Here are two related tales that I like to call, "Half Tie" and "Beer Leg" which both hold hands with our good friend, friction. Enjoy.
Half Tie
Handsome Joe and I used to wear ties out on the town at Ohio University. It seemed like a good way to pick up classy chicks. I had an awesome flowered tie that was obnoxious and suave. I wore it out one snowy night in Athens.
The ties didn't work and Handsome Joe and I headed home alone together. On the way, we ran into a number of students who were sliding down Jeff Hill on stolen cafeteria trays and cardboard boxes. Half drunk kids would slide down the frozen, brick street, screaming the whole way. At the bottom, they would generously hand off their makeshift sleds, giving guys in ties a chance to sled down.
We ran up the stairs that paralleled the street with drunken stamina. At the top of the brick street I took a running dive and flew down the hill. It was exhilarating.
At the bottom, I handed off the tray to another student. Handsome Joe almost took me out as he flew by. He handed off his sled and noticed that my tie was sticking half out of my jacket. Actually it was all sticking out of my jacket, just that half of it was missing.
My tie got caught under the tray. The brick street, though nicely iced, caused a bit of friction. The tie was frayed. It was destroyed. I still wonder why I didn't choke to death. God bless the Double Windsor.
Beer Leg
One beautiful snowy Athens evening, Joe, Knitter and I were stealing beer out of a friend’s screened porch. It wasn’t really stealing because it was rightfully ours. Had we been inside the house at the party, we would have polished the entire case of beer. Since we didn’t like anyone at the party, we took our beer to go.
The porch was locked, but the window was not. I crawled through the narrow, screened window, flopped on the porch floor and passed the case of beer out to Knitter and Handsome Joe. Someone from the inside started to come outside so I dove out the window and we ran laughing through the back yards.
At Mill Street Hill, I took the case of beer from Knitter and did a running dive down the icy sidewalk on top the case of beer. It was just like a sled! I made it about half way down the hill before I ran out of ice. Knitter and Joe caught up and we continued home.
Once we got back to 19 Palmer Street, I made two observations and one conclusion: 1. My right pants leg was wet. 2. Eight beers had holes in the bottom of them. Conclusion: The cardboard was eaten through in half circles by the ice and sidewalk and the little smiling faces were drooling beer. The case somehow retained structural integrity so that the beer could leak out and on to my jeans. 16 beers is not as good as 24, but always better than zero.
Friction is a bitch.
Showing posts with label Ohio University. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ohio University. Show all posts
Beer and Birth Control
As seen on the ground outside the Varsity Club after the Ohio University v Ohio State game.
PalmerFest 2009
PalmerFest 2009 is this weekend (May 9th, 2009.) I know this because a reporter from The Post, The Ohio University student run newspaper, called to ask me a few questions about the original PalmerFest back in 1990/1991.
She had researched The Post archives and the earliest reference to PalmerFest came from a May 1991 edition. She tracked me down via the people mentioned in the article. Here is that article:
The reporter asked about the details from the first PalmerFest. I spoke about the first PalmerFest actually taking place in the Fall of 1990. 17 Palmer (The Barn) had a lot to do with the planning. The stage for the bands was two 4' x 8' sheets of plywood with 4x4 supports. The backyards of 17 Palmer - 25 Palmer were utilized for the bands, but they have since disappeared when several of the houses were turned into duplexes. I have spoken with a couple of people who think they were the originators of PalmerFest and they didn't go to OU until the late 90's. When I tell people I was one of the originators, they doubt me. I understand.
When I mentioned this interview to Two-Sack, he reminded me of how one PalmerFest, I shot bottle rockets out of my cup of beer and continued to drink the sulfur and ash contaminated beer. A very hot girl who I do not remember called my beer "Firecracker Juice."
Russ tells a great story about how I blinded him in one eye when a thrown key deflected off my hand and popped him in the cornea.
I got laid once at PalmerFest and six of my closest friends watched through a window and Paul even open the window and came in the room to taunt me.
Our hammock was stolen.
In 1992 we turned the water off in the bathroom to keep people from using the toilet and slamming our water bill. As it turns out, turning off the water does not keep people from using the toilet.
The doorbell rang one Monday after a PalmerFest and there stood a girl I went to high school with. She didn't know I lived there and was immediately embarrassed. She had been on the roof and removed her top and bra for a fleeting moment. Her house key was on a necklace that had fallen off during the shirt removal process and she was looking for it. We had found the key and I pulled it off the mantel and gave it back. I have not seen her since.
PalmerFest turns 18.5 this year. Have fun this weekend. I don't think I will be able to make it...
She had researched The Post archives and the earliest reference to PalmerFest came from a May 1991 edition. She tracked me down via the people mentioned in the article. Here is that article:
The reporter asked about the details from the first PalmerFest. I spoke about the first PalmerFest actually taking place in the Fall of 1990. 17 Palmer (The Barn) had a lot to do with the planning. The stage for the bands was two 4' x 8' sheets of plywood with 4x4 supports. The backyards of 17 Palmer - 25 Palmer were utilized for the bands, but they have since disappeared when several of the houses were turned into duplexes. I have spoken with a couple of people who think they were the originators of PalmerFest and they didn't go to OU until the late 90's. When I tell people I was one of the originators, they doubt me. I understand.
When I mentioned this interview to Two-Sack, he reminded me of how one PalmerFest, I shot bottle rockets out of my cup of beer and continued to drink the sulfur and ash contaminated beer. A very hot girl who I do not remember called my beer "Firecracker Juice."
Russ tells a great story about how I blinded him in one eye when a thrown key deflected off my hand and popped him in the cornea.
I got laid once at PalmerFest and six of my closest friends watched through a window and Paul even open the window and came in the room to taunt me.
Our hammock was stolen.
In 1992 we turned the water off in the bathroom to keep people from using the toilet and slamming our water bill. As it turns out, turning off the water does not keep people from using the toilet.
The doorbell rang one Monday after a PalmerFest and there stood a girl I went to high school with. She didn't know I lived there and was immediately embarrassed. She had been on the roof and removed her top and bra for a fleeting moment. Her house key was on a necklace that had fallen off during the shirt removal process and she was looking for it. We had found the key and I pulled it off the mantel and gave it back. I have not seen her since.
PalmerFest turns 18.5 this year. Have fun this weekend. I don't think I will be able to make it...
Things one can have while in college (revised)
I saw a chart on line that needed edited to conform to my reality.
Analysts Predict $100 Drop in Oil Price with Obama Election Win
ATHENS, OH – Researchers at The Ohio University School of Foreign Economics and Petroleum Studies have predicted a major drop in oil prices with the election of Senator Barack Obama as President of the United States. Statistics were gathered from six months of intensive economic and socioeconomic studies.
Professor Martin Lynn, PhD in Economics simply stated that, “Obama has a lovely skin tone very similar to the glistening color of oil. He puts oil rich nations at ease with his beautiful, sweet crude skin.”
Skeptical, we also spoke with Dr. Knikitat Ohsruhu who had a complementary explanation, “Our trends show that with current conditions bent to conform to the existing oil markets, prices should begin reducing 25% in the fourth quarter with a drastic total drop of at least $100 in the second quarter of 2009, as long as he doesn’t get ashy under all this election stress.”
Other actions by the Obama Administration could prove effective in reducing the demand for oil. Barack pledged to a group of teachers and construction workers in Bellevue, WA this week that he would begin petroleum based hair product embargo. This embargo would require many in the African American community to go without several different types of hair products. Our in-house illustrator has created a digital representation of Barack Obama’s personal sacrifice if this embargo is successful.
DIGITALLY ENHANCED PHOTO RENDERING
Professor Martin Lynn, PhD summed it up best, “McCain’s got that blotchy, pale ass skin. That’s the skin of pestilence and death. No one trusts a white dude with skin like that.”
Professor Martin Lynn, PhD in Economics simply stated that, “Obama has a lovely skin tone very similar to the glistening color of oil. He puts oil rich nations at ease with his beautiful, sweet crude skin.”
Skeptical, we also spoke with Dr. Knikitat Ohsruhu who had a complementary explanation, “Our trends show that with current conditions bent to conform to the existing oil markets, prices should begin reducing 25% in the fourth quarter with a drastic total drop of at least $100 in the second quarter of 2009, as long as he doesn’t get ashy under all this election stress.”
Other actions by the Obama Administration could prove effective in reducing the demand for oil. Barack pledged to a group of teachers and construction workers in Bellevue, WA this week that he would begin petroleum based hair product embargo. This embargo would require many in the African American community to go without several different types of hair products. Our in-house illustrator has created a digital representation of Barack Obama’s personal sacrifice if this embargo is successful.
DIGITALLY ENHANCED PHOTO RENDERING
Professor Martin Lynn, PhD summed it up best, “McCain’s got that blotchy, pale ass skin. That’s the skin of pestilence and death. No one trusts a white dude with skin like that.”
Schnuckelputz: Putting “ass” in the glass
We were in Athens, OH this past weekend for an Ohio University reunion of friends. In all, about eighteen of us made our way back to OU to reminisce and drink and reminisce about drinking. I hadn’t seen some folks for over fourteen years. It was a very good time.
For dinner, Miss Sally, Russ, Cheri and I went to Casa Nueva. Casa is a highly regarded Mexican restaurant that utilizes local farmers and producers. The food is awesome. We ordered dinner, drank Mexican beer and discussed our plans for the rest of the evening. Next to our table was a flyer for Schnuckelputz, a wine from Shade Winery.
Per the advert, I could see that the Schnuckelputz was:
Carbonated
Ginger
Lemon
Wine
I’m aware of carbonation.
I’ve had ginger. It’s the light, refreshing stuff that sits next to your sushi.
Lemon, check.
Wine and I have had a relationship for years.
So I ordered a glass.
What I did not know at the time was the origins of the word Schnuckelputz:
Schnuckel (German) - drip from the ass or wet from the backside
Putz (Yiddish) – fool, idiot
The foul, rancidness contained within that glass cannot be described. I had Russ try a sip and he gagged and made a horrible face. I was not quick enough to catch it on camera so later I had him sniff the glass to relive the experience.
I assume that on its way to the restaurant, the bottle of Schnuckelputz was accidentally filled with a combination of urine and battery acid. The bottle was then smuggled across the border of Mexico in a Crohn's Disease sufferer’s lower intestine, where it was set out in the sun for three weeks. Upon its return via a railcar filled with diarrhea, it was rinsed, chilled, lightly shaken and poured into my glass.
And to spite everyone, I drank the whole thing. For the rest of the night, I couldn’t stop burping up ginger.
We saved six people’s lives on our way out of the restaurant who were discussing, fortunately out loud, if they should order a glass of abomination.
And just so you are aware, my poop smelled like ginger for the next two days.
To sum up:
Casa Nueva = HIGHLY RECOMMENDED
Schnuckelputz = Ask, instead, for the interactive, taste colonoscopy
For dinner, Miss Sally, Russ, Cheri and I went to Casa Nueva. Casa is a highly regarded Mexican restaurant that utilizes local farmers and producers. The food is awesome. We ordered dinner, drank Mexican beer and discussed our plans for the rest of the evening. Next to our table was a flyer for Schnuckelputz, a wine from Shade Winery.
Per the advert, I could see that the Schnuckelputz was:
Carbonated
Ginger
Lemon
Wine
I’m aware of carbonation.
I’ve had ginger. It’s the light, refreshing stuff that sits next to your sushi.
Lemon, check.
Wine and I have had a relationship for years.
So I ordered a glass.
What I did not know at the time was the origins of the word Schnuckelputz:
Schnuckel (German) - drip from the ass or wet from the backside
Putz (Yiddish) – fool, idiot
The foul, rancidness contained within that glass cannot be described. I had Russ try a sip and he gagged and made a horrible face. I was not quick enough to catch it on camera so later I had him sniff the glass to relive the experience.
I assume that on its way to the restaurant, the bottle of Schnuckelputz was accidentally filled with a combination of urine and battery acid. The bottle was then smuggled across the border of Mexico in a Crohn's Disease sufferer’s lower intestine, where it was set out in the sun for three weeks. Upon its return via a railcar filled with diarrhea, it was rinsed, chilled, lightly shaken and poured into my glass.
And to spite everyone, I drank the whole thing. For the rest of the night, I couldn’t stop burping up ginger.
We saved six people’s lives on our way out of the restaurant who were discussing, fortunately out loud, if they should order a glass of abomination.
And just so you are aware, my poop smelled like ginger for the next two days.
To sum up:
Casa Nueva = HIGHLY RECOMMENDED
Schnuckelputz = Ask, instead, for the interactive, taste colonoscopy
Forehead Spider Tattoo
In the springtime at OU, it was very easy to spend hours in the doorway that led to Dominic, John and Chris’ apartment above Mountain Leather. Sunday afternoons were especially good as many locals would roam the downtown sidewalks and the echoes of my hangover would sweat out and down the back of my shirt. There were several doorways and stoops going up and down the street. You could nestle back in one and watch the flesh go by for hours.
On this particular afternoon, there were several of us loitering on the sidewalk as we spilled out from the doorway. We formed a human speed bump and people had to slow down as they navigated around us.
I was reminiscing with Dominic when I noticed two dudes sauntering down the sidewalk with their shirts off. They had various tattoos and spiky piercings on them. Kids.
The walked around us and continued on their way. I turned and watched them head down the street. When they were out of earshot, Dominic leaned in and whispered, “Did you see this guy with the spider tattoo on his forehead?” I guess I spent too much time checking out their other arm and body tats to notice a spider on whichever’s forehead. I waited until they were out of earshot before starting my tirade.
“Who the hell gets a tattoo of a spider on their forehead?!”
Dominic immediately gave me the wide eyes and whispered “Shhhhhh!”
The dudes were more that half a block away and there was no way I was going to be heard by them so I continued.
“How’s that going to work out in a job interview! Idiot! Which one was it?”
Dominic grabbed me by the shoulders and whispered, “Doug! Shut up!”
Dominic has a soft heart for others and I could understand why he might want me to keep it down, but come on!
That, of course, is when I noticed the guy sitting 10 feet from us in the door stoop next to John’s. He was disheveled. He had crazy eyes. He had a spider tattoo on his forehead.
He also looked very self conscious. If not embarrassed.
I said over my shoulder in the direction of the spider tattoo guy, “But you know what? That takes fucking balls. You’ve got to be a bad mother fucker to get a tattoo on your forehead. Nobody’s going to mess with you!”
And then I ran off like a little girl through the open door and straight up the stairs to their apartment.
I’ve got to feel bad for the dude because it takes some heavy shit falling on your shoulders to get a tattoo on your forehead. Nothing says “I’m fucked up,” more than that. I know there are people out there who get certain tattoos just to have a permanent visible middle finger up to the world. This guy, in the five seconds I looked at him, seemed different. Like he’d been in a Russian prison or a mental facility where the arts and crafts counselor accidentally scheduled painting and needlepoint during the same day of the week.
Or just maybe that dude was just a bad-ass motherfucker and he feels sorry for me.
On this particular afternoon, there were several of us loitering on the sidewalk as we spilled out from the doorway. We formed a human speed bump and people had to slow down as they navigated around us.
I was reminiscing with Dominic when I noticed two dudes sauntering down the sidewalk with their shirts off. They had various tattoos and spiky piercings on them. Kids.
The walked around us and continued on their way. I turned and watched them head down the street. When they were out of earshot, Dominic leaned in and whispered, “Did you see this guy with the spider tattoo on his forehead?” I guess I spent too much time checking out their other arm and body tats to notice a spider on whichever’s forehead. I waited until they were out of earshot before starting my tirade.
“Who the hell gets a tattoo of a spider on their forehead?!”
Dominic immediately gave me the wide eyes and whispered “Shhhhhh!”
The dudes were more that half a block away and there was no way I was going to be heard by them so I continued.
“How’s that going to work out in a job interview! Idiot! Which one was it?”
Dominic grabbed me by the shoulders and whispered, “Doug! Shut up!”
Dominic has a soft heart for others and I could understand why he might want me to keep it down, but come on!
That, of course, is when I noticed the guy sitting 10 feet from us in the door stoop next to John’s. He was disheveled. He had crazy eyes. He had a spider tattoo on his forehead.
He also looked very self conscious. If not embarrassed.
I said over my shoulder in the direction of the spider tattoo guy, “But you know what? That takes fucking balls. You’ve got to be a bad mother fucker to get a tattoo on your forehead. Nobody’s going to mess with you!”
And then I ran off like a little girl through the open door and straight up the stairs to their apartment.
I’ve got to feel bad for the dude because it takes some heavy shit falling on your shoulders to get a tattoo on your forehead. Nothing says “I’m fucked up,” more than that. I know there are people out there who get certain tattoos just to have a permanent visible middle finger up to the world. This guy, in the five seconds I looked at him, seemed different. Like he’d been in a Russian prison or a mental facility where the arts and crafts counselor accidentally scheduled painting and needlepoint during the same day of the week.
Or just maybe that dude was just a bad-ass motherfucker and he feels sorry for me.
Weight Loss Could Save Billions And Lower Gas Prices
ATHENS, OH - Researchers at Russ College of Engineering and Technology at Ohio University have calculated that if every adult in the United States lost fifteen pounds, the savings to the economy in gasoline alone would amount to three billion dollars over the next year.
Cascading savings from the weight loss would also include fuel savings on fewer shipments of food, reduction in health care costs, as well as a reduction in gasoline demand which in turn would cause an overall drop in gas prices of approximately eight cents per gallon.
Roger Good, PhD, is the lead researcher on the project. “We Americans are hauling around a lot of extra weight. Getting rid of fifteen pounds of it will save fuel and, in turn, lower fuel costs.”
But wouldn’t the loss of consumption hurt the economy? No f’ing way says enthusiastic Ralph Connor, graduate student, “The need for more nutritious foods would replace the monetary loss from the quantity of fatty foods. Maybe the Ho-Ho people will come out with a soy version of the treat!”
Other areas of the economy would see a positive spin from the weigh loss. “You would also see a spike in the retail industry as smaller Americas seek out new clothes,” smiled Dr. Good. "Indeed, our research shows that the only business segment detrimented [sic] by a slimmer, trimmer America would be the health club / fitness industry. But really, with revolutionary home fitness solutions like Billy Blanks' Tae-Bo, Bowflex and the Hawaii Chair, traveling to gymnasiums is an idea whose time has come and gone, which ultimately contributes to further decreases in fuel consumption. It's a snowball effect."
Though the researchers do not think everyone has the willpower to stay on a diet, they believe that liposuction could be utilized to remove fat from people who are unwilling to voluntarily go on a diet. “We are working with Pacific Natural Energy (PNE) to see if we can actually turn human fat into biofuel with a device called ‘the FatBox.’” Plans are in the works for mobile liposuction labs called “Suck Trucks” which will be powered by the human bio-diesel. Connor whispers, “Some of these patients [hand gestures indicating a fatty] could power the Suck Truck for a week.”
Cascading savings from the weight loss would also include fuel savings on fewer shipments of food, reduction in health care costs, as well as a reduction in gasoline demand which in turn would cause an overall drop in gas prices of approximately eight cents per gallon. Roger Good, PhD, is the lead researcher on the project. “We Americans are hauling around a lot of extra weight. Getting rid of fifteen pounds of it will save fuel and, in turn, lower fuel costs.”
But wouldn’t the loss of consumption hurt the economy? No f’ing way says enthusiastic Ralph Connor, graduate student, “The need for more nutritious foods would replace the monetary loss from the quantity of fatty foods. Maybe the Ho-Ho people will come out with a soy version of the treat!”
Other areas of the economy would see a positive spin from the weigh loss. “You would also see a spike in the retail industry as smaller Americas seek out new clothes,” smiled Dr. Good. "Indeed, our research shows that the only business segment detrimented [sic] by a slimmer, trimmer America would be the health club / fitness industry. But really, with revolutionary home fitness solutions like Billy Blanks' Tae-Bo, Bowflex and the Hawaii Chair, traveling to gymnasiums is an idea whose time has come and gone, which ultimately contributes to further decreases in fuel consumption. It's a snowball effect."
Though the researchers do not think everyone has the willpower to stay on a diet, they believe that liposuction could be utilized to remove fat from people who are unwilling to voluntarily go on a diet. “We are working with Pacific Natural Energy (PNE) to see if we can actually turn human fat into biofuel with a device called ‘the FatBox.’” Plans are in the works for mobile liposuction labs called “Suck Trucks” which will be powered by the human bio-diesel. Connor whispers, “Some of these patients [hand gestures indicating a fatty] could power the Suck Truck for a week.”
The Snowball Fight
Here is an entry for Handsome Joe, though you all have my permission to take a peek.
Joe, remember this night? See below for a translation.
2/25 - 2/26/93
Tonight was snowball heaven. Joe hit the dude that crossed over to the South Side and I hit the guy with the hat and knocked it off. We saw 2 or 3 guys arrested. We hit cops and went sledding down Music Building Hill. Who is the girl with the braces? We had a good time. Where's your bra. (I think it was about Lil' Deb.)
I'll re-tell this story tomorrow once I collaborate with Handsome Joe.
Joe, remember this night? See below for a translation.
2/25 - 2/26/93
Tonight was snowball heaven. Joe hit the dude that crossed over to the South Side and I hit the guy with the hat and knocked it off. We saw 2 or 3 guys arrested. We hit cops and went sledding down Music Building Hill. Who is the girl with the braces? We had a good time. Where's your bra. (I think it was about Lil' Deb.)
I'll re-tell this story tomorrow once I collaborate with Handsome Joe.
The B & B
I didn’t have a lot of sex in college. Most of my friends think I did. My MO was to hook up, make out for a while and stick around third base without trying to steal home. That was actually my selling point. After about an hour at the bar of “I think I like you” and the next hour of “I think you like me” and about an hour before “I think we should get out of here” I would drop the, “I don’t think we should have sex” line. I think it opened a lot of doors. And pantses.
Telling a girl that you don't want to have sex takes away the pressure and anxiety. It allows you to have fun and know that you all ready have some pre-determined boundaries that don't need to be discussed. When the anxiety and pressure are off, the girl will be relaxed and then hopefully have sex with you.
Of course, telling a girl you don’t want to have sex and then having her want sex removes all guilt (if any) associated with the act. If you say you don’t wanna, but then you do because she wanna, it’s not your fault. It’s not. Really.
My very good friend, Handsome Joe, had a theory about hooking up. Less of a theory and more of a goal. He called it “The Bed and Breakfast.” Any dude can hook up; leave a sock lost somewhere in bed and do the walk of shame home. It’s genetic and it’s easy. Getting the girl to make you breakfast, now that was classy. You couldn’t ask for breakfast either. She had to suggest it. She had to make it. Cold cereal in the living room would get you in the club. Bacon and eggs was golden. Going out for breakfast didn’t count, but it did if she made you a pop tart and shoved you out the door. The Bed and Breakfast. The B & B.
There were several offshoots from the B & B. Joe had a B, B & B when he stayed at the girl’s apartment through an early lunch (The Bed, Breakfast and Brunch.) I once had the B & B with Grocery after I spent the night at a girl’s apartment during finals before winter break. We made out (the not having sex line stuck) and the next morning she made me eggs. She then asked if I wanted any food from her refrigerator as her finals were up and she was heading home. All that food would go to waste. Would I like to take it home? Of course I would. The B & B Grocery.
One fine spring evening at Ohio University, Handsome Joe and I went out to the bars. While having a few beers, a young lady that Joe knew came up and started talking to us. Joe quickly disappeared to the back of the crowded bar with her (The Good Cop always gets the first girl) and I was left mostly alone. As it turned out, my friend Greg was sitting up at the bar. This was a good sign. Greg and I were friends from high school, but we never saw each other out much at Ohio University. It was a good sign because the other two times I saw Greg out at the bars, I hooked up soon afterwards. I’d cut his foot off and wear it around my neck if it weren’t so big. And I guess it would be pretty bloody and stumpy, too.
As Greg and I drank at the bar, Trobes showed up. Trobes was 6’0” of long blonde hair and German ancestry. Trobes kinda liked me. I kinda liked Trobes. We had hooked up in the past (no breakfast yet.) As she sat in my lap at the bar (which was an odd combination of pleasure and boner crushing pain) she told Greg the 2nd greatest compliment I’ve ever received.
“Doug is the best necker in the world.” Wow. Honestly, I consider that a great compliment.
Several drinks afterwards, we left the bar. I had not seen Joe since he walked off and he could take care of himself. I asked Trobes if I could walk her home. She said yes. We walked back to her apartment.
Neither of Trobes' two roommates were home. We went to her bedroom.
{I need to note here that Trobes had a king sized bed. It took up most the room and shit it was big. I think she had an automatic sheet dispenser under the end because you could pull and pull at the sheets and they would just keep coming and coming.}
As we were making out, we heard one of Trobes’ roommates come in. Alone. A few minutes later her other roommate came home. Not so alone. They hung out in the kitchen for a few minutes and then retired to the room next door.
The making of the out continued and my Jedi mind trick about not wanting to have sex worked too well. Oh well… we had fun. I guess that’s what you get for being the best necker.
The next morning we woke up and chatted as we lounged around on the Eastern Plains of her bed. We could hear the lucky roommate chatting with her man. I did the “Shave and a Hair Cut” knock on the wall. They replied with a punctual “knock, knock.” Here is where you learn that I have a distinctive laugh. One that can be heard through a wall. One that Handsome Joe knows well. I laughed. The guy from the other side of the wall said, “Doug?”
“Joe?”
A minute later we were mostly dressed (where was my sock?) and all in the roommate’s room laughing and figuring out what happened the previous night. At some point, the roommate asked, “Do you guys want breakfast?”
Eggs. Bacon. Pancakes. The Bed Bed & Breakfast Breakfast. Or the Double B & B as it’s known in some circles. We couldn’t stop grinning as we sat, scrunched at the small round table in their kitchen, fork and knife in hand. Waiting. Watching the girls’ backs as they cooked at the stove.
*******
Open up any phone book to the yellow pages and you’ll see some sort of B & B business. Usually it’s a B and B Lawn Service or a B & B Auto Repair Shop. While you are driving around the city or through some small town, you’ll see the B & B on a slick, produced graphic or hand painted sign. It always takes me back.
Telling a girl that you don't want to have sex takes away the pressure and anxiety. It allows you to have fun and know that you all ready have some pre-determined boundaries that don't need to be discussed. When the anxiety and pressure are off, the girl will be relaxed and then hopefully have sex with you.
Of course, telling a girl you don’t want to have sex and then having her want sex removes all guilt (if any) associated with the act. If you say you don’t wanna, but then you do because she wanna, it’s not your fault. It’s not. Really.
My very good friend, Handsome Joe, had a theory about hooking up. Less of a theory and more of a goal. He called it “The Bed and Breakfast.” Any dude can hook up; leave a sock lost somewhere in bed and do the walk of shame home. It’s genetic and it’s easy. Getting the girl to make you breakfast, now that was classy. You couldn’t ask for breakfast either. She had to suggest it. She had to make it. Cold cereal in the living room would get you in the club. Bacon and eggs was golden. Going out for breakfast didn’t count, but it did if she made you a pop tart and shoved you out the door. The Bed and Breakfast. The B & B.
There were several offshoots from the B & B. Joe had a B, B & B when he stayed at the girl’s apartment through an early lunch (The Bed, Breakfast and Brunch.) I once had the B & B with Grocery after I spent the night at a girl’s apartment during finals before winter break. We made out (the not having sex line stuck) and the next morning she made me eggs. She then asked if I wanted any food from her refrigerator as her finals were up and she was heading home. All that food would go to waste. Would I like to take it home? Of course I would. The B & B Grocery.
One fine spring evening at Ohio University, Handsome Joe and I went out to the bars. While having a few beers, a young lady that Joe knew came up and started talking to us. Joe quickly disappeared to the back of the crowded bar with her (The Good Cop always gets the first girl) and I was left mostly alone. As it turned out, my friend Greg was sitting up at the bar. This was a good sign. Greg and I were friends from high school, but we never saw each other out much at Ohio University. It was a good sign because the other two times I saw Greg out at the bars, I hooked up soon afterwards. I’d cut his foot off and wear it around my neck if it weren’t so big. And I guess it would be pretty bloody and stumpy, too.
As Greg and I drank at the bar, Trobes showed up. Trobes was 6’0” of long blonde hair and German ancestry. Trobes kinda liked me. I kinda liked Trobes. We had hooked up in the past (no breakfast yet.) As she sat in my lap at the bar (which was an odd combination of pleasure and boner crushing pain) she told Greg the 2nd greatest compliment I’ve ever received.
“Doug is the best necker in the world.” Wow. Honestly, I consider that a great compliment.
Several drinks afterwards, we left the bar. I had not seen Joe since he walked off and he could take care of himself. I asked Trobes if I could walk her home. She said yes. We walked back to her apartment.
Neither of Trobes' two roommates were home. We went to her bedroom.
{I need to note here that Trobes had a king sized bed. It took up most the room and shit it was big. I think she had an automatic sheet dispenser under the end because you could pull and pull at the sheets and they would just keep coming and coming.}
As we were making out, we heard one of Trobes’ roommates come in. Alone. A few minutes later her other roommate came home. Not so alone. They hung out in the kitchen for a few minutes and then retired to the room next door.
The making of the out continued and my Jedi mind trick about not wanting to have sex worked too well. Oh well… we had fun. I guess that’s what you get for being the best necker.
The next morning we woke up and chatted as we lounged around on the Eastern Plains of her bed. We could hear the lucky roommate chatting with her man. I did the “Shave and a Hair Cut” knock on the wall. They replied with a punctual “knock, knock.” Here is where you learn that I have a distinctive laugh. One that can be heard through a wall. One that Handsome Joe knows well. I laughed. The guy from the other side of the wall said, “Doug?”
“Joe?”
A minute later we were mostly dressed (where was my sock?) and all in the roommate’s room laughing and figuring out what happened the previous night. At some point, the roommate asked, “Do you guys want breakfast?”
Eggs. Bacon. Pancakes. The Bed Bed & Breakfast Breakfast. Or the Double B & B as it’s known in some circles. We couldn’t stop grinning as we sat, scrunched at the small round table in their kitchen, fork and knife in hand. Waiting. Watching the girls’ backs as they cooked at the stove.
*******
Open up any phone book to the yellow pages and you’ll see some sort of B & B business. Usually it’s a B and B Lawn Service or a B & B Auto Repair Shop. While you are driving around the city or through some small town, you’ll see the B & B on a slick, produced graphic or hand painted sign. It always takes me back.
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
Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s at Ohio University
{Editor’s Note: This really isn’t a review except to say that Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s is a group worth listening to. The views expressed by HolyJuan are ramblings and incorrect assumptions about people whose full names I had to look up on the internet. I am not a reviewer. I am just a consumer.}
Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s played the Baker Theater on Ohio University’s campus in Athens, Ohio in the Spring of Richard Edward’s 23rd year.
They sounded great. Richard Edwards was a prick. And I loved it.
Lead singer Edwards is dark and funny, kinda like a dyslectic cat’s third suicide note. At the outset of the concert he non-verbally dismissed the crowd and seemingly sang to himself for the first few songs. I don't blame him, the crowd seemed tentative. But, the lackluster crowd fed upon his annoyance and lack of interest and by the fifth song, everyone had come around and the show really started to kick.
Margot played the team favorites from The Dust of Retreat album and a few songs that I didn’t know and must assume are from the new album or from some other shadowy place in Edward’s past.
I tell you, I like this fucker. He’s dark. He digs the Tennenbaums. At one point in the show, he began to diatribe about the new album and that Margot’s music is what it is rather than the bullshit, chamber pop they’ve been painted into a corner with. The group is compared, by some, to Arcade Fire which drew the ire of Edwards. The best line of the night was, “our next album is going to make Arcade Fire look like a bunch of pussies." Brilliant.
They encored four songs and I loved every one. Kudos to Erik Kang on the violin and the stringed, country music instrument that sits in your lap and makes you want to drink whisky out of a jug. Emily Watkins is always an audience pleaser on the keyboards and the three dudes at the front of the stage had no fucking chance with her. Her Playskool recorder didn’t seem to work though. Really. Fortunately, I was at the far end of the stage and didn’t get to see Casey Tennis dance around like a loon. He came in for the very last encore song and somehow silently played the tambourine. I give the guy shit, but he’s got character and sometimes that’s all you need. Everyone else in the band sounded great and I'm sorry I don't your names. I'm not good with names.
I love this band. I can only hope they succeed. And then break up. And then write some darker shit. Love the darker shit.
Oh, and allow me to apologize to Margot for the lack of hot, depressed, horny chicks that I thought would be up front and center. Instead, OU provided three guys with messy hair, juvenile beer guts and two day stubble wrapped in collared shirts. Again, sorry.
Check out Margot in several places:
Web site
MySpace
iTunes
Support this band, assholes. They’ve got a new album coming out soon. If you hurry, you can buy Dust of Retreat and finally claim you knew a band before they hit it big.
Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s played the Baker Theater on Ohio University’s campus in Athens, Ohio in the Spring of Richard Edward’s 23rd year.
They sounded great. Richard Edwards was a prick. And I loved it.
Lead singer Edwards is dark and funny, kinda like a dyslectic cat’s third suicide note. At the outset of the concert he non-verbally dismissed the crowd and seemingly sang to himself for the first few songs. I don't blame him, the crowd seemed tentative. But, the lackluster crowd fed upon his annoyance and lack of interest and by the fifth song, everyone had come around and the show really started to kick.
Margot played the team favorites from The Dust of Retreat album and a few songs that I didn’t know and must assume are from the new album or from some other shadowy place in Edward’s past.
I tell you, I like this fucker. He’s dark. He digs the Tennenbaums. At one point in the show, he began to diatribe about the new album and that Margot’s music is what it is rather than the bullshit, chamber pop they’ve been painted into a corner with. The group is compared, by some, to Arcade Fire which drew the ire of Edwards. The best line of the night was, “our next album is going to make Arcade Fire look like a bunch of pussies." Brilliant.
They encored four songs and I loved every one. Kudos to Erik Kang on the violin and the stringed, country music instrument that sits in your lap and makes you want to drink whisky out of a jug. Emily Watkins is always an audience pleaser on the keyboards and the three dudes at the front of the stage had no fucking chance with her. Her Playskool recorder didn’t seem to work though. Really. Fortunately, I was at the far end of the stage and didn’t get to see Casey Tennis dance around like a loon. He came in for the very last encore song and somehow silently played the tambourine. I give the guy shit, but he’s got character and sometimes that’s all you need. Everyone else in the band sounded great and I'm sorry I don't your names. I'm not good with names.
I love this band. I can only hope they succeed. And then break up. And then write some darker shit. Love the darker shit.
Oh, and allow me to apologize to Margot for the lack of hot, depressed, horny chicks that I thought would be up front and center. Instead, OU provided three guys with messy hair, juvenile beer guts and two day stubble wrapped in collared shirts. Again, sorry.
Check out Margot in several places:
Web site
MySpace
iTunes
Support this band, assholes. They’ve got a new album coming out soon. If you hurry, you can buy Dust of Retreat and finally claim you knew a band before they hit it big.
The Secret Amy's Secret Story
Thanks to my sister, Amy, my mother now knows about this site and pretty soon all the sex and drugs and bestiality I’ve written about will be brought up at Christmas and during the uncomfortable silence after my dad makes the remark about how hard it was to kill those sneaky bastard Koreans during the war.
So, to thank her, I’m writing this tale from our college years. You can decide whether or not to believe it. I know I all ready do.
Amy was never afraid of anything except perhaps getting caught. During high school she played every sport and, unlike most girls, considered 84% of her classmates friends. She had only one best friend and seemingly endless boyfriends and admirers. She was crowned Miss LHS in 1987 and turned down the opportunity to be the Dairy Princess at the Fairfield County Fair. Always Amy.
Amy left Ohio forever to go to school in Missouri and she never looked back.
Except once…
I was a freshman in college. Or the 13th grade as many of the people who were stuck at the Ohio University – Lancaster Branch called it. By looking out the lounge windows, we could see our high school. If you couldn’t find a window to look out, you could be reminded by listening to the LHS band practice in the afternoon. I attended because a scholarship I earned forced recipients to save money by going to a school that had no dorms and one microwave.
It was Spring. Winter had finally been kicked to the curb and love was in the air. None of my friends wanted to spend such a glorious Saturday night in Lancaster with the possibility of drunkenly hooking up with a relative. So we went to the real Ohio University in Athens, Ohio. We had friends in the dorms and didn’t have a problem finding a place to stay. We did have a problem finding beer. The 12 pack that was split between the five of us was gone in less than an hour and none of us had a fake ID at the time. We decided to try our luck at the Greenery, an 18+ dance bar that was pretty loose with the liquor. The gods smiled upon us on that Spring night and our oldest looking friend was able to buy pitchers of BrainSlammers or MindMelters or CerebellumBreakers or whatever the blue drink of the day was. We drank and danced and tried to hook up with real college girls. We failed, but had fun trying.
We were drunk well before closing and staggered out of the bar yelling stuff that drunk 18 year old men yell when full of watered down rum and unused hormones. Russ, who is rarely the ladies man, decided to try his luck out on a few chicks walking drunkenly the opposite way. I think they saw his OU-Lancaster keychain, immediately made him cease to exist and without breaking stride, walked right through him.
Our next target was a chick sitting on the curb. For some reason, women feel compelled to sit on curbs when they are drunk. Their knees up with elbows pressed against their inner thighs to support their heavy, drunken head. Men go straight for the vertical position in the gutter. Dave, the hopeless and clumsy romantic, asked if the poor girl needed any help. She looked up… it was Amy.
Holy shit. All the way from Missouri Amy.
I guess the most positive part of this story is that Amy went from really, really drunk and sad to extremely excited, happy drunk. She jumped up and hugged me and we fell backwards.
Amy was living in Missouri, but missing Ohio. She tried to assimilate and failed at heart. But she wouldn’t let anyone know. She had a southern accent within six months and started dating several Baptist boys to try and fit in. To nibble off the homesickness, she kept in touch with an ex-boyfriend. He was a year older and going to school in Cincinnati. He flew her in so that they could spend the weekend together. Boys would do that for Amy. This was a top secret trip as Amy had not been home since Christmas and summer before that. If my folks knew she was in a 200 mile radius of Lancaster, they would be a little upset that she did not come home. So mom and dad could not find out.
In the middle of their weekend of love, the dude broke it to Amy that he and his buddies and she were going to Ohio University for a last minute party. They piled into a Blazer and drove to Athens. Amy was a bit concerned because she had to be at the Cincy airport at 10:00am Sunday morning. No problem, he promised.
Six hours later, there was a problem. Turns out that he drank a lot more when he was around his college buddies and that his college buddies also made him a complete prick. He did some heavy prick stuff and she walked out of the party, sat on the curb and unknowingly waited for me to show up.
She didn’t think there was any way in hell that the prick was going to head back to Cincy that night and there was no way that she was going to make her flight. Her bags were back in the Blazer and she was shit out of luck until we showed up.
To cut to the chase, she made her flight. And here’s how.
We all went back to the prick’s party. He and his prick friends were not there, but the Blazer was. Russ, who stopped ceasing to exist, picked up a cement block and bashed out the back passenger side window. We grabbed Amy’s bags and headed back to the dorm.
We snuck Amy into the boy’s dorm and slept for a few hours. At 6:00am, Amy and I awoke, tiptoed though the testosterone and took Russ’ Nissan wagon to Cincinnati. I dropped her off at the airport at 9:45am.
“Please do not ever tell mom or dad about this. Doug... promise.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
And so, mother dear, as you read this please thank your daughter Amy for sharing with you that there is a little corner of the internet where your son writes lies and tells truths and sometimes both at the same time.
The drive back to OU was the longest drive ever.
So, to thank her, I’m writing this tale from our college years. You can decide whether or not to believe it. I know I all ready do.
Amy was never afraid of anything except perhaps getting caught. During high school she played every sport and, unlike most girls, considered 84% of her classmates friends. She had only one best friend and seemingly endless boyfriends and admirers. She was crowned Miss LHS in 1987 and turned down the opportunity to be the Dairy Princess at the Fairfield County Fair. Always Amy.
Amy left Ohio forever to go to school in Missouri and she never looked back.
Except once…
I was a freshman in college. Or the 13th grade as many of the people who were stuck at the Ohio University – Lancaster Branch called it. By looking out the lounge windows, we could see our high school. If you couldn’t find a window to look out, you could be reminded by listening to the LHS band practice in the afternoon. I attended because a scholarship I earned forced recipients to save money by going to a school that had no dorms and one microwave.
It was Spring. Winter had finally been kicked to the curb and love was in the air. None of my friends wanted to spend such a glorious Saturday night in Lancaster with the possibility of drunkenly hooking up with a relative. So we went to the real Ohio University in Athens, Ohio. We had friends in the dorms and didn’t have a problem finding a place to stay. We did have a problem finding beer. The 12 pack that was split between the five of us was gone in less than an hour and none of us had a fake ID at the time. We decided to try our luck at the Greenery, an 18+ dance bar that was pretty loose with the liquor. The gods smiled upon us on that Spring night and our oldest looking friend was able to buy pitchers of BrainSlammers or MindMelters or CerebellumBreakers or whatever the blue drink of the day was. We drank and danced and tried to hook up with real college girls. We failed, but had fun trying.
We were drunk well before closing and staggered out of the bar yelling stuff that drunk 18 year old men yell when full of watered down rum and unused hormones. Russ, who is rarely the ladies man, decided to try his luck out on a few chicks walking drunkenly the opposite way. I think they saw his OU-Lancaster keychain, immediately made him cease to exist and without breaking stride, walked right through him.
Our next target was a chick sitting on the curb. For some reason, women feel compelled to sit on curbs when they are drunk. Their knees up with elbows pressed against their inner thighs to support their heavy, drunken head. Men go straight for the vertical position in the gutter. Dave, the hopeless and clumsy romantic, asked if the poor girl needed any help. She looked up… it was Amy.
Holy shit. All the way from Missouri Amy.
I guess the most positive part of this story is that Amy went from really, really drunk and sad to extremely excited, happy drunk. She jumped up and hugged me and we fell backwards.
Amy was living in Missouri, but missing Ohio. She tried to assimilate and failed at heart. But she wouldn’t let anyone know. She had a southern accent within six months and started dating several Baptist boys to try and fit in. To nibble off the homesickness, she kept in touch with an ex-boyfriend. He was a year older and going to school in Cincinnati. He flew her in so that they could spend the weekend together. Boys would do that for Amy. This was a top secret trip as Amy had not been home since Christmas and summer before that. If my folks knew she was in a 200 mile radius of Lancaster, they would be a little upset that she did not come home. So mom and dad could not find out.
In the middle of their weekend of love, the dude broke it to Amy that he and his buddies and she were going to Ohio University for a last minute party. They piled into a Blazer and drove to Athens. Amy was a bit concerned because she had to be at the Cincy airport at 10:00am Sunday morning. No problem, he promised.
Six hours later, there was a problem. Turns out that he drank a lot more when he was around his college buddies and that his college buddies also made him a complete prick. He did some heavy prick stuff and she walked out of the party, sat on the curb and unknowingly waited for me to show up.
She didn’t think there was any way in hell that the prick was going to head back to Cincy that night and there was no way that she was going to make her flight. Her bags were back in the Blazer and she was shit out of luck until we showed up.
To cut to the chase, she made her flight. And here’s how.
We all went back to the prick’s party. He and his prick friends were not there, but the Blazer was. Russ, who stopped ceasing to exist, picked up a cement block and bashed out the back passenger side window. We grabbed Amy’s bags and headed back to the dorm.
We snuck Amy into the boy’s dorm and slept for a few hours. At 6:00am, Amy and I awoke, tiptoed though the testosterone and took Russ’ Nissan wagon to Cincinnati. I dropped her off at the airport at 9:45am.
“Please do not ever tell mom or dad about this. Doug... promise.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
And so, mother dear, as you read this please thank your daughter Amy for sharing with you that there is a little corner of the internet where your son writes lies and tells truths and sometimes both at the same time.
The drive back to OU was the longest drive ever.
Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s at Ohio University on April 14th
Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s is playing at OU on April 14th. I think it is a free show, but I can’t be sure because I lost my secret college free concert sense back in 94’. Oddly enough that is also when I lost my Fish Called Wanda movie poster.
Here is my plan: I am going to this show no matter what and I want you to come with me. You’ll have to drive your own car and stay in your own hotel, but I’ll be at the show around 8:00pm and then I’ll be at the C.I. from 11:30pm until closing. I’ll be the old guy. Buy me a beer in a can.
Here is my plan B: I am going to this show no matter what and I want you to come with me. Here’s the pinch - this might be the weekend of Palmerfest as well. If this is so, I will need to sneak out of the house a few hours earlier to attend and I will need your assistance. At 1:00pm on Saturday, we’ll be heading out the door to go to a good friend’s kid’s birthday party. I really want to go to the birthday party, but if you drive by and kidnap me in front of my wife, I will have no choice but to go wherever it is that you take me. If that happens to be Palmerfest than so be it. I’ll split gas cost with you to Athens and back. Just duct tape my mouth and hands before you dump me back off at my house Sunday morning. More than likely, I will have forgotten everything anyways from the alcohol. Your secret is safe with me.
See you at the show. Doors open at 6:00pm. Bring duct tape.
Here is my plan: I am going to this show no matter what and I want you to come with me. You’ll have to drive your own car and stay in your own hotel, but I’ll be at the show around 8:00pm and then I’ll be at the C.I. from 11:30pm until closing. I’ll be the old guy. Buy me a beer in a can.
Here is my plan B: I am going to this show no matter what and I want you to come with me. Here’s the pinch - this might be the weekend of Palmerfest as well. If this is so, I will need to sneak out of the house a few hours earlier to attend and I will need your assistance. At 1:00pm on Saturday, we’ll be heading out the door to go to a good friend’s kid’s birthday party. I really want to go to the birthday party, but if you drive by and kidnap me in front of my wife, I will have no choice but to go wherever it is that you take me. If that happens to be Palmerfest than so be it. I’ll split gas cost with you to Athens and back. Just duct tape my mouth and hands before you dump me back off at my house Sunday morning. More than likely, I will have forgotten everything anyways from the alcohol. Your secret is safe with me.
See you at the show. Doors open at 6:00pm. Bring duct tape.
Palmerfest 1992
There is really too much to write about Palmerfest. If you went to OU after 1990, you probably have gone to one or two. Shit, you might even claim to have originated it.
Sadly, the backyards of 19, 21 and 23 Palmer are gone. Replaced when the three houses were extend backwards so that Mr. Gevas could make a couple more bucks.
I hope he bought a new blue van.
Roll out the Knitter
As with many of my writings, I try to protect the innocent with nicknames and plumes of nomness. It’s not their fault that I remember and record. Why should they suffer the burden of my writings and their friends’ internet searches on Google? With this tale I must reveal the name of the main character as it is an integral part of the story. This story involves my friend Knitter. (Pronounced like you would pronounce someone who knits stuff. A Knitter.) Here is a photo of him kissing a 40oz of Magnum at Chris and Karen’s wedding.
No, the story is not about how we snuck 32 bottles of different varieties of malt liquor into Chris and Karen’s wedding (to their dismay,) though it does involve another wedding and the consumption of malt liquors.
Let’s go back about X years to Ohio University and a crisp Spring Quarter Saturday night. Earlier that evening, we had a two 40oz party. The night would start with a trip to the Quik-e-mart and the purchase of two 40oz bottles of malt liquor. There was a time in my life where I could list off 12 – 18 varieties of malt liquor. Oh a whim, let’s see what I can pull out of my ass right now:
Colt 45
Cool Colt*
Lazer
Magnum
Red Bull
Schlitz
Crazy Horse
St. Ides
Mustang
Crap. That’s it. Well, I am from Lancaster and not Lorain.
(*Cool Colt was Colt 45 with spearmint flavoring added. I totally forgot about it until recently at a keg party when I didn’t have a cup and used an empty Rumple Minze bottle to drink from. Nothing like a drunk asshole with fresh breath.)
Back at the Quik-e-mart, you would pony up $3.87 of change and leave with two, mostly cold bottles of, hopefully not skunked, malt liquor. At 23 Palmer Street, we’d sit in the living room and drink down our two bottles of skunked malt liquor and watch public access television. Normally, you could drink one 40ozer and kick in a solid buzz that would last for a few hours and save you $10 up at the bars. Two 40ozers and you would stagger Uptown and try to hold down your cookies after eating $10 worth of beans and meat at the Burrito Buggy.
This night, Knitter continued to drink once we walked uptown and got himself good and solid hammered. And as we walked uphill/downhill home (we are talking about Athens, Ohio) Knitter decided to trip and fall down on the top of a hill. As he lay prone on the brick street, I realized that it would only take a little effort to get him rolling down the hill. I gave him a generous shove with both hands and he began to roll. Any normal person would have airplaned their arms out and stopped the momentum. Knitter tucked his arms in to minimize friction and continued to roll. As we chased/stumbled after Knitter, a song erupted from my mouth that went a little like this:
(To the tune of "Roll Out the Barrel.")
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
Everyone joined in on the song, (at least the first verse,) and we took turns rolling him down Mill Street. We got Knitter to the bottom of the hill and he shot upright and was able to walk a straight line back to Palmer Street. I think he slept for 38 hours after that.
Fast forward X – 3 years. We are all at a good friend’s wedding reception on Lake Erie. In a show of respect to the happily married couple, we drank our 40ozers out of plastic cups. I was very good friends with the groom, but did not know the bride or her family that well. I met her family at the wedding, but did not interact with them at the reception.
As it turned out, this patch of Lake Erie waterfront had a slope that was perfect for rolling drunk Polish guys down it. Knitter complied and once again we rolled him down the hill singing our now trademarked song:
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
You may not realize this, but drunk guys singing “Roll out the Knitter” may be misheard at a distance. It could have been the crashing of the 2” waves on the shore or the shitty sound system, but the brother of the bride thought he heard us singing something else that night. Here’s what he heard:
“Roll out the n*gger, we’ve got a n*gger of fun!”
And it turns out, that does not go over well at wedding receptions.
The in-law only shared this with a few of his family (not the bride) and kept it bottled in for several months. It came out months later at some family event as the brother of the bride finally released his discontent. Upon this revelation, it was quickly cleared up as to what was actually being said and the in-law felt a bit silly if not a lot silly.
It’s been a long while since I have had the opportunity to tread up/down the hills of Ohio University and longer since I have used leverage and gravity to propel my friend, laughing and grunting down a brick laden street. I haven’t had a 40ozer in years. But I still can sing the song:
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
No, the story is not about how we snuck 32 bottles of different varieties of malt liquor into Chris and Karen’s wedding (to their dismay,) though it does involve another wedding and the consumption of malt liquors.
Let’s go back about X years to Ohio University and a crisp Spring Quarter Saturday night. Earlier that evening, we had a two 40oz party. The night would start with a trip to the Quik-e-mart and the purchase of two 40oz bottles of malt liquor. There was a time in my life where I could list off 12 – 18 varieties of malt liquor. Oh a whim, let’s see what I can pull out of my ass right now:
Colt 45
Cool Colt*
Lazer
Magnum
Red Bull
Schlitz
Crazy Horse
St. Ides
Mustang
Crap. That’s it. Well, I am from Lancaster and not Lorain.
(*Cool Colt was Colt 45 with spearmint flavoring added. I totally forgot about it until recently at a keg party when I didn’t have a cup and used an empty Rumple Minze bottle to drink from. Nothing like a drunk asshole with fresh breath.)
Back at the Quik-e-mart, you would pony up $3.87 of change and leave with two, mostly cold bottles of, hopefully not skunked, malt liquor. At 23 Palmer Street, we’d sit in the living room and drink down our two bottles of skunked malt liquor and watch public access television. Normally, you could drink one 40ozer and kick in a solid buzz that would last for a few hours and save you $10 up at the bars. Two 40ozers and you would stagger Uptown and try to hold down your cookies after eating $10 worth of beans and meat at the Burrito Buggy.
This night, Knitter continued to drink once we walked uptown and got himself good and solid hammered. And as we walked uphill/downhill home (we are talking about Athens, Ohio) Knitter decided to trip and fall down on the top of a hill. As he lay prone on the brick street, I realized that it would only take a little effort to get him rolling down the hill. I gave him a generous shove with both hands and he began to roll. Any normal person would have airplaned their arms out and stopped the momentum. Knitter tucked his arms in to minimize friction and continued to roll. As we chased/stumbled after Knitter, a song erupted from my mouth that went a little like this:
(To the tune of "Roll Out the Barrel.")
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
Everyone joined in on the song, (at least the first verse,) and we took turns rolling him down Mill Street. We got Knitter to the bottom of the hill and he shot upright and was able to walk a straight line back to Palmer Street. I think he slept for 38 hours after that.
Fast forward X – 3 years. We are all at a good friend’s wedding reception on Lake Erie. In a show of respect to the happily married couple, we drank our 40ozers out of plastic cups. I was very good friends with the groom, but did not know the bride or her family that well. I met her family at the wedding, but did not interact with them at the reception.
As it turned out, this patch of Lake Erie waterfront had a slope that was perfect for rolling drunk Polish guys down it. Knitter complied and once again we rolled him down the hill singing our now trademarked song:
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
You may not realize this, but drunk guys singing “Roll out the Knitter” may be misheard at a distance. It could have been the crashing of the 2” waves on the shore or the shitty sound system, but the brother of the bride thought he heard us singing something else that night. Here’s what he heard:
“Roll out the n*gger, we’ve got a n*gger of fun!”
And it turns out, that does not go over well at wedding receptions.
The in-law only shared this with a few of his family (not the bride) and kept it bottled in for several months. It came out months later at some family event as the brother of the bride finally released his discontent. Upon this revelation, it was quickly cleared up as to what was actually being said and the in-law felt a bit silly if not a lot silly.
It’s been a long while since I have had the opportunity to tread up/down the hills of Ohio University and longer since I have used leverage and gravity to propel my friend, laughing and grunting down a brick laden street. I haven’t had a 40ozer in years. But I still can sing the song:
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
Take Back the Night
My friends know me for the sexist pig that I am or rather can be. I am OK with that. Somewhere in the dark, ichor filled cavern that is my soul, I think that I am actually a much nicer guy than that. It’s just so hard to see through the profanity and lust.
For example, being the nice guy that I am, I went to the Take Back the Night march at Ohio University with my friend Chris and his then girlfriend (now wife) Karen. At the time, the march was for women only and Chris did not want to be left standing behind by himself. So I went along. I didn’t think anything of it.
No less than three times during the night, I was accused by people I knew that I was there to pick up chicks. I explained that I was there for Chris’ sake and to support the march. You usually don’t hear much laughing at Take Back the Night, but I did after that explanation.
At the direction of a very loud woman, the women gathered and started the march while the men were left behind. Someone dressed in a lot of black gathered us all up and we formed a discussion circle. The moderator opened up the discussion with the topic of how we could comfort our friends after the march. It opened my eyes to the release of emotion that some of the women would be feeling after the march and I started to understand the whole of the march and why it was so important to some.
And then someone else crushed that empowerment by suggesting that all feminine and masculine forms of words should be banned and that only gender neutral words be allowed in all languages. Oh Christ. The moderator was only able to rope in that thread in the conversation by stepping in the middle of the circle and raising his voice.
In an extremely odd moment, a guy took advantage of the following silence to thank everyone for coming out. He noted that he saw a lot of friends in the circle. He said he was nervous. He paused and nodded. He said felt a lot of positive energy flowing through the men and that was great. And he said that he just wanted to say that he was bi-sexual.
Silence again. He sat there and nodded. More silence. Finally a very effeminate guy in the back of the circle yelled, “Good for you!”
Chris kept elbowing me to see if I was taking it all in or maybe to see if I was going to laugh. The self outing was followed up by a discussion about gayness and bisexualism and his statement that, “I’m not 50% straight and 50% gay… I’m 100% bi-sexual.” Thank the lord that the march returned and the women came over to pick up their friends, sheepish boyfriend, sheepish boyfriend’s friend and now bi-sexual friend.
As we walked uptown, small groups of women huddled together. Comforting each other. Tearing up pieces of paper with the names of the men that hurt them.
I’ll always remember the silence after the dude came out of the closet. You could hear the marching women chanting in the distance.
For example, being the nice guy that I am, I went to the Take Back the Night march at Ohio University with my friend Chris and his then girlfriend (now wife) Karen. At the time, the march was for women only and Chris did not want to be left standing behind by himself. So I went along. I didn’t think anything of it.
No less than three times during the night, I was accused by people I knew that I was there to pick up chicks. I explained that I was there for Chris’ sake and to support the march. You usually don’t hear much laughing at Take Back the Night, but I did after that explanation.
At the direction of a very loud woman, the women gathered and started the march while the men were left behind. Someone dressed in a lot of black gathered us all up and we formed a discussion circle. The moderator opened up the discussion with the topic of how we could comfort our friends after the march. It opened my eyes to the release of emotion that some of the women would be feeling after the march and I started to understand the whole of the march and why it was so important to some.
And then someone else crushed that empowerment by suggesting that all feminine and masculine forms of words should be banned and that only gender neutral words be allowed in all languages. Oh Christ. The moderator was only able to rope in that thread in the conversation by stepping in the middle of the circle and raising his voice.
In an extremely odd moment, a guy took advantage of the following silence to thank everyone for coming out. He noted that he saw a lot of friends in the circle. He said he was nervous. He paused and nodded. He said felt a lot of positive energy flowing through the men and that was great. And he said that he just wanted to say that he was bi-sexual.
Silence again. He sat there and nodded. More silence. Finally a very effeminate guy in the back of the circle yelled, “Good for you!”
Chris kept elbowing me to see if I was taking it all in or maybe to see if I was going to laugh. The self outing was followed up by a discussion about gayness and bisexualism and his statement that, “I’m not 50% straight and 50% gay… I’m 100% bi-sexual.” Thank the lord that the march returned and the women came over to pick up their friends, sheepish boyfriend, sheepish boyfriend’s friend and now bi-sexual friend.
As we walked uptown, small groups of women huddled together. Comforting each other. Tearing up pieces of paper with the names of the men that hurt them.
I’ll always remember the silence after the dude came out of the closet. You could hear the marching women chanting in the distance.
Libertarian Freedom Fighter
At Ohio University, we did a live broadcast called “Fridays Live.” It was a live show that combined real time interviews with pre-packaged movie reviews, Man-On-The-Street bits and some video segments we thought were funny at the time.
Thanks to YouTube, we can all relive those special moments and see what Doug looked like 50 pounds ago.
A warm How-Do to Tony and Craig in the pillow bunker.
Tony is an author and I think Craig is running for re-election in 2008.
Thanks to YouTube, we can all relive those special moments and see what Doug looked like 50 pounds ago.
A warm How-Do to Tony and Craig in the pillow bunker.
Tony is an author and I think Craig is running for re-election in 2008.
Damn! I hope it ain't skunk
I was looking for an easy way out of writing tonight and did so by sifting through a bunch of old crap in a file called “Comics and Keepers.” Within that horrible file folder I found one small nugget of gold.
This is an invitation to a party that Handsome Joe and I threw to celebrate our moving in together into 18 ½ Palmer Street, behind Mr. Fee’s house. It was a 40oz party. I remember putting the two Bs on the label in hopes of getting some B & B.
Little did Joe know that a week later I would move out to take an internship at Lyon Video in Columbus. Joe had to scramble to get another roommate. Scary Gary. Then Knitter. Joe has never really forgiven me.
That apartment had the warmest toilet seat in town due to the location of a wall mounted heating vent right at bowl height. I would go back down to OU to visit and Mr. Fee would get pissed that I was sleeping in the apartment that I ran out on and subsequently was not paying rent on. I had to sneak in and out.
That invitation was created on an Amiga 2000 that I bought from Acton, but I don’t think I ever paid him for it.
Wow. Turns out I am a real asshole.
This is an invitation to a party that Handsome Joe and I threw to celebrate our moving in together into 18 ½ Palmer Street, behind Mr. Fee’s house. It was a 40oz party. I remember putting the two Bs on the label in hopes of getting some B & B.
Little did Joe know that a week later I would move out to take an internship at Lyon Video in Columbus. Joe had to scramble to get another roommate. Scary Gary. Then Knitter. Joe has never really forgiven me.
That apartment had the warmest toilet seat in town due to the location of a wall mounted heating vent right at bowl height. I would go back down to OU to visit and Mr. Fee would get pissed that I was sleeping in the apartment that I ran out on and subsequently was not paying rent on. I had to sneak in and out.
That invitation was created on an Amiga 2000 that I bought from Acton, but I don’t think I ever paid him for it.
Wow. Turns out I am a real asshole.
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