It's hard to tell, but the dude is wearing a harmonica rack and is playing away on his harmonica.
I assumed his radio was broken, but now I think he might have just been playing along.
Showing posts with label John. Show all posts
Showing posts with label John. Show all posts
Broken Radio?
Here's a photo from John and Beckah. As they were driving, they saw this dude in the car next to them.
It's hard to tell, but the dude is wearing a harmonica rack and is playing away on his harmonica.
I assumed his radio was broken, but now I think he might have just been playing along.
It's hard to tell, but the dude is wearing a harmonica rack and is playing away on his harmonica.
I assumed his radio was broken, but now I think he might have just been playing along.
The Best Man Speech
About two weeks before John's wedding, I called his best man and brother, Chris, to ask him if he needed any help with his Best Man speech. Chris said he hadn't started working on the speech, but that if he needed me to look at something, he'd let me know.
The Wednesday before the wedding, I left Chris a message, asking him how things were going with the speech. I didn't hear back so I assumed things were going OK.
The night before the rehearsal dinner I got a call from Chris. He had a bit of writer's block and was well on his way to losing his mind. We talked for a little bit about what he was thinking and he had some good ideas. I gave him some gag ideas but I could tell that wasn't what he was looking for.
But at about 2:30am, he had a break through.
The speech was very well received at the reception and I got his permission to share this with you.
Chris' Best Man Speech
Hi everyone, I'm Chris, John's brother. I want to thank all of you for coming. I also would like to assure you that I am indeed the best man, and not the ring bearer.
Some of you know that John and I are very close as brothers--our parents passed away when we were very young and we pretty much raised ourselves. Now it's true that we had a lot of help from our friends, who also essentially moved in with us. You can imagine then that two teenage boys being "raised" by other teenage boys -- things are going to fall through the cracks. Our neighbors likened this whole situation to living next door to a den of wolves--that is a gross and malign misrepresentation -- we regard you more like a pack of dingoes, and you were delightful company.
Since John and Bekah have met, this has all played out like a Disney fairy tale...no, no, not the one with the dwarves...ok yes that one, but...the one where the beautiful, cultured princess falls in love with the scruffy, uncouth man-boy living in a cabin somewhere and on the way to falling madly in love, sees fit to re-introduce him to those quotidian preambles of adult normality like eating off plates that aren't made of paper, silverware that’s actually metal, or -- what is...an oven. (I share some of the blame here too...Doug reminded me the other day that the oven at our house in Lancaster had not functioned properly for 10 years...we were informed of this by the NEW owners. Brett, again we are terribly sorry and we had no idea that family of raccoons was living in there)
Bekah, you've found a wonderful husband to grow old with--John, you've found a great girl you can grow UP with. I'm sure the two of you will create all new deeply embarrassing, traumatizing adventures to add to the catalog of our family lore --none of which you can ever ever publicly talk about.
Oh, speaking of that John, there's a nice lady from Wal-mart's toddler's department who's waiting to speak with you after the reception.
So I'm proud to welcome you Bekah into the family as a younger sister/den mother (not that there's anything weird about that). And thank you both, and Bekah's parents, for making this a wonderful celebration.
The Wednesday before the wedding, I left Chris a message, asking him how things were going with the speech. I didn't hear back so I assumed things were going OK.
The night before the rehearsal dinner I got a call from Chris. He had a bit of writer's block and was well on his way to losing his mind. We talked for a little bit about what he was thinking and he had some good ideas. I gave him some gag ideas but I could tell that wasn't what he was looking for.
But at about 2:30am, he had a break through.
The speech was very well received at the reception and I got his permission to share this with you.
Chris' Best Man Speech
Hi everyone, I'm Chris, John's brother. I want to thank all of you for coming. I also would like to assure you that I am indeed the best man, and not the ring bearer.
Some of you know that John and I are very close as brothers--our parents passed away when we were very young and we pretty much raised ourselves. Now it's true that we had a lot of help from our friends, who also essentially moved in with us. You can imagine then that two teenage boys being "raised" by other teenage boys -- things are going to fall through the cracks. Our neighbors likened this whole situation to living next door to a den of wolves--that is a gross and malign misrepresentation -- we regard you more like a pack of dingoes, and you were delightful company.
Since John and Bekah have met, this has all played out like a Disney fairy tale...no, no, not the one with the dwarves...ok yes that one, but...the one where the beautiful, cultured princess falls in love with the scruffy, uncouth man-boy living in a cabin somewhere and on the way to falling madly in love, sees fit to re-introduce him to those quotidian preambles of adult normality like eating off plates that aren't made of paper, silverware that’s actually metal, or -- what is...an oven. (I share some of the blame here too...Doug reminded me the other day that the oven at our house in Lancaster had not functioned properly for 10 years...we were informed of this by the NEW owners. Brett, again we are terribly sorry and we had no idea that family of raccoons was living in there)
Bekah, you've found a wonderful husband to grow old with--John, you've found a great girl you can grow UP with. I'm sure the two of you will create all new deeply embarrassing, traumatizing adventures to add to the catalog of our family lore --none of which you can ever ever publicly talk about.
Oh, speaking of that John, there's a nice lady from Wal-mart's toddler's department who's waiting to speak with you after the reception.
So I'm proud to welcome you Bekah into the family as a younger sister/den mother (not that there's anything weird about that). And thank you both, and Bekah's parents, for making this a wonderful celebration.
John is a Good Friend
My friend John is getting married this weekend. I can only hope that at sometime in your life you get to have a friend as fiercely loyal and genuine as John. John is my friend for several reasons. I will only include the ones that will ensure that his wedding actually happens and that my divorce proceedings won’t:
John wasn’t too upset when I literally stole a girl out of his lap at a party in his house
John has driven when I could not
John has paid when I didn’t have the cash
John held my clothes when I went streaking
John stood by sober when I was a drunk idiot at Outland on SEVERAL occasions
John drove to visit me in Boston and slept in trash on my floor
John has never said no
John has never brought up the fact that I never gave him $200 for the Amiga 2000 computer I “bought” from him.
John lights up a room
John never complains
John will lend you his last dollar and take out a loan if you need another
John loves my kids
John doesn’t mind (too much) when you fall through his roof
John always has a place for you to sleep if you need to crash
John will pick you up at 4:00am from anywhere
John will not hold a grudge
John spent 12 days in Paris with me and we are both still alive
John agreed to pick me up at the Columbus airport and then drove over to Dayton to get me when I fucked my flights up
John bought me doughnuts and it saved me from a bad case of the herpes
John remembers my stories when I do not
John laughs at my jokes
John wants the best for everyone
John is there when you need him and he knows when it’s time to leave
John is a good friend
Good luck buddy and congratulations!
.JPG)
John wasn’t too upset when I literally stole a girl out of his lap at a party in his house
John has driven when I could not
John has paid when I didn’t have the cash
John held my clothes when I went streaking
John stood by sober when I was a drunk idiot at Outland on SEVERAL occasions
John drove to visit me in Boston and slept in trash on my floor
John has never said no
John has never brought up the fact that I never gave him $200 for the Amiga 2000 computer I “bought” from him.
John lights up a room
John never complains
John will lend you his last dollar and take out a loan if you need another
John loves my kids
John doesn’t mind (too much) when you fall through his roof
John always has a place for you to sleep if you need to crash
John will pick you up at 4:00am from anywhere
John will not hold a grudge
John spent 12 days in Paris with me and we are both still alive
John agreed to pick me up at the Columbus airport and then drove over to Dayton to get me when I fucked my flights up
John bought me doughnuts and it saved me from a bad case of the herpes
John remembers my stories when I do not
John laughs at my jokes
John wants the best for everyone
John is there when you need him and he knows when it’s time to leave
John is a good friend
Good luck buddy and congratulations!
.JPG)
Shower Curtain Practical Joke (NSFW)
(CAUTION: This post is not safe for work, small children and most of the Middle East.)
Kim and Shorty held their mostly annual Christmas party this year and John decided to liven up the event via a shower curtain he purchased on the internet.
He originally meant to buy the (you don't want to click on this link)FISTING SHOWER CURTAIN, but it was probably so wildly popular that it was sold out and he instead got the SMDB curtain.
John was giddy when he and Bekah arrived at the party. They sneaked up to the guest bathroom and were relieved when the guest bathroom shower curtain hooks would work with their gift. They hung it up and the upstairs was immediatley filled with a stinky, chemical vinyl smell. Or it was a scratch and sniff curtain.
Here is the curtain installed:
Miss Sally and Lynne enjoying the curtain:
I never noticed it before, but the black shirts make it look like Miss Sally and Lynne are groping each other!
It took about two hours for Kim and Shorty to figure out the curtain was up. I assume they kept it up for a few months becuase they enjoyed it so much.
Kim and Shorty held their mostly annual Christmas party this year and John decided to liven up the event via a shower curtain he purchased on the internet.
He originally meant to buy the (you don't want to click on this link)FISTING SHOWER CURTAIN, but it was probably so wildly popular that it was sold out and he instead got the SMDB curtain.
John was giddy when he and Bekah arrived at the party. They sneaked up to the guest bathroom and were relieved when the guest bathroom shower curtain hooks would work with their gift. They hung it up and the upstairs was immediatley filled with a stinky, chemical vinyl smell. Or it was a scratch and sniff curtain.
Here is the curtain installed:
Miss Sally and Lynne enjoying the curtain:
I never noticed it before, but the black shirts make it look like Miss Sally and Lynne are groping each other!
It took about two hours for Kim and Shorty to figure out the curtain was up. I assume they kept it up for a few months becuase they enjoyed it so much.
A Review of The Outland on Liberty
The Outland (at least I thought it was the Outland) has re-opened and I went on Saturday night to check it out. We were wrapping up our night at the HighBall and our friends were scattering to different bars/clubs. As several opportunities opened up, John turned to me and said, “Let’s go to the Outland.” I repeated, “Let’s go to the Outland.”
Here is the history of the Outland via Columbus Alive.
Before I continue, I should build a small glossary of terms so that we will all be on the same page with the words I am about to use:
Freaky Freaks: A term of endearment. The standard attendee of the Outland… Goths, industrials, warlocks and witches. Wears black, tattooed, some make-up. A small percentage of these like to get their torture on.
Tourists: They stand out, but try to fit in. They are not in the Goth community, but enjoy the music and the atmosphere. They respect the Goth culture, except for the bit where they call them Freaky Freaks. It’s me. I am a tourist.
Popsicles: People who go to the Outland to see if what they heard was true. Little respect for the culture. They point and laugh. They only go once and that’s enough.
Torture: The area of Outland where people sign-up to get whipped or shocked or humiliated in front of everyone.
Get Your Dance On: Dance, anyway you want, without repercussions or judgment.
We arrived in separate cars and were able to take advantage of the ample German Village parking. As I waited for John to park, I watched many of the costumed people walk by, heading for the entrance. I would expect people to be “dressed up” entering The Outland on Liberty, as that’s what the Freaky Freaks do, but not as Sarah Palin or a bumblebee.
John and Bekah arrived and we headed up to the entrance.
There was something really wrong. As we walked up, there was an undeniable thump of poppy, generic club music dry heaving out the front door. This was not at all normal or actually was too normal if this were a standard club. Bland. As we stood in line, I could see the outside smoking area and it seemed like there was a mix of the standard Goths along with people dressed up in Halloween costumes. So we knew we were at the right place.
It was $5 to get in. We got in.
Inside, the same clubby music dismayed. Not that I am against club music in other clubs… I was just expecting a bit more brooding. There is a raised dance area on the left and a bar on the right. I went right. Back at the old Outland, you could order a rum and diet and they would pull out a generic bottle of rum and a 2-liter of Diet Big-K Cola. The two would negotiate real estate in the large plastic cup and usually rum would win about 85% of the cup. The Outland on Liberty did not disappoint. Generic rum was still available, but Big-K has been replaced by the fountain bar gun. The drink is still outrageously potent and cheap.
Potent potable
We looked around and got our bearings. Dance floor. Bar. Girl in leather dancing on bar. Bathrooms. This could not be it. There had to be more.
There! A double hallway leading back…somewhere.
On the other end of the hallway was a bit more of what I was expecting. Another raised dance area, but this time with industrial music. Though some miracle of architecture, the teeny-bopper club music from the other side of the building did not bleed into the Goth side.
There were couches and a DJ along with the dance area. Some pool tables that looked like that had made the journey from the Perry Street were stuck in the far back. And down a small, dark hallway was the torture area. It was currently populated by some dude getting whipped by a chick. He seemed to be enjoying it. Around the corner from the secluded whipping area was a few seats and some dude was shocking/ tickling/ pleasuring a chick with electricity. It was oddly stimulating to watch.
Back out on the main floor, the three of us took it all in. And sadly, it was a bit disappointing.
For one, there is way too much light. The Outland deserves to be dark. The place was lit up like a Christmas tree and I can say that with authority because there were Christmas lights strung up everywhere. I only want to be able to see about ten feet in front of me. There is comfort in the dark.
Now because it wasn’t dark, I couldn’t help but notice the chick in the extremely skimpy bikini walking around with shots. Yes, I am a big fan of the flesh, but it just seemed out of place for the Outland to have a worker strutting around in a bikini. Same goes for the very nice girl dancing on the bar in the club area. Sure she was hot and enticing, but I never saw the Outland as a place that paid people to be entertainment. It wasn’t necessary.
My biggest issue is that I don’t like all the Popsicles busting in while I’m getting my dance on. It is one thing when a few outsiders would show up at the Outland and either assimilate or leave. But when there is an entire club of them twenty feet away, it’s hard not to have a revolving door of lookie-loos checking out the brightly lit Goths. I was there on Halloween, so everyone was playing the role of someone else and it seemed like people were getting along, but I just don’t like to mix my mediums. I want dance with the freaky freaks and not have to think that I am being checked out every five minutes by a couple of Popsicles.
Two-Sack gets his dance on
I understand the need for club owners to please a larger crowd and to create a varied atmosphere for diverse patrons. But I really think that something has been lost. I’ve never seen the Outland books, so I do know if a customer base solely made up of Goths can keep a club open or not. Perhaps the owners have done this out of necessity. For a club so large, I can see where they need to pack as many people in there as possible. Perhaps Goths and Popsicles can learn to live and dance in peace. But I don’t think so and I don’t like it.
If the rumors are true that a second Goth bar will be opening in German Village and it caters to just the Goth crowd, I can all ready see a line of brooding, leather and black dressed patrons heading for a smaller, darker and accepting venue. And I’ll be right behind them.
Here is the history of the Outland via Columbus Alive.
- Circa 1994: Capuano's brother Chuck buys Outland, a struggling gay nightclub located at 1034 Perry St. in Harrison West
- Sept. 2004: The bar closes after the property is sold to the Wagenbrenner Company, which turns surrounding land into an upscale housing development
- 2005: The bar reopens in an old Big Bear on Harrisburg Pike on the South Side
- April 2008: The bar closes after a charter school moves into the shopping center
- Oct. 2009: Outland reopens in the former location of Metropolitan, a French bistro and lounge. An Eiffel Tower replica still welcomes bar-goers at the building's front entrance.
Before I continue, I should build a small glossary of terms so that we will all be on the same page with the words I am about to use:
Freaky Freaks: A term of endearment. The standard attendee of the Outland… Goths, industrials, warlocks and witches. Wears black, tattooed, some make-up. A small percentage of these like to get their torture on.
Tourists: They stand out, but try to fit in. They are not in the Goth community, but enjoy the music and the atmosphere. They respect the Goth culture, except for the bit where they call them Freaky Freaks. It’s me. I am a tourist.
Popsicles: People who go to the Outland to see if what they heard was true. Little respect for the culture. They point and laugh. They only go once and that’s enough.
Torture: The area of Outland where people sign-up to get whipped or shocked or humiliated in front of everyone.
Get Your Dance On: Dance, anyway you want, without repercussions or judgment.
We arrived in separate cars and were able to take advantage of the ample German Village parking. As I waited for John to park, I watched many of the costumed people walk by, heading for the entrance. I would expect people to be “dressed up” entering The Outland on Liberty, as that’s what the Freaky Freaks do, but not as Sarah Palin or a bumblebee.
John and Bekah arrived and we headed up to the entrance.
There was something really wrong. As we walked up, there was an undeniable thump of poppy, generic club music dry heaving out the front door. This was not at all normal or actually was too normal if this were a standard club. Bland. As we stood in line, I could see the outside smoking area and it seemed like there was a mix of the standard Goths along with people dressed up in Halloween costumes. So we knew we were at the right place.
It was $5 to get in. We got in.
Inside, the same clubby music dismayed. Not that I am against club music in other clubs… I was just expecting a bit more brooding. There is a raised dance area on the left and a bar on the right. I went right. Back at the old Outland, you could order a rum and diet and they would pull out a generic bottle of rum and a 2-liter of Diet Big-K Cola. The two would negotiate real estate in the large plastic cup and usually rum would win about 85% of the cup. The Outland on Liberty did not disappoint. Generic rum was still available, but Big-K has been replaced by the fountain bar gun. The drink is still outrageously potent and cheap.
Potent potable
We looked around and got our bearings. Dance floor. Bar. Girl in leather dancing on bar. Bathrooms. This could not be it. There had to be more.
There! A double hallway leading back…somewhere.
On the other end of the hallway was a bit more of what I was expecting. Another raised dance area, but this time with industrial music. Though some miracle of architecture, the teeny-bopper club music from the other side of the building did not bleed into the Goth side.
There were couches and a DJ along with the dance area. Some pool tables that looked like that had made the journey from the Perry Street were stuck in the far back. And down a small, dark hallway was the torture area. It was currently populated by some dude getting whipped by a chick. He seemed to be enjoying it. Around the corner from the secluded whipping area was a few seats and some dude was shocking/ tickling/ pleasuring a chick with electricity. It was oddly stimulating to watch.
Back out on the main floor, the three of us took it all in. And sadly, it was a bit disappointing.
For one, there is way too much light. The Outland deserves to be dark. The place was lit up like a Christmas tree and I can say that with authority because there were Christmas lights strung up everywhere. I only want to be able to see about ten feet in front of me. There is comfort in the dark.
Now because it wasn’t dark, I couldn’t help but notice the chick in the extremely skimpy bikini walking around with shots. Yes, I am a big fan of the flesh, but it just seemed out of place for the Outland to have a worker strutting around in a bikini. Same goes for the very nice girl dancing on the bar in the club area. Sure she was hot and enticing, but I never saw the Outland as a place that paid people to be entertainment. It wasn’t necessary.
My biggest issue is that I don’t like all the Popsicles busting in while I’m getting my dance on. It is one thing when a few outsiders would show up at the Outland and either assimilate or leave. But when there is an entire club of them twenty feet away, it’s hard not to have a revolving door of lookie-loos checking out the brightly lit Goths. I was there on Halloween, so everyone was playing the role of someone else and it seemed like people were getting along, but I just don’t like to mix my mediums. I want dance with the freaky freaks and not have to think that I am being checked out every five minutes by a couple of Popsicles.
Two-Sack gets his dance on
I understand the need for club owners to please a larger crowd and to create a varied atmosphere for diverse patrons. But I really think that something has been lost. I’ve never seen the Outland books, so I do know if a customer base solely made up of Goths can keep a club open or not. Perhaps the owners have done this out of necessity. For a club so large, I can see where they need to pack as many people in there as possible. Perhaps Goths and Popsicles can learn to live and dance in peace. But I don’t think so and I don’t like it.
If the rumors are true that a second Goth bar will be opening in German Village and it caters to just the Goth crowd, I can all ready see a line of brooding, leather and black dressed patrons heading for a smaller, darker and accepting venue. And I’ll be right behind them.
HolyJuan interviews John: The Trip to Pensacola
(Author's note: This is an unedited interview between myself and the first funniest person I know, John, concerning a recent trip and associated conveyances.)
HOLYJUAN: Hello John, I understand you took a trip to Florida recently.
JOHN: Hi, HolyJuan. I did just travel from Ohio to Florida, but nothing about my trip was ordinary.
HJ: I know you are a well seasoned traveler, so you would have purchased a direct flight. Probably first class.
JOHN: Well, that's what made this trip so extraordinary - the sheer mundane nature of my travel attempts. I did, in fact, try to purchase a direct flight from Columbus to Pensacola. But, due to the unavailability of direct flights between those two airports, I was forced to purchase a flight with a layover in Memphis. And, due to a pronounced case of hyperclotholavaphobia (fear of hot towels), it was necessary to fly coach. I was lured into a false sense of security when the first leg of my flight occurred without incident. However, when I arrived in Memphis, things took a turn for the worse.
HJ: Explosive diarrhea?
JOHN: Explosive diarrhea? No, not this time. Do you have any idea how long it takes to get through Customs in Houston when you have two agents sifting through your boxers trying to separate the "flora" from the "fauna"?
No, when my flight arrived in Memphis, I took two trains, rode nine escalators, flew a hang-glider and hitched a ride with 27 Guatemalan immigrants in a '96 Hyundai Excel, all to arrive at my connecting gate just to hear that the second-leg of my flight to Pensacola had been cancelled.
HJ: I'm assuming that the airline paid for a night in a seedy motel / hot tub hotel and you caught not only syphilis, but also the next flight out in the morning?
JOHN: Well, yes. The airline did offer to fly me out the next morning and pay for a room that night at the 1/2-star Memphis Crampton Inn Menses Suites hotel. I declined on reasons of faith. I then spent the next 90 minutes working with airline representatives on finding alternate airport destinations that were reasonably close to Pensacola ("reasonably" being defined as within two time zones or 13 Postal Zip Codes). The closest I could do was Memphis - Pensacola via Bialystok, Poland, which was unacceptable - no duty-free shopping. Just as I was contemplating going to Graceland and committing assisted-suicide over the King's empty grave, something miraculous occurred behind me at the airline ticket counter.
HJ: Your introduction to the Memphis 0 Mile High Club?
JOHN: In hindsight, I would have much rather been inducted into the Memphis 0 Mile High Club, even as an "unwilling / forced-entry" initiate. When I turned around, I witnessed what could best be described as a ruckus. I saw three red-faced men, blustering and gesticulating wildly. I heard them speaking, in what I first thought was a foreign language, and quickly realized was a thickly-accented Southern drawl. The conversation went something like this:
Guy 1: "Whtchall mean, planbecancel?"
Guy 2: "Slap weasel sloop, we'sfukednow. Mysister-wife ain't gonna be none toopleased"
Guy 3: "I gotta takeashit."
I was fascinated. I stepped closer, so that I could hear more. What transpired over the next 30 minutes, as these world-traveling idiot-savants identified, and subsequently rejected, option after option for getting home, was a formulation of a plan so crazy, it just couldn't fail.
HJ: Were these business suit types or coveralls with boots? Would you say they were squeezed into their clothes or did they just step out of the gym fifteen minutes before the flight was canceled?
JOHN: Here's the recipe - toss Malachi from "Children of the Corn" into a time machine for 20 years and rough him up a bit, add a slightly-larger-than-average "Deliverance" banjo-playing cranium, throw in a hint of Skoal aftershave, season to taste and simmer for 23 hours in the same clothes. Repeat twice.
Drawn as I was to the spectacle unfolding before me, it was only a matter of time before I had to insert myself into the proceedings by way of providing airport information to this motley crew. And just like that (well, after one question was appropriately responded to in the negative - "Yous ain't nokiller, is yuh?"), I was officially part of the Southern Comfort Stranded Travelers' Club. I felt the unwashed hand of fate on the small of my back, carrying me along as the plan was put into action.
HJ: Wait... so you ended up in a hotel with these guys? Did you rent a crop duster?
JOHN: Fortunately, I was sober, so the hotel option was not discussed. A vehicle was rented, however. An eggshell-white Mercury sedan. It was into this conveyance that the four of us newly-formed and tightly-knit friends piled and proceeded to DRIVE, from Memphis all the way down to Pensacola. Let me clarify - I rode, for all intents and purposes, captive, in a car with three complete strangers for 450 miles (travel time required - 9.5 hours, which included stops at eight convenience stores, six fast-food restaurants and one closed-for-the-night petting zoo with really poor security). Along the way, I learned about sales, tractors and the increased need for birth control when sleeping with any relative closer than three-times removed. But, as if that was not enough, there was a kicker.
HJ: A kicker? Do tell! Did these fine gentlemen of the south expound upon the current health care debate or possibly their concern about the unemployment levels?
JOHN: The only topic upon which they expounded in any detail was their marked displeasure at the current state of race relations in the US, which they feel has progressed entirely too much since the "glory days" of 1860. No, the piece of information that they failed to divulge to me earlier in our trip, was that they didn't actually live in Pensacola, but rather "close," which translated to an hour north of the city limits. This required me to, at 4:30 AM CT, have my girlfriend drive 50 minutes to pick me up on the side of the Interstate. I spent those 50 minutes at a gas station restocking the shelves, taking out the trash and fending off the romantic advances of Horatio, the night cashier.
All's well that ends well, I suppose, but in hindsight, I would have been better off cramming myself into an URGENT - OVERNIGHT envelope and FedEx'ing myself to Florida. Or, maybe doing what other, ummm, more rational folks would have done, and simply waited for the next available flight.
HJ: Can you, with your elementary math skills, calculate the number of times, if any, they used the N-word?
JOHN: 3.97351680636005e+28 times (my calculator ran out of digits). What amazed me more than the sheer number of utterances was the inventiveness in which the word was used. Did you know that it can be used as a modifier (both adjective and adverb), a conjunction, a verb, even as the object of a preposition? I remember a sentence where the word was simply repeated seven times, with verbal inflection being the only clue as to what message the speaker was conveying.
HJ: What type of food did these guys eat and did they offer you bites after they had taken the first?
JOHN: Does Skoal Wintergreen backwash count? If so, it was an all-you-can-eat tobacco buffet on wheels through the entire state of Mississippi. Aside from that, there were a couple of routine stops at McDonalds and Krystal (White Castle for the South). There WAS something unusual, however. At 3:20 AM, I was awakened from a light doze when we pulled over to the side of the road. Two of the gentleman opened their doors and ran back behind the car with forks and napkins. It was dark, so I couldn't see what happened back there, but they came back to the car five minutes later wiping their mouths and mumbling words like "stil wawm", "shitlicious" and "whoo-hee."
HJ: One last question: given the opportunity, would you have done anything different?
JOHN: Not a thing, n-word…
HOLYJUAN: Hello John, I understand you took a trip to Florida recently.
JOHN: Hi, HolyJuan. I did just travel from Ohio to Florida, but nothing about my trip was ordinary.
HJ: I know you are a well seasoned traveler, so you would have purchased a direct flight. Probably first class.
JOHN: Well, that's what made this trip so extraordinary - the sheer mundane nature of my travel attempts. I did, in fact, try to purchase a direct flight from Columbus to Pensacola. But, due to the unavailability of direct flights between those two airports, I was forced to purchase a flight with a layover in Memphis. And, due to a pronounced case of hyperclotholavaphobia (fear of hot towels), it was necessary to fly coach. I was lured into a false sense of security when the first leg of my flight occurred without incident. However, when I arrived in Memphis, things took a turn for the worse.
HJ: Explosive diarrhea?
JOHN: Explosive diarrhea? No, not this time. Do you have any idea how long it takes to get through Customs in Houston when you have two agents sifting through your boxers trying to separate the "flora" from the "fauna"?
No, when my flight arrived in Memphis, I took two trains, rode nine escalators, flew a hang-glider and hitched a ride with 27 Guatemalan immigrants in a '96 Hyundai Excel, all to arrive at my connecting gate just to hear that the second-leg of my flight to Pensacola had been cancelled.
HJ: I'm assuming that the airline paid for a night in a seedy motel / hot tub hotel and you caught not only syphilis, but also the next flight out in the morning?
JOHN: Well, yes. The airline did offer to fly me out the next morning and pay for a room that night at the 1/2-star Memphis Crampton Inn Menses Suites hotel. I declined on reasons of faith. I then spent the next 90 minutes working with airline representatives on finding alternate airport destinations that were reasonably close to Pensacola ("reasonably" being defined as within two time zones or 13 Postal Zip Codes). The closest I could do was Memphis - Pensacola via Bialystok, Poland, which was unacceptable - no duty-free shopping. Just as I was contemplating going to Graceland and committing assisted-suicide over the King's empty grave, something miraculous occurred behind me at the airline ticket counter.
HJ: Your introduction to the Memphis 0 Mile High Club?
JOHN: In hindsight, I would have much rather been inducted into the Memphis 0 Mile High Club, even as an "unwilling / forced-entry" initiate. When I turned around, I witnessed what could best be described as a ruckus. I saw three red-faced men, blustering and gesticulating wildly. I heard them speaking, in what I first thought was a foreign language, and quickly realized was a thickly-accented Southern drawl. The conversation went something like this:
Guy 1: "Whtchall mean, planbecancel?"
Guy 2: "Slap weasel sloop, we'sfukednow. Mysister-wife ain't gonna be none toopleased"
Guy 3: "I gotta takeashit."
I was fascinated. I stepped closer, so that I could hear more. What transpired over the next 30 minutes, as these world-traveling idiot-savants identified, and subsequently rejected, option after option for getting home, was a formulation of a plan so crazy, it just couldn't fail.
HJ: Were these business suit types or coveralls with boots? Would you say they were squeezed into their clothes or did they just step out of the gym fifteen minutes before the flight was canceled?
JOHN: Here's the recipe - toss Malachi from "Children of the Corn" into a time machine for 20 years and rough him up a bit, add a slightly-larger-than-average "Deliverance" banjo-playing cranium, throw in a hint of Skoal aftershave, season to taste and simmer for 23 hours in the same clothes. Repeat twice.
Drawn as I was to the spectacle unfolding before me, it was only a matter of time before I had to insert myself into the proceedings by way of providing airport information to this motley crew. And just like that (well, after one question was appropriately responded to in the negative - "Yous ain't nokiller, is yuh?"), I was officially part of the Southern Comfort Stranded Travelers' Club. I felt the unwashed hand of fate on the small of my back, carrying me along as the plan was put into action.
HJ: Wait... so you ended up in a hotel with these guys? Did you rent a crop duster?
JOHN: Fortunately, I was sober, so the hotel option was not discussed. A vehicle was rented, however. An eggshell-white Mercury sedan. It was into this conveyance that the four of us newly-formed and tightly-knit friends piled and proceeded to DRIVE, from Memphis all the way down to Pensacola. Let me clarify - I rode, for all intents and purposes, captive, in a car with three complete strangers for 450 miles (travel time required - 9.5 hours, which included stops at eight convenience stores, six fast-food restaurants and one closed-for-the-night petting zoo with really poor security). Along the way, I learned about sales, tractors and the increased need for birth control when sleeping with any relative closer than three-times removed. But, as if that was not enough, there was a kicker.
HJ: A kicker? Do tell! Did these fine gentlemen of the south expound upon the current health care debate or possibly their concern about the unemployment levels?
JOHN: The only topic upon which they expounded in any detail was their marked displeasure at the current state of race relations in the US, which they feel has progressed entirely too much since the "glory days" of 1860. No, the piece of information that they failed to divulge to me earlier in our trip, was that they didn't actually live in Pensacola, but rather "close," which translated to an hour north of the city limits. This required me to, at 4:30 AM CT, have my girlfriend drive 50 minutes to pick me up on the side of the Interstate. I spent those 50 minutes at a gas station restocking the shelves, taking out the trash and fending off the romantic advances of Horatio, the night cashier.
All's well that ends well, I suppose, but in hindsight, I would have been better off cramming myself into an URGENT - OVERNIGHT envelope and FedEx'ing myself to Florida. Or, maybe doing what other, ummm, more rational folks would have done, and simply waited for the next available flight.
HJ: Can you, with your elementary math skills, calculate the number of times, if any, they used the N-word?
JOHN: 3.97351680636005e+28 times (my calculator ran out of digits). What amazed me more than the sheer number of utterances was the inventiveness in which the word was used. Did you know that it can be used as a modifier (both adjective and adverb), a conjunction, a verb, even as the object of a preposition? I remember a sentence where the word was simply repeated seven times, with verbal inflection being the only clue as to what message the speaker was conveying.
HJ: What type of food did these guys eat and did they offer you bites after they had taken the first?
JOHN: Does Skoal Wintergreen backwash count? If so, it was an all-you-can-eat tobacco buffet on wheels through the entire state of Mississippi. Aside from that, there were a couple of routine stops at McDonalds and Krystal (White Castle for the South). There WAS something unusual, however. At 3:20 AM, I was awakened from a light doze when we pulled over to the side of the road. Two of the gentleman opened their doors and ran back behind the car with forks and napkins. It was dark, so I couldn't see what happened back there, but they came back to the car five minutes later wiping their mouths and mumbling words like "stil wawm", "shitlicious" and "whoo-hee."
HJ: One last question: given the opportunity, would you have done anything different?
JOHN: Not a thing, n-word…
John and Experimental Drugs
John was on a few experimental drugs to help him grow some additional hair.
The drugs didn't work, but the side effects sure did.
The drugs didn't work, but the side effects sure did.
Ride
John picked me up last night to get a drink. Most the bars in Columbus would be closed for Thanksgiving, but Byrnes would not. It tends to draw in a crowd that are back from family and want a drink or those without family and need a drink. It was 9:00pm.
We pulled out of my allotment and turned to hit the main road. I called Josh to see if he wanted to join us. He didn’t answer so I began to leave him a message.
There are two gas stations on the corner of the main road and a woman was standing on the corner to our right. She was pretty and nicely dressed. The light was red so we got to watch what happened next.
I immediately thought the woman was out begging for money. I’d seen this tactic before, even from well dressed people that don’t fit the off ramp beggar stereotype. I mentioned this on my message to Josh in a kind of play by play. She walked back to a van that pulled up just behind in the lane next to us. It was the white, industrial van with lettering on the door advertising a fix-it business. The driver was on his cell phone. I thought she was going to knock on the window, but instead she opened the door of the van and hopped in. She must have been waiting for a ride.
The driver leaned over and punched her.
Or at least he tried. It was hard for him to lean all the way over and get a good blow in. She spun with her back to the door and blocked the second punch with her legs. She started to kick back. The driver now was blocking her kicks with both hands and trying to hit her back. He never dropped the cell phone. As all this escalated, I continued to describe it in the message. Even the name of the company and the phone number on the side of the van.
The light switched to green and we turned left. I could see the van rocking back and forth as it got smaller and smaller in the distance. I hung up the phone.
Josh called me back a few minutes later and said, “What the fuck was up with that message?” I said it was what it was… a play by play of a fight at a stop light. He said I sounded like the reporter at the Hindenburg catastrophe. I thought I had my shit together better than that.
We sat at the bar and drank pints of beer. We laughed and told stories and talked about a zombie movie script.
Later, John drove me home. We passed the corner where the woman had been waiting for her ride. There was nothing there to prove what we saw had ever happened.
We pulled out of my allotment and turned to hit the main road. I called Josh to see if he wanted to join us. He didn’t answer so I began to leave him a message.
There are two gas stations on the corner of the main road and a woman was standing on the corner to our right. She was pretty and nicely dressed. The light was red so we got to watch what happened next.
I immediately thought the woman was out begging for money. I’d seen this tactic before, even from well dressed people that don’t fit the off ramp beggar stereotype. I mentioned this on my message to Josh in a kind of play by play. She walked back to a van that pulled up just behind in the lane next to us. It was the white, industrial van with lettering on the door advertising a fix-it business. The driver was on his cell phone. I thought she was going to knock on the window, but instead she opened the door of the van and hopped in. She must have been waiting for a ride.
The driver leaned over and punched her.
Or at least he tried. It was hard for him to lean all the way over and get a good blow in. She spun with her back to the door and blocked the second punch with her legs. She started to kick back. The driver now was blocking her kicks with both hands and trying to hit her back. He never dropped the cell phone. As all this escalated, I continued to describe it in the message. Even the name of the company and the phone number on the side of the van.
The light switched to green and we turned left. I could see the van rocking back and forth as it got smaller and smaller in the distance. I hung up the phone.
Josh called me back a few minutes later and said, “What the fuck was up with that message?” I said it was what it was… a play by play of a fight at a stop light. He said I sounded like the reporter at the Hindenburg catastrophe. I thought I had my shit together better than that.
We sat at the bar and drank pints of beer. We laughed and told stories and talked about a zombie movie script.
Later, John drove me home. We passed the corner where the woman had been waiting for her ride. There was nothing there to prove what we saw had ever happened.
Obvious
Kit, John and I went to Ohio University to see Margot and the Nuclear So and So's concert. There are two parts to this story which I will call Part One and Part Two. Part One is titled, “How to Spend Nine Hours with Two Men” and Part Two is titled, “You Can’t Go Home Again, but You Can Drink a Beer There and Pay with a Credit Card.”
How to Spend Nine Hours with Two Men
About two months ago, I made a mark on my calendar at work on April 14th. The mark said, “OU.” Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s were playing a concert at Baker Center in Athens, OH and I was going no matter what. I wanted a friend to come along and of all my lame ass friends, Kit was the only one to step up with a commit. I don’t blame my other friends for not going. Their lives are filled with families and commitments without the luxury to purchase alcohol by the glass in a bar two hours away from Columbus and staying the night in a sex stained hotel room in a town filled with women whose average age is three years over the legal driving limit. Fags.
I reserved a hotel room and I marked the days off on the calendar.
On Thursday the 12th, John said he was enlisting for the trip. This changed everything. John does not drink and thus would drive us down and back again. This would save us from having to get a hotel room because Kit and I planned to get our drink on and would be in no condition to drive.
We left John’s condo at 6:00pm, a full hour after I promised we would. (I just decided I would switch to a copy cat, pseudo “24” version of story telling.)
6:00pm
We leave John’s condo a full hour after I promised we would leave. I was at Carl and Toni’s son’s 1st birthday party and just couldn’t find my way out the door.
6:09pm
We see this car. Someone failed Parking 102 or Driving 210.
7:30pm
We make awesome time and park Uptown.
7:40pm
Kit buys a round of aquariums at the Pub. John gets a glass of Hocking River’s finest.
7:45pm
We ask about food. The kitchen closed at 7:00pm. No Pub Burgers for us.
8:ish
We take photos of ourselves getting absolutely crazy at OU. About this time, John makes the comment that “we really don’t look that old.” We drink more.
8:45pm
We try and head over to Baker Center to check on the place and make sure we know where we are going. After driving around South Green for seven minutes of not knowing where we were going, we stop and I jump out and ask a cop directions. I try to talk out the side of my mouth so that my stinky beer breath. His directions are good and we find the place.
9:00pm
Inside Baker Center we hear music coming out of the coffee house and head in. Two girls are playing music for a crowd of about 20 people. We head out to get something to eat.
9:20pm
We trudge through the rain and order food at what used to be the largest Taco Bell in the world. The upstairs had been a seating area, but someone got wise and turned it into apartments. We ordered and ate.
10:15pm
We trudge again and head back into Baker Center. Another band is finishing up. Margot is scheduled to start at 10:30pm. There is now a crowd of six people and three of them are us. (One of them was a chick with this tattoo.)
This is very disappointing. I apologized to Kit and John. I knew Margot had a bigger following than this.
10:25pm
The next band is setting up and they look nothing like Margot. I ask the sound guy when Margot is coming on. He says that Margot is actually playing the Baker Theatre two floors down.
10:25:10pm
We make haste.
10:27pm
We get into the theatre, just as Margot is stating to play. Read about that HERE.
11:45pm
Awesome show.
(I’ll speed this up.)
12:00pm – 1:15am)
Trudge and head to the CI. Line to get in so go to the Junction. Drink two drinks and go back to CI. See fire trucks. Drink two more drinks. Head home.
3:00am
Wake up in John’s car at John’s condo. Drive home. Sleep.
7:00am
Wake up not in a hotel room and get back to those pesky and beloved commitments.
You Can’t Go Home Again, but You Can Drink a Beer There and Pay with a Credit Card
I should have thought about it ahead of time, but I was so excited to go back to Ohio University that I didn’t remember that I would now be an outsider. It was very surreal because the bars were structurally the same. Same neon signs. Same posters with chicks. Same looking bartenders and guys checking IDs. It should have been obvious.
The four big differences were: smoke, cell phones, credit cards, and I’m old.
Smoke- It is now illegal in Ohio to smoke in public places, bars included. This means that the overwhelming stench of old beer and vomit in the bars is no longer masked by the heavy cloud of cigarette smoke. I think there were still peanut shells on the poster frames in the CI that I stuck there 15 years ago. They should hose those places out in the morning. And at around 10:00pm.
Cell Phones- It was very odd to see people talking on cell phones in Athens’ bars. I got over it quickly, but it was still out of place.
Credit Cards- Yes, there were credit cards when I went to OU, but not many bars accepted them. That night, people were running tabs and buying rounds and rounds of shots and drinks. At the Pub, Kit did not have to leave his ID at the bar when he bought the aquariums because he was running a tab with his credit card.
I’m Old – “Zombie” by the Cranberries came on the jukebox at the Junction and everyone, except us, sang it. They sang it like we sang “Cecelia” when we were in college. I didn’t get it and then I realized that I was out of place. I did not belong there anymore.
Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to go back to OU with a group of friends from college and get drunk and reminisce. But we could do that anywhere. I can go to a shitty OSU bar here in Columbus and have beer spilled on me by a 19 year old chick with HUGE CLEAVAGE. (That’s another bit that has changed. In 1992, chicks were wearing flannel shirts or turtle necks. Now a days… holy shit! Boobs!)
In the end, it was a fun trip. It was nice to see the OU campus. It was fun to sit on the ledge at the CI and people watch. Kit and John took a piss in the alley that, 14 years ago, I stripped down in to go streaking. But all in all it was fun because of the company, not the location.
And damnit. We didn’t get a burrito from the Burrito Buggy. Guess we’ll have to can’t go home again, home again.
Cecilia - Simon and Garfunkel
Celia, you’re breaking my heart
You’re shaking my confidence daily
Oh, Cecilia, I’m down on my knees
I’m begging you please to come home
Celia, you’re breaking my heart
You’re shaking my confidence daily
Oh, Cecilia, I’m down on my knees
I’m begging you please to come home
Come on home
Making love in the afternoon with Cecilia
Up in my bedroom (making love)
I got up to wash my face
When I come back to bed
Someone’s taken my place
Celia, you’re breaking my heart
You’re shaking my confidence daily
Oh, Cecilia, I’m down on my knees
I’m begging you please to come home
Come on home
Jubilation, she loves me again,
I fall on the floor and I laughing,
Jubilation, she loves me again,
I fall on the floor and I laughing
How to Spend Nine Hours with Two Men
About two months ago, I made a mark on my calendar at work on April 14th. The mark said, “OU.” Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s were playing a concert at Baker Center in Athens, OH and I was going no matter what. I wanted a friend to come along and of all my lame ass friends, Kit was the only one to step up with a commit. I don’t blame my other friends for not going. Their lives are filled with families and commitments without the luxury to purchase alcohol by the glass in a bar two hours away from Columbus and staying the night in a sex stained hotel room in a town filled with women whose average age is three years over the legal driving limit. Fags.
I reserved a hotel room and I marked the days off on the calendar.
On Thursday the 12th, John said he was enlisting for the trip. This changed everything. John does not drink and thus would drive us down and back again. This would save us from having to get a hotel room because Kit and I planned to get our drink on and would be in no condition to drive.
We left John’s condo at 6:00pm, a full hour after I promised we would. (I just decided I would switch to a copy cat, pseudo “24” version of story telling.)
6:00pm
We leave John’s condo a full hour after I promised we would leave. I was at Carl and Toni’s son’s 1st birthday party and just couldn’t find my way out the door.
6:09pm
We see this car. Someone failed Parking 102 or Driving 210.
7:30pm
We make awesome time and park Uptown.
7:40pm
Kit buys a round of aquariums at the Pub. John gets a glass of Hocking River’s finest.
7:45pm
We ask about food. The kitchen closed at 7:00pm. No Pub Burgers for us.
8:ish
We take photos of ourselves getting absolutely crazy at OU. About this time, John makes the comment that “we really don’t look that old.” We drink more.
8:45pm
We try and head over to Baker Center to check on the place and make sure we know where we are going. After driving around South Green for seven minutes of not knowing where we were going, we stop and I jump out and ask a cop directions. I try to talk out the side of my mouth so that my stinky beer breath. His directions are good and we find the place.
9:00pm
Inside Baker Center we hear music coming out of the coffee house and head in. Two girls are playing music for a crowd of about 20 people. We head out to get something to eat.
9:20pm
We trudge through the rain and order food at what used to be the largest Taco Bell in the world. The upstairs had been a seating area, but someone got wise and turned it into apartments. We ordered and ate.
10:15pm
We trudge again and head back into Baker Center. Another band is finishing up. Margot is scheduled to start at 10:30pm. There is now a crowd of six people and three of them are us. (One of them was a chick with this tattoo.)
This is very disappointing. I apologized to Kit and John. I knew Margot had a bigger following than this.
10:25pm
The next band is setting up and they look nothing like Margot. I ask the sound guy when Margot is coming on. He says that Margot is actually playing the Baker Theatre two floors down.
10:25:10pm
We make haste.
10:27pm
We get into the theatre, just as Margot is stating to play. Read about that HERE.
11:45pm
Awesome show.
(I’ll speed this up.)
12:00pm – 1:15am)
Trudge and head to the CI. Line to get in so go to the Junction. Drink two drinks and go back to CI. See fire trucks. Drink two more drinks. Head home.
3:00am
Wake up in John’s car at John’s condo. Drive home. Sleep.
7:00am
Wake up not in a hotel room and get back to those pesky and beloved commitments.
You Can’t Go Home Again, but You Can Drink a Beer There and Pay with a Credit Card
I should have thought about it ahead of time, but I was so excited to go back to Ohio University that I didn’t remember that I would now be an outsider. It was very surreal because the bars were structurally the same. Same neon signs. Same posters with chicks. Same looking bartenders and guys checking IDs. It should have been obvious.
The four big differences were: smoke, cell phones, credit cards, and I’m old.
Smoke- It is now illegal in Ohio to smoke in public places, bars included. This means that the overwhelming stench of old beer and vomit in the bars is no longer masked by the heavy cloud of cigarette smoke. I think there were still peanut shells on the poster frames in the CI that I stuck there 15 years ago. They should hose those places out in the morning. And at around 10:00pm.
Cell Phones- It was very odd to see people talking on cell phones in Athens’ bars. I got over it quickly, but it was still out of place.
Credit Cards- Yes, there were credit cards when I went to OU, but not many bars accepted them. That night, people were running tabs and buying rounds and rounds of shots and drinks. At the Pub, Kit did not have to leave his ID at the bar when he bought the aquariums because he was running a tab with his credit card.
I’m Old – “Zombie” by the Cranberries came on the jukebox at the Junction and everyone, except us, sang it. They sang it like we sang “Cecelia” when we were in college. I didn’t get it and then I realized that I was out of place. I did not belong there anymore.
Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to go back to OU with a group of friends from college and get drunk and reminisce. But we could do that anywhere. I can go to a shitty OSU bar here in Columbus and have beer spilled on me by a 19 year old chick with HUGE CLEAVAGE. (That’s another bit that has changed. In 1992, chicks were wearing flannel shirts or turtle necks. Now a days… holy shit! Boobs!)
In the end, it was a fun trip. It was nice to see the OU campus. It was fun to sit on the ledge at the CI and people watch. Kit and John took a piss in the alley that, 14 years ago, I stripped down in to go streaking. But all in all it was fun because of the company, not the location.
And damnit. We didn’t get a burrito from the Burrito Buggy. Guess we’ll have to can’t go home again, home again.
Cecilia - Simon and Garfunkel
Celia, you’re breaking my heart
You’re shaking my confidence daily
Oh, Cecilia, I’m down on my knees
I’m begging you please to come home
Celia, you’re breaking my heart
You’re shaking my confidence daily
Oh, Cecilia, I’m down on my knees
I’m begging you please to come home
Come on home
Making love in the afternoon with Cecilia
Up in my bedroom (making love)
I got up to wash my face
When I come back to bed
Someone’s taken my place
Celia, you’re breaking my heart
You’re shaking my confidence daily
Oh, Cecilia, I’m down on my knees
I’m begging you please to come home
Come on home
Jubilation, she loves me again,
I fall on the floor and I laughing,
Jubilation, she loves me again,
I fall on the floor and I laughing
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