing his hand on my shoulder and told him to hang on no matter what. We came to the steps which were a hodge-podge of scene kids, average Joes and yuppies. Rude groups of people taking up too much space. Passer-bys going up and down in no discernible order. Getting him down through the throng unscathed could be difficult.

"MOVE!" I shouted with purpose, bracing him and raising my right hand out in Heisman-esq stiff arm.

Using my considerable size and power to push through, I parted the crowd like Mosses did the Red Sea. They seemed to sense my urgency. There were no protests; everyone simply got out of the way. I felt like I was a body guard escorting a VIP through a mob of paparazzis. When we got to the exit with the 'no re-entry' sign I cursed under my breath in disgust.

Despite the rules, I planned on making sure he got home safe and was willing to fore-go the concert we were both supposed to be enjoying. He saw the literal writing on the wall and pleaded with me not to ruin my night as well. It was obvious he was embarrassed more then anything. He just wanted to go home and go to bed. He seemed to have his wits about him again but I wasn't quite convinced.

"I'll do it man," I assured him. "I'll bail! I want to make sure you're OK."

"No, no, no! I'll grab a cab," he said. "You stay. There's no point in both of us missing out. I'll be fine, trust me ... trust me man."

After a fair amount of protest I handed him a ten dollar bill for cab fair and he was on his way. At the last moment I almost followed him anyway but after sweating bullets for 20 minutes I finally got the text that he was safe. Wonderful news but now what? I'd gone from terrified a friend was going to die on me to being the creepy guy by himself at a concert (not that it would stop me from raging). I'd been looking forward to Cold War Kids for months, so I said 'fuck it' and did the only thing I could do. I got in line and ordered a strong drink.

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"Your joking right?"

"It all happened less than 45 minutes ago," I explained to my friend Leslie and her boyfriend. I'd been lucky enough to see them in line at the bar so I wouldn't have to go it alone.

"That's crazy and kind of scary," she said. I was in full agreement.

After rehashing my evening up to that point I pounded a third shot and ordered a 22 ounce monster beer. I still felt juiced and shaken. Heavy drinking is usually a good way to get back in the mood. After the lights dimmed we wondered off to find a spot. It was my first show at the LC's indoor venue and I was not impressed. The view from ground level was dismal. The floor was without incline so it was tough to see the stage. On the second floor, the best balcony spots were roped off. They have movie theater style chairs in these areas reserved for big spenders. The bar up top is also in a terrible position in relation to the stage. Vast areas of prime concert-viewing real estate are guarded by security; no loitering (to help bar traffic). As a rule, I prefer open air shows and LC's outdoor stage is top-notch but the inside just plain sucked.

Aesthetic gripes aside, the sound was amazing. Nathan Willett's vocal's translated live extremely well and almost every song was near digital quality perfection with just enough live feed back on the instruments to assure everyone it wasn't faked. They opened with a tidal wave of songs from their latest release Mine is yours which I actually like less the more I hear it. If I initially like something (which I did in this instance) usually I grow to like it more over time, so this is very dis-heartening.

After waning interest, they got everyone's attention with 'The Song' that turned me on to Cold War Kids, Hang Me Out to Dry. Everything was kicked up a notch from that point on. As the crowd's energy rose so did the performers. A little flat at first, they were no hitting their stride. During Mexican Dogs I pulled out the spliff I'd hid in my sock and lite up. I instantly became the most popular guy in a ten person radius.

Within minutes, five young and varyingly attractive women approached me and made small talk in an effort to get closer to my drugs. They weren't pushy but it was obvious why they wanted to introduce themselves and once you let one hit the weed there was nothing stopping them from inviting two friends each. The joint was gone before the song was over but I made sure my people and I got our money's worth.

My favorite part of the entire show was when they brought out a Baby Grand Piano. The logistics of transporting it on tour alone is impressive. The entire place went pitch black other then Willett spot-lite on his ivory keys. They ran through a set of their best songs that culminated in Hospital Beds. Reoccurring chills raced along my spinal column. Closing the encore with Saint John checked every song I wanted to hear off my list.

Collecting my thoughts on the hike home, I felt it'd been an above average night at best. The venue, a tour in support of a sub-par album and the whole bit about my friend almost dying made it an up-hill battle from the start but CWK did not disappoint. However necessary the pop album hiatus is, I miss their older 'indie' sound that earned them the modest following they currently enjoy. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for cross-over success. I only wish the best for the bands I love but let's hope Mine is Yours is the exception and not the new rule when it comes to a Cold War Kids album.

All that said, I still look forward to catching them at Bonnaroo 2011. Lyrics some call preachy are meditative and insightful to me and they've always struck a deep chord. An outdoor venue with a larger and more diverse crowd could make a huge difference. Their premo Sunday afternoon time-slot will help too. So until then, I'll reserve my final verdict. Stay tuned and hopefully none of my friends will pass out there or at any other concert I attend from now on.


-J.R.

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.


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


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 ...

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

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.

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

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.