Alan and I ride over to this T.G.I. Friday’s at Kenny and Henderson, to meet Leigh and her roommate Jen for dinner. The ladies polish off a bottle of wine between them, which bodes as a tremendous precursor for our trooping up the road to this Traditions dive. And as soon as I’ve set foot inside the place, I feel as though I might have discovered my next great hangout spot.
Located just up the road from Friday’s, about a block away on Kenny Road, situated between it and the other sports bar I’ve frequented around here, Pockets, this place represents an oasis in the form of nondescript hole. And sure, there are a few televisions sprinkled throughout the precinct, mutely broadcasting a smattering of games, but that’s never the prime attraction here. Its drawing card could be its very ordinariness, the no-frills option of a bar that’s never more than half packed, where you can just sit down and pound the sodas.
You breeze in past this shoulder high bracket of retaining walls, facing a fully carpeted floor and a rectangular bar in the center of the room. A couple of pool tables to your right and a dartboard beyond, a jukebox to your left and row of booths lining the side wall of windows past it. A handful of additional tables up front, tucked in the pocket to your right, along the Kenny Road facing windows, between them and the first pool table. That’s the long and short of this cozy little cubicle of an establishment, the lighting neither bright nor dim, the patrons neither raucous nor despondent, regardless of the day or the hour.
No sooner than our first round of drinks are procured, the girls disentangle themselves from us and claim one of those video trivia machines at one corner of the bar, teaming up to tackle its demands. Alan and I immediately grab an open pool table, which isn’t a problem even on a Saturday night. Brews in hand and with nobody itching to play behind us, we take our time shooting the breeze as much as we are these cues. We’re chilling out in this manner when Speeding Motorcycle blasts out of the jukebox speakers, and the two of us nearly choke on our beers. Alan is doubled over, laughing his head off as I declare, “holy shit! That’s fucked up!” To which he can only nod his head while clutching his stomach. It’s a Daniel Johnston song we’re both familiar with, but this isn’t him singing it – a dash to the source reveals that this is Yo La Tengo on some crazy ass compilation CD.
Bored with the trivia, Jen and Leigh join us for a battle of the genders on this pool table. Though Alan’s even more crocked now, he and I mop up the floors with these two, as the night appears to be upshifting into ever more promising terrain. And then Leigh’s roommate slams the brakes on this entire outing by announcing that she has to go home to study.
“You know, if you study drunk, you have to take the test drunk,” I tell her.
She regards me with flower wilting frostiness, as if this is not only the dumbest thing she’s ever heard, but also, far more damning, that it’s really quite sad I didn’t already know the obvious fact she is about to enlighten me with. “I don’t have a test,” she states.
Leigh attempts to salvage this evening by inviting us back to their place for an afterhours, whatever this might entail. Alan’s of course covered in the nookie department, as his girlfriend’s actually in a pretty damn good mood, by appearances, but it isn’t like I’ve got anything better to do at this moment than ride over there with him. Plus, like the coiled snake you’re warned not to poke, though I’m pretty laid back most of the time, once provoked I really enjoy jumping against the cage at an icy personality like Jen’s. Continuing this rich tradition sounds splendid right about now. So we split into the same configurations by which we’d arrived, with Alan, despite his inebriated state, driving us up to Dublin in his truck.
II.
sign in front of Traditions
And now, a word about its bartenders, a random sampler of some people who have slung drinks here over the years…
Steve: Probably the funniest bartender I’ve ever met, anywhere. There were nights that our stomachs hurt after leaving this place, from all the hilarities he’d unleashed upon us. In fact it seemed like he saved his best gut busting material for the slower evenings, so you’d at least have this predictable form of entertainment, if it was a little light on the eye candy front. Leigh and Jen know Steve somehow, actually, from somewhere other than this bar. And our old neighbor Nicole does, too, as he used to date one of her good friends.
The first night I meet Steve, I’m in here with Alan and Jeff. He’s actually not working, but is rather here with some blonde chick, seated to the left of us. Bartenders are commonly fond of hanging out in the establishments where they work, even off hours, which is admittedly a little weird when you think about it – those of us who have mostly waited tables, for example, typically don’t have a habit of waltzing into our restaurants just for kicks. But he does know a ton of people here, and is getting up often to walk around, hobnobbing with everyone. Alan introduces us, and though I don’t know it, will be seeing an awful lot of Steve for the next handful of years, as this soon turns into my favorite haunt.
As for the blonde, she introduces herself as Aura, says she’s a waitress at 55 Grille on Dublin Rd. Tells us the food there is excellent, to which Steve in passing sticks his head in long enough to agree, before moving onward across the bar. Although at one point he also says to me, “you hitting on her?” and laughs, though it’s true that maybe I’ve been talking to her a bit much. Even if she too doesn’t have much better to do, considering I’m right beside her, and he keeps dipping out. Not that it matters – when Alan and I ask, considering how she raved about the food, how we might arrive up there and have her wait on us, she furrows her brow like we are a couple of idiots. With good reason, I’m sure. “You’d call up and ask if I was working,” she replies.
And now for but a sampler of some top Steve quotes:
“I took Viagra once… split that chick’s ass in half and with Viagra, when you blast, you blast. It made me one and a half times harder, a half inch to an inch longer.”
Steve commiserating to me and Alan once, about a rare cold streak with the ladies, and what will happen the next time he hooks up with one: “it’ll be like Michael Spinks, over in 39 seconds.” However, he has been dating this current chick for about a month, and thinks it will happen the next time he sees her. “Tomorrow night’s the title bout, $39.95 pay per view. I’ll let you guys watch outside through the window,” he adds.
“You guys need to check out this site called Mullets Galore. They have these pictures of the week…one was a mulletard, this guy in a wheelchair. Then they have these profiles. One guy said he was into cocaine, enemas, and fisting…I had to explain to my girlfriend what fisting was.”
“Yeah, I used to hang out with these two girls. I went over to their house one day, okay, and they were out tanning on the balcony. So I took this white tee shirt I had, cut it off so it was just half a shirt, put on nothing but a jock strap, stuffed a can of shaving cream in them and wrote PERVERT on my shirt in big black letters…I walked out to where they were sunbathing and they about died, said they’d give me twenty bucks to go stand out on the side of the road hitchhiking in that outfit…so I did! I’m standing out on Dierker in that tee shirt and jock strap…”
Another visit where Alan and I show up, this is seven months after that first mullet conversation, and Steve greets us as soon as we sit at the bar with, “I’ve got some serious mullet pictures for you guys.” He explains that his latest hobby is sneaking around out in public, stealthily snapping pictures of any mullets that he sees. His favorite recent catch is this guy who looks like “Ron Wood with a mullet,” who is French kissing some girl.
“You’re a dick!” he shouts at some dude across the bar. Then, moments later, a sappy ballad comes on over the jukebox and he places a hand over his heart, tells us, suddenly all sensitive, “this is my song, here.”
Also this exchange:
Steve: “…used to go to school with this guy named Casey Carter, he had the biggest mullet, red hair, feathered back…”
Me: “let me guess, he kept a comb in his back pocket, right?”
Steve: “…’course I used to have a mullet, too , back in high school, had this leather coat, long hair…”
Me: “drive a Camaro, did you?”
Steve: “no, a Fiero”
Drew: This establishment was always overrun with past and current coworkers, especially those who had worked with me at the Damon’s on Olentangy. There for a while Mike Soter could be found throwing darts in the corner just about every time I walked through these doors, and Adam “A-Bomb” Michael was a frequent presence as well; curiously enough, they would tell me that Chris “Mill Run” McAuley was also in here constantly, though I never once bumped into him at Traditions, even when I too couldn’t seem to resist its charms. But the strangest of these is the night some of us enter these premises, and I unexpectedly encounter my former manager Drew Forster standing behind the bar.
“Drew!” I cheer.
“Hi Jason,” he casually replies, wiping down a section of the bar top and not even really noticeably looking up, as though not the least bit surprised, even though it’s been roughly a year and a half since we crossed paths. Or is that he’s not exactly thrilled to see me? It’s true that we got off to somewhat of a rocky start at the restaurant, and he was even the first manager by a mile to write me up for an infraction. But we got along just fine beyond that point. Whatever the case, he will stick around behind the bar here for quite some time.
front view of Traditions
III.
Though it took a short while to grow on me, this bar soon came to feel like the proverbial old pair of shoes. Or maybe more like bathroom slippers, that cozy and familiar. I have easily spent more time here than any other Columbus drinking establishment. I can’t quite explain what the appeal is here, apart from maybe its simplicity and total averageness. Though I think anyone would classify this as a dive bar, it’s never been too rough or downtrodden. It is well lit and carpeted, both of which somehow enhance the appeal. There are nights where it’s packed to the gills, yet also those where you are just about the only soul, seemingly without any discernible pattern. Though you would think this the kind of place that would be haunted by nothing but a bunch of old men, the clientele has proven decidedly diverse, including that crucial demographic of the young attractive female. Incidentally, to date (as I’m sure will continue to remain the case) I have only ever had sex in the parking lot of a bar once, and it happened right here, with Robin, in a car in that side lot facing Old Henderson – although Traditions had by this point long since established itself as my favorite hangout. This wasn’t a reason why, this was an example, in part, of why I loved it in the first place.
Though I’ve never been a smoker, I did appreciate those who went to battle against “the man,” and fought this ruling, for example Traditions’ owner Dimo Kuzmanovski. He and a handful of other proprietors around town spent a couple of years (from roughly 2004-06) battling this new law, to no avail. My first visit here under the new law occurred in February 2006, and Traditions was fighting it in somewhat clever fashion: all smokers were given a plastic cup filled with water. I believe the thinking here is you could quickly douse your butt and throw this out, in case of some unplanned raid or something.
It’s unclear to me if Dimo still owns the place, but I don’t think so. I didn’t realize until doing some online research just now that this is one of five bars in a loosely connected Classics franchise. This one, which opened in 1992, is the oldest, although I’m suddenly fascinated now to learn they have one in Pickerington, also called Traditions. Considering how much time I’ve spent here, checking that one out soon feels like an absolute must.
I’m actually not feeling even remotely inspired in the early evening, waiting on these guys to show. Sleepy, but also lacking that extra gear needed only in the wintertime, where you have to work up additional energy just to go outside. Yet when Alan calls at 10:20 to say they’re on their way, this in itself provides a little more motivation, and also serves notice that I better find a means to rustle up the rest.
Tomorrow, my friends in Bedlam will be playing their first show in 3 1/2 years, and tonight are holding just their second practice to prepare for it. Afterwards, three of the guys are planning on driving down here from the Mansfield area tonight, to crash here and hopefully create a little mischief beforehand.
Score and score on those two fronts, as things will turn out. We are checking all these boxes tonight. All the more remarkable when considering that they don’t even make it here until one o’clock in the morning.
Damon, Alan, and “Big” Paul Linville roll in with a case of Bud Light cans, as well as a 6 pack of bottles. This seems like a lot, maybe, but is really a tad pedestrian for some light domestic beer you’re planning on splitting four ways. Sensing the error of our calculations, without ever coming right out and saying so, the four of us decide to hedge our bets by walking up to Traditions before they roll up their carpet for the night. It’s quite cold, sure, but not too long of a walk, and lively conversation helps pass the time. More of the same awaits us in the form of bartender Steve, who is always on the ready with his endless stream of rapid fire, commonly surreal but always hilarious anecdotes.
“My first threesome was senior prom,” he tells us, a comment, as is usually the case, not even remotely connected to anything we’re discussing. But hey, at least he gets the ball rolling with some amusing chatter. “I had to wait 13 years for another and it cost me $250,” he adds.
All things considered, particularly for a Friday, this isn’t exactly the most action packed night we’ve ever seen in this place. But the cold is surely keeping people away, and whatever the case, though I for one attempt talking to this chick in a U2 tee shirt, the prospects are otherwise limited. We take off just shy of closing time, wind up back at my apartment restless but with no inkling how wild – and wild in a somewhat unprecedented fashion, at that, even for us – this night is about to become.
I’m not really sure how my microwave becomes our sudden focal point. It is on the fritz, though, and suddenly there are jokes aplenty about pitching the thing in creative fashion. Except…what if we didn’t? What if maybe we just messed with my neighbor Nicole instead?
Up until this point, despite living here at Merrimar Circle for about 18 months (with Alan as my roommate for the first year of it), we are actually on good terms with Nicole. She’s kind of bitchy, but you get the sense that much of this is a performative shtick, like some character you would expect to see in a low budget indie drama, hanging out in a coffee shop all the time with a scarf and a beret, chain smoking as she went on and on about how miserable she was. When Alan lived here, though, she would often do a lot of her smoking out on the steps between our apartments, right alongside him, and has continued to pop in and hang out in the living room throughout this run (my ex-girlfriend Jill moved in with me, when Alan decided to shack up with his own woman, and now I am on my lonesome – but more about that at a later date). But that all ends tonight. In fact, none of us ever speak to her again, following this night, one which allegedly finds her filing a police report against us.
Somehow, and no one is quite sure who to credit for this particular stroke of genius, our single minded obsession right now becomes: what if we super glued my microwave to Nicole’s front door? As it just so happens, I have some tubes of glue on the premises, and we decide to give this concept a whirl. For the record, though not depicted in any of these photos, I wasn’t opposed to these pranks in the slightest. It’s just that somebody had to operate the camera, and that wound up being me:
Big Paul, Damon and Alan pondering thy microwave
Preliminary efforts appear to indicate, however, that we don’t quite have enough super glue on hand for the task. Thus, a late night run to the nearest Kroger is required. As I warm up my car and we discuss the matter, however, everyone agrees that hunger is prevailing at the moment, and we might just have enough time to squeeze in a Hounddog’s run first.
So this becomes the official mission, as the four of us head off in that direction. By the time we arrive, it’s almost 3am, but this place is packed. Yet we manage to land one of the few if not only available tables. While wait, these three chicks and one guy from the next table over strike up a conversation with us.
“You look like Pete Townsend,” Damon tells the guy.
“Who’s that?” he says, adds, “people tell me I look like one of the Baldwin brothers.” Yeah, whatever. We call him Pete rest of the night.
Meanwhile, one of the girls tells me, “you look kind of like my old boyfriend Nick.”
Though we are quite clearly in a boisterous mood, with Big Paul, for example, who’s a bit of a klepto, trying to figure out how to steal their gumball machine (note: he gives up on this notion without any actual attempt) and someone else, I can’t quite remember who, smashing a beer bottle outside, our waitress is really cool to us. We order and devour one 16 inch pizza, will wind up taking most of the 10 incher home with us, and she’s extremely patient, she tolerates our crude and probably quite lame jokes. At least up until Damon suggests to her, “let’s crazy glue our nipples together.” At this, she makes a terrified face and scurries away.
But it seems we are not the only ones in some kind of fired up mood tonight. Through the plate glass window facing High Street, we’re watching as this fight threatens to break out between these two frat boy looking fellows on the sidewalk. Instead, there’s just a bunch of shouting, clear up until the cops arrive to separate them. And as if we needed any other prodding to get moving again ourselves, that table next to us, with whom talk has mostly dried up, now stands to leave.
“Hey, no cockblockin, Pete!” Damon jokes, as that guy makes to leave with those three chicks.
We are just stalling now, however, and everyone knows it. The time has arrived to finish the task at hand. Up next is that pit stop at the Olentangy River Road Kroger, to pick up the necessary supplies. Along the way, Alan is cracking us up asking if we remember those old commercials from when we were kids, where that construction worker was dangling from an I-Beam by nothing but his super glued hardhat.
Upon arriving at the store, we make a beeline for the “school supplies” aisle. Yeah, that’s it. School supplies, sure. As the two of us have the most interest in this topic, Alan and I seize every variety they have on hand, begin examining every square inch of the packaging.
“There’s the guy with the hardhat!” I marvel, pointing to one which does indeed depict that scene from those old commercials. Well, sort of.
“Yeah, but where’s the I-Beam?” Alan bellows, like a crotchety grandpa, or maybe someone who feels that this tinkering with history has just ruined his childhood. Instead, for whatever reason, the guy in the hardhat appears to be just sort of sitting down. “Look,” Alan adds, jabbing a finger at the dude, “he’s kickin back in an invisible easy chair, watchin a Rams-Steelers game.”
At the cash register with our small but hopefully adequate arsenal, I ask the checkout kid with a straight face, “does this stuff work on microwaves?” But he doesn’t seem to know the answer.
Soon enough, we are attempting round two here with the grand super glue experiment. Much to our astonishment, though, despite applying tube after tube to the back of this microwave, it just doesn’t want to stick to Nicole’s front door. Someone suggests we support it with a small trash can underneath, until the stuff dries, and we give this a shot. In the meantime, somebody glues pieces of this broken mirror in artful fashion to her door, someone else, uh, which might actually be the most egregious offense of all, applies glue to her lock.
At some point, it occurs to us that there’s probably a very good reason why this glue isn’t working in the slightest, even after supporting it. The temperature outside might be too cold for this glue to take. Well, the cold is nothing that a nice, toasty little fire wouldn’t fix! Not that this is why we decide to set some things on fire. Nope, this is just pyromania for its own sake, destruction as a form of warped comedy.
Only much later, when I think Damon points this out me in the photographs, do I realize that Big Paul is still wearing his shades, though it is now about 4 in the morning. It didn’t seem the least bit odd at the time. Come to think of it, I’m not sure why he had these on at any point, considering it was one a.m. when he arrived. But some people just have a certain “rock star” essence about them, every moment of every day, and he is one such person.
Some of the other neighbors will later tell me that Nicole had filed a police report, but I’m not quite sure when this could have happened. Unless maybe while we were off scoring a late dinner and replenishing our arsenal, although we hadn’t really even gotten started yet. At any rate, upon chucking her burning wreath over the rail and then doing the same with my microwave, it isn’t as though we immediately fall asleep. This case of beer remains relatively untouched still, after all.
To get them in the proper frame of mind for tomorrow’s show, we pop in a dubbed copy I have of Woodstock ’94. At 5:30am, Damon and Paul pass out, the latter while clutching a brew in his hand. Alan and I manage to stay awake for about another half hour, entertaining ourselves with surreal yet hilarious jokes about what would happen if their other guitarist, “Little” Paul Radick just so happened to show up tomorrow – don’t ask me how we got on this kick – only to discover that Damon had somehow super glued a microwave to his left hand.
“Paul will be like, what’s that behind your back, Damon?” Alan theorizes, “and Damon will be like, oh, it’s nothing, pulls out this microwave that stuck to his hand.”
“Yeah,” I agree with a laugh, as it then suddenly occurs to me to add, “he could only play slide guitar that way.”
II.
Okay and so what else was going on around this fair city, on January 14, 2000? Although I’m aware it was technically the 15th by the time these dudes showed up, if I haven’t gone to bed yet, it always makes much more sense to consider it all the same day. Rather than adhering to some arbitrary midnight cutoff. As it turns out, not all was mayhem and destruction in good ol’ Cbus, no sir not at all. Consider these events, all ripped from the headlines. Or at least buried within the free weekly papers, flipped through and copied just now for this piece:
The Wexner Center kicks off a two night series of old German films with Faust, from 1926. In an interesting twist, most of these silent movies are accompanied in-house by local pianist Brian Casey. Variety is the second film showing tonight.
Lily’s Crossing begins at the Riffe Center, through January 30th.
At the Columbus Museum Of Art, they’re screening a Russian film titled The End of St. Petersburg at 1pm, as part of its “From Revolt To Real” series.
“Human jukebox” Matt Avery plays at Cosmo’s. Delyn Christian Band are at Fats. A much bigger act going by the name of Kid Rock plays the Schott.
On this page, I will be discussing noteworthy people who hailed from this fair city, or else made a significant impact upon moving here. I’ve been torn on what to do about OSU athletes, who typically blow into town for 3-4 years and then right back out again, though the Columbus days might represent their most popular era. But I think that will get its own separate post at some point, alleviating this dilemma.
Hanif Abdurraqib
A relatively new-ish writer I’ve started getting into. I had heard about him somewhere, reserved one of his books from the library…and only then learned, upon cracking it open, that he was actually from Columbus. I always love it when things like that happen, because it feels like the universe is sending some giant flashing arrows pointing the direction out for you, that you are headed the right way.
He’s got a strange style that I really dig, both in making some unexpected connections between various topics, but also from the literal style itself – the way he constructs his sentences and the pieces as a whole. The first book I read of his was the essay collection They Can’t Kill Us Until They Kill Us, which is mostly I would say concerned with music criticism. Even here, however, you encounter this unique combination of some really deep insight, yet presented without a ton of academic stuffiness. It’s a potent cocktail that mostly works, to great effect.
On the very first page of that one, he makes an oblique reference to attending Red, White, and Boom, and from there, Columbus references abound: among those that I pick up on are a NOFX show at the Newport Music Hall, Huntington Park, Bexley, Constellations playing at The Basement and their Alpha EP, the band named Defiance Ohio, Scottwood Elementary, Livingston Avenue, MarShawn McCarrel, this Replica of Wales Window from the rebuilt 16th St Baptist Church, a Fall Out Boy show at The Basement, Capital University (here during 9/11, plays soccer), the King-Lincoln Bronzeville district, John Glenn Airport. The most hilarious segment for me though was clearly the one where he’s ripping on Twenty One Pilots.
His next essay collection, A Little Devil In America, doesn’t feature quite as many specific Cbus references, but is equally compelling from a quality standpoint. In that one I know he mentions this former bar on King Avenue called Hampton’s, and German Village, and some noteworthy graffiti spotted in various locations around town. Also discusses his high school without (as far as I noticed) specifically naming which one it was. Although it says on his Wikipedia page that he graduated from Beechcroft, so that must be it.
George Bellows
As one of the celebrated “Ashcan” artists of the early 1900s, Bellows seems to have recognized his calling in life at a very early age. Even in elementary school, his teachers would often adore their classrooms with this artwork. He was also a decent baseball and basketball player, taking all these talents with him to OSU, where among other things he contributed drawings for the student yearbook. Upon graduation, his parents were hoping he would do something a little more “respectable” career-wise. But, alas, he moved to New York City and became a famous painter instead.
Bizzy Bone
This founding member of celebrated hip-hop group Bone-Thugs-n-Harmony happens to be the only one who doesn’t originally hail from Cleveland. That’s right, he actually grew up here, at least up through the age of four. His story is far crazier than you might be aware, however, considering he was abducted at that age and taken to Oklahoma by his mom’s boyfriend. The authorities only found him a couple of years later, after his photo appeared in the end credits for the movie Adam.
Unlike many of the other future celebrities in this post, however, he did in fact return to Columbus and continue to maintain roots here. In fact, he was spotted constantly in the Morse Road Kroger where I worked. During these occasions whispers would circulate through the store mighty quickly: “Bizzy Bone’s here…psst…Bizzy Bone just came in the store!” So I think he must have lived nearby. Yet although always into Bone Thugs from their first album onward, I’m not quite sure why, either I was too timid or too cool at the time, but I never shouted out a hello and certainly never ran up to speak to him. Which now seems quite stupid.
Pat Borders
Referring to his semi-obscure catcher as “famous” might be a stretch, but I think anyone who makes it to the major leagues has a somewhat legitimate claim to that title. And he did after all win a couple of World Series, in fact was MVP of the ’92 Fall Classic. Yes he did move to Florida at a young age, just one of the many figures on this list who doesn’t have any apparent Columbus ties beyond that point. But he played for Indians for 3 years, so that’s something, and is also oddly enough one of just two American born players in history to have won a World Series and an Olympic gold medal (stranger still, both hailed from Ohio.)
Bernie Casey
When I worked at Wild Oats, we had this janitor we referred to as “U.N. Jefferson” based upon his vague resemblance to that character from Revenge Of The Nerds. Unbeknownst to us at the time, however, the guy who actually played U.N. Jefferson in the movie…graduated from East High School, right here in Columbus!
Talk about a mind-blowing coincidence, when eventually discovering this. But in all seriousness, Bernie Casey would wind up enjoying a fascinating career, clear up until his death in 2017. He starred at Bowling Green as an athlete, made All-American while there, then spent 8 years playing football in the NFL, during which he made one Pro Bowl and enjoyed moderate stardom. And only then did he get into acting, eventually compiling a far more illustrious resume than I’m sure even he could have possibly envisioned – one that will include numerous guest spots on TV, appearances in a Scorcese movie and a James Bond movie, a surprising amount of other hit films but then also, yes, possibly his most famous role, in a few chapters of that Nerds franchise.
Beverly D’Angelo
This famous actress is from the Upper Arlington area. Her grandpa, Howard Dwight Smith, designed the Shoe, among other buildings around town, and her dad, Gene D’Angelo, worked at WBNS.
Jay DeMarcus
Bass player for Rascall Flatts hails from Columbus and lived here his entire childhood. He attended the Tree Of Life Christian school and also that Fort Hayes magnet school.
Buster Douglas
This unknown boxer came from out of nowhere in 1990 to take down an undefeated Mike Tyson, thus winning the heavyweight crown.
Guy Fieri
Vaguely amusing Food Network guy who reminds me of my old friend Doug, except with spiky blonde hair. This is the sanitized TV version of Doug, mannerisms intact but minus the foul behavior. If left to his own devices, however, Doug would have come up with a way better show than Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives.
In his first ever book, 2008’s Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives: An All American Road Trip…with Recipes! Fieri lists his top 60 restaurants in the country. Not a single Ohio eatery makes the list, much less one from Columbus. I alternate between thinking this is completely ridiculous, versus grudgingly admitting it’s kind of cool and maybe displays a little integrity. Then again, if he couldn’t find a single restaurant from his hometown to list among the country’s finest, he probably wasn’t trying hard enough. Then again, I think he moved away from Columbus at a fairly early age.
Hank Gowdy
In a town famous for its athletes, he just might crack the top ten list for those born here. And is likely the most famous baseball player who took his first breath in Columbus. His statistics actually don’t look that remarkable, although in a 17 year MLB career, interrupted by his service in WWI, he compiled a solid defensive track record. But what he’s most known for today, apart from appearing in a few World Series and winning a couple of them, is that he was the only major leaguer to serve in both World Wars – that’s right, at the age of 53, he went right on ahead and enlisted all over again. In 1918 he was in fact the first MLB player to enlist in WWI, period. He later went on to manage the Cincinnati Reds, among other coaching gigs. After dying at the ripe old age of 76, Gowdy Field was named in his honor, and he is buried here in Columbus.
Unfortunately, Gowdy Field fell into disrepair after a number of years. Owing to its prior status, it is given a West 3rd Avenue address, although the actual field part remaining is nowhere near 3rd Avenue now.
Bob Greene
You know, it’s surprising what wacky careers a lot of these people have had, even ones you maybe sort of thought you knew quite a bit about. Greene, who was born in Bexley in 1947, would become an award winning journalist for the Chicago Tribune, in addition to providing commentary on the TV news show Nightline. He has also written countless popular books.
Prior to this, though, there are the expected cutting teeth type stints working for a couple Columbus papers. Okay, that’s all well and good and mostly expected. But then also what about his time spent singing and playing guitar on the road with the surf rock group Jan and Dean? Huh? Oh yeah, and he went on to play…Santa Claus…for Alice Cooper’s tours in the early 1970s.
Well, I mean, it doesn’t sound like this guy left much on the table, I have to tell you. If curious to find out more, his books And You Know You Should Be Glad and Late Edition cover his early days growing up in Bexley and working for those C-bus papers, respectively.
Rahsaan Roland Kirk
Ah, now this is more like it. This internationally renowned jazz musician was born in the now defunct Flytown neighborhood in 1935. An accident at the age of 2 rendered him blind, although it’s likely that the unfortunate loss of this sense did heighten his musical sensibilities. He would later study at the OSU School For The Blind and is in fact most likely its most famous alumnus. At the time, locals mostly thought his music sucked and he had to travel elsewhere to gain an audience – only much later would C-bus realize the error of its ways and come to embrace his excellence. Sounds about right. Mayor Jack Sensenbrenner did apparently announce on December 10, 1970, that it was officially “Rahsaan Roland Kirk Day,” but its honoree had long since left town by this point.
Roy Lichtenstein
This famous modern artist lived on Iuka for a while, near the OSU campus, and now has a statue at the airport.
Lil’ Bow Wow
Although he would soon drop the “Lil'” from his name, I think most of us can agree that Bow Wow (Shad Moss) is still mostly referred to by this name. This rapper’s big claim to fame is he was performing at some L.A. show at the age of 6 and somehow caught the attention of Snoop Dogg. He would appear in the video for Gin N’ Juice a short while later, then eventually launch his own recording career at the ripe old age of 13. He enjoyed some top ten hits and even headlined the movie Like Mike, and is still somehow just 37 as of this writing.
Jerrie Mock
Almost nobody knows that she is the first woman to fly solo around the world, which is kind of sad. I feel like 99.9% of the people on the planet would get this wrong – as would I, until stumbling upon this factoid during my research here. She left Columbus on March 19, 1964 and returned just shy of a month later, on April 17. I’d never heard of her until recently, but love this story now. Which I guess is the point of this historical digging. This still seems somewhat insane to me, actually. How many of us, even now, for various reasons, would have problems flying around the globe in less than a month? Her plane was called Spirit Of Columbus and the TV show Family Ties once used that name for an episode, too – though it’s unclear if this was a coincidence, or intentionally done in her honor.
Jack Nicklaus
Everyone knows that he still holds the record for lifetime Majors won, which Tiger Woods has yet to take down despite his many comebacks. But these are all yawn inducing, in a way. What is local legend Jack Nicklaus really like, behind the scenes? This is what the people demand to know. Well, I can tell you that my stepdad caught him in action once during a Memorial tournament, and was less than impressed. He happened to be standing in the clubhouse and by chance witnessed the Golden Bear exiting a men’s room, at which point the golfing legend immediately reamed the nearest random employee, in front of everyone present, over the condition of said restroom.
Employee: Yes, Mister Nicklaus, I will take care of that as soon as possible.
Jack Nicklaus: No, you will take care of that now!
The spectators present, in a possible foreshadowing of his actual performance that day, exchange horrified glances. This is pure speculation, but I am hazarding a guess that the ongoing weather conditions at his signature tournament may have played a part in Jack’s foul attitude. If you do your research, you will discover that they basically bulldozed over Native American figurehead Chief Leatherlips’s stomping/burial grounds to build this golf course. From which point it began mysteriously raining at the Memorial tournament every year, except in the years it snowed. In late May. In more recent years they even tried moving the tournament up a week, except it has begun raining that weekend instead now. Naming a nearby road after Leatherlips has failed to appease him. I think you might have to knock off Nicklaus and/or reforest the golf course to reestablish this delicate balance.
Lest you think this superstitious nonsense, be advised that Barbara Nicklaus, Jack’s wife, has twice brought a glass of gin to place at Leatherlips’s current grave, upon hearing rumors that this would remedy the situation. The second time, the not-at-all-desperate-or-washed-up-jackass golfer husband drove her there. Although dismissing the entire plot as hokum, of course.
Paul O’Neill
Not to be confused with the former Secretary of the Treasury who spells his name the same way, this Paul played major league baseball for the Reds and Yankees from 1985 to 2001. He won a batting title in ’94, was named to a handful of All-Star teams, and is one of just 30 players to have won 5 World Series titles (one with the Reds, four with the Yankees). Oddly enough, he is also the ONLY player in history to have played on the winning side of three different perfect games. As far as his local ties are concerned, he went to Brookhaven High School.
I always thought he seemed like a cool, low key kind of guy. An impression that’s bolstered by listening to him in the broadcast booth after his playing days ended. Of course, all the modern reader probably cares about is that he also appeared in an episode of Seinfeld.
Tom Poston
This actor is most famous as a regular on Newhart, but guest starred in what looks like approximately every TV show you ever heard of from the 1950s up through 2007. He was born here in 1921, and graduated high school here, but doesn’t appear to have had much to do with C-bus beyond this point.
Brady Quinn
Even rarer a specimen than the Archie Griffin/Michael Redd type athlete (born here, starred at OSU) is one like Brady Quinn: born here, but starred at a completely different college. In his case, after setting the world on fire as a QB at Dublin Coffman, earning him mountains of praise in the Dispatch and elsewhere, he enrolled at Notre Dame and set numerous records there. Then the NFL came calling, beginning with a busted stunt helming the Browns, although he did manage to stick around with various teams for 7 seasons.
Michael Redd
You’ll see some conflicting reports, but most have it that future NBA star Michael Redd was born in Columbus. At the very least, he definitely grew up here, and attended West High – this makes him one of those relatively rare athletes who not only starred at OSU but actually hailed from our fair city as well. I remember following the big season, I think it was ’99, when he and Scoonie Penn took the Buckeye basketball team deep into the March Madness tournament. In 2000, he was drafted by the Milwaukee Bucks, and would wind up playing eleven seasons for them, followed by a final hurrah with the Phoenix Suns.
Eddie Rickenbacker
This world famous fighter pilot from WWI was born in Columbus and would eventually have an airport named after him here. At the age of two or three, his family purchased and moved into a house on Livingston Avenue, where he would live for the remainder of his childhood. Rickenbacher (as his name was originally spelled, before he changed it as an adult) worked as a teenager for both the Oscar Lear Automobile Company and Columbus Buggy Company. Prior to his career as a pilot, he was actually a race car driver of considerable reknown. And then in the 30s and 40s, oddly enough, he penned a popular comic strip named Ace Drummond. Upon his death in 1973, he was buried in Green Lawn Cemetery.
Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr.
Born in Columbus and just like his daddy (a historian at OSU), Junior here would make his name mostly in the field of American history. He won a pair of Pulitzer Prizes for his books – exactly twenty years apart – wrote speeches for presidential candidate Adlai Stevenson, and later even worked for JFK as a historian. Unfortunately, like many of the figures on this page, he does seem to have basically blown out of town at an early age and had little to do with Columbus as an adult.
Alice Schille
Another famed painter, Alice enjoyed a long, incredibly prolific career spent living and eventually dying in Columbus. She attended Columbus Art School before continuing her education in New York. But then also traveled extensively, picking up considerable knowledge in the process, along with numerous awards such as the gold medal in a 1915 exhibition at Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts.
She is mostly known for her watercolors, forever (or at least we’d like to think) putting to bed the disrespect often paid to this medium. Her work is still on display all over this city and beyond. Following her 1955 death at the age of 86, she was buried at Green Lawn Cemetery, just like Rickenbacker and many of these other notable figures.
Jeff Smith
This cartoonist, creator of the Bone comic book series, has lived in Columbus for most of his life. Its origins trace back to a strip called Thorn he contributed to OSU paper The Lantern, however, as some of the characters first appeared there. So yeah, after graduating from Worthington High, he enrolled at Ohio State. Then he and buddy Jim Kammerud formed an animation studio called Character Builders, during which they created ads for White Castle and the introductory sequence for a Jack Hanna show called Super Safari, among other noteworthy gigs.
Only later, in 1991, would he launch the Bone series and form his own comic book company. My friend Kevin Spain briefly worked for Smith in some sort of office lackey role during the early years, and says he’s a really nice guy. Nonetheless, though I own a couple issues and have tried getting into it, I am forced to admit that this just isn’t my cup of tea.
George Steinbrenner
This future owner of the New York Yankees was assigned to Lockbourne Air Force Base in 1952. Though he and his family were based more out of Cleveland, George would maintain close ties with Columbus all the way up until his death. At Lockbourne, he was first an aide to the commanding general, then was placed in charge of its athletic program.
He also coached their baseball team! Once, during his first season of doing so, OSU’s junior varsity squad showed up for a game, much to George’s distress. When making the schedule, he thought he was booking a game against their varsity team. Thus, is shouting at them to stay on the bus and to drive it back the way they came. Is further enraged when their coach talks him into playing anyway, and they proceed to pummel Lockbourne. Elsewhere on base, he runs track and sets the record for the 440 yard low hurdle. Also sets up some kind of coffee and donut operation, selling these out of trucks around the base.
In 1954, George will wind up transferring to Ohio State, to pursue his Master’s degree in phys ed. Attends a ton of football games, hangs out watching practice. During this time he’s also somehow employed as the assistant football and basketball coach at St. Thomas Aquinas High. George has at least one class with star OSU running back Howard Cassady, and the two become good friends. Through Cassady, Steinbrenner will meet his future wife, fellow OSU student Elizabeth Joan Zieg. Her dad, Harold Zieg, was a bigtime local developer and Buckeye football booster.
The Steinbrenner stories tend to weave in and out of town from this point forward. In 1973, while attempting to purchase the Yankees, he will enlist one of the Lazarus heirs, Charlotte Witkind, as a minority investor. Six years later, he moves their AAA minor league team to town, and switches its name from the Jets to the Clippers. There is one amusing anecdote from July of that year, when Steinbrenner has just flown into town to check up on the team. After landing at Columbus International, he catches a cab and is en route to the hotel when he happens to hear Clippers manager Gene Michael being interviewed on the radio. It’s a local station and the interviewer is asking him if he would like to have the recently opened manager post up in Cleveland. When Michael admits that he might, George flips out and tells the cabbie to drive him to Cooper Stadium instead. Lurks around in wait for Gene to show up, and then verbally assails the dude when he does. Although cooler heads eventually prevail during this same conversation, and Steinbrenner offers him a GM job with the Yankees instead.
I happened to see Steinbrenner around town here just once, having breakfast at the Damon’s where I worked. We peeked around the corner, watching him dine with some other guy, but were not about to approach and interrupt. Everyone said he was part owner of either the attached Parke Hotel or the restaurant or both, although I’m not sure to what extent.
Jermaine Stewart
Singer most famous for We Don’t Have To Take Our Clothes Off was born here in 1957. And just off the top of my head, up until Twenty One Pilots came along, I might say that’s the biggest hit ever for a Columbus born musician, that I’m aware of. His family did move to Chicago, which is where he ultimately first made his mark, but this didn’t happen until he was a teenager.
R.L. Stine
I somehow only recently learned that this author is from Columbus, even though he has to be the best-selling writer this city has produced. James Thurber is surely still more of a household name, however, so that’s something. I was a little too old for Goosebumps and Fear Street, his most popular series, but a recent Netflix trilogy based on the latter was very good. Born in Bexley, he attended OSU and even worked on The Sundial for a few years. He then created the magazine Bananas (which seems vaguely familiar) and since then has published a mind numbing arsenal of books. It will seriously make your brain hurt to look up a list of all the stuff this dude has written. And here I feel like some battle tested warrior for cranking out one short article a month. Pssh. Even though, to my knowledge, I’ve not read any of his books, and can’t speak of the quality, this is still a mighty impressive resumé. He also apparently had a cameo in the first two Goosebumps movies.
Dave Thomas
Though he only wound up settling here in roundabout fashion as an adult, Columbus was the site of his breakthrough business triumphs, and he remained a fixture on the scene basically until his death.
I didn’t realize how much he had going on in Cbus until reading his autobiography, Dave’s Way. Though presented as a somewhat wacky motivational book giving “tips” to aspiring entrepreneurs, I have to admit, this was way more engaging than expected. Then again, I was cracking up long before page one, just to observe Jack Nicklaus’s bullshit soundbite on the back cover. Here’s the quote in its entirety:
“Dave has written an entertaining book, which I am sure you’ll find very enjoyable.”
Okay, so the Golden Bear clearly didn’t even read the thing. I’m conjuring up this mental image of it sitting on this table beside his front door for a couple of months. Then maybe he’s passing through the headquarters of Jack Nicklaus, Inc. one day and the secretary is holding her hand over the phone receiver, telling him Dave Thomas is on the line asking about some praise for his book jacket. A slightly out of breath and irritated Jack recites this nonsense on the spot before continuing to his office.
But anyway, onto the specifics. Most of this I had no clue about apart from the big ticket items about Dave opening the first ever Wendy’s in Columbus. So here are some of the major points. Apparently, while working as assistant manager for a two store restaurant chain in Ft. Wayne, Dave Thomas became one of the first people in the country to get mixed up with Colonel Sanders. The old colonel I must say comes off as a dangerous if crafty lunatic in many of these pages.
Anyway, Dave became somewhat smitten with Col. Sanders’s business acumen and even took to wearing white suits with black string ties himself for a while. There’s a hilarious photo in this book of the two of them side by side at the Ohio State Fair, sporting this very getup, as Dave is holding a trophy for some “Grand Champion” chicken they presented here.
How they got from Ft. Wayne to Columbus is itself pretty fascinating. In 1959, the colonel gets this idea about hooking up a couple of real estates buddies he has in Cbus, with Dave Thomas’s boss over in Indiana. His name is Phil Clauss, and he owns that two store Hobby Ranch House Take-Home operation (I couldn’t even begin to tackle the origin of this name here, so don’t ask). Sanders approaches Clauss about opening some restaurants in Columbus. These figures agree to combine forces for this venture, although Clauss, to his credit, insists he will only do so if his “vice-president,” Dave Thomas, who is in fact still manning a grill every day, is appointed operational advisor to this program.
In the early going, Dave’s driving to Columbus once a month, but this business is bombing out miserably. Finally the three guys running the show (Sanders is more in the background barking orders at this point) convince Thomas he needs to actually move to Columbus to straighten out these clowns. Clauss is confident enough in his boy here that he buys out the other two guys, and works out a deal with Thomas that Dave can have 40% of the company if he manages to turn it around.
His first order of business is to clean house. One of the lists he’s included in this book, Dave’s Six Steps For Bringing Back A Dying Business, is absolutely priceless. Much to my delight (and surely many a coworker I’ve had over the years would feel the same way), Tip #1 is “get rid of the dead wood in management.” Anyhow, after mission accomplished on this front, he also installs air conditioning at the four restaurants, trims the menus way down from a positively insane 100 offerings to maybe a dozen…but then also renames them the still quite baffling Colonel Sanders Kentucky Fried Chicken Take Home. More hilarious yet, the namesake himself, Harland Sanders, is telling Dave he’s nuts and should pull out of town before it’s too late.
Even so, however improbably, things are on the upswing. Dave and the family buy a house in Westerville, and things improve to the extent that a 5th restaurant is opened in ’67. By this point he has made good on his deal with Clauss and now owns 40% of these puppies. He tries out all manner of wacky promotions, down to teaming up with this ice cream place across the street from one location on BOGO type deals between the two businesses. Most significantly, Dave has this idea about rotating, illuminated chicken buckets for the company signs, which Sanders instantly falls in love with and installs at KFC locations everywhere. So, yes, the world famous Kentucky Fried Chicken Of Ft. Wayne Indiana actually owes this debt to Columbus Ohio.
On to more pertinent points, a year later, in 1968, KFC has exploded to the extent that Clauss and Thomas sell their five Columbus stores back to the parent company at a huge profit. Dave’s then kind of slumming it for a while with various corporate roles with KFC before quitting, after a tiff with his higher-ups. By this juncture he’s already a millionaire anyway and doesn’t need this crap. He accepts a job running Arthur Treacher’s while he contemplates his next move. Having purchased a car from Immke Buick, he’s become good friends with that local dealership’s kingpin, Len Immke, and the two of them often hit the Columbus Athletic Club to work out together, while Dave airs his thoughts on ideas to revolutionize the fast food hamburger industry.
Dave says the two of them commonly drink beer in the steam room while discussing these concepts. Which might defeat the purpose of hitting the gym in the first place, although you have to admit it’s kind of cool. Anyway following one of these powwows, they decide to swing by the club’s diner for lunch, only to discover it’s closed. This sets off a life changing rant by Immke.
“See, Dave it’s what I’ve been telling you,” Immke says, “it’s tough to get a meal downtown at the noon hour. We really ought to have a hamburger operation down here.”
Something clicks in this moment. In a virtual instant, Thomas decides to buy this business space from Immke, on West Broad Street. It’s a closed down restaurant that Len had fairly recently purchased from former New York Yankee great Tommy Henrich. At the time of this conversation it’s being used to stage brand new Buicks before they reach the showroom at Immke’s dealership down the street, and the bar area is entirely cobwebbed from disuse. These two are driving around Columbus one day and Dave, after mulling over this matter an eternity, suddenly latches upon the name Wendy’s, a nickname for his youngest daughter Melinda.
This first location opens on November 15, 1969, with three full-time employees. In this book, which came out in 1991, Dave mentions that original employee Gloria Ward Soffe is still with the company, which is another heartwarming touch to read about somehow. The mayor is on hand for this opening, as is company mascot Melinda, in pigtails with blue bows in them, who at 8 years old admits halfway through the day that smiling so much is making her mouth hurt.
That stuff about the opening is somewhat common knowledge, though, and vaguely familiar to me. What I didn’t realize, however, is that the second ever Wendy’s location was opened on Henderson Road, about a year later, and that this is the first one with a drive-thru window. Both here and elsewhere, they actually attempt operating separate grills at this restaurant, a distinct kitchen each for the dine-in and drive-thru customers, for a number of years. All the more zany, it bears mentioning, Dave was somehow still on the payroll at Arthur Treacher’s, too, doing the same theoretical work as always, and the 2nd largest stockholder, until he was certain this Wendy’s concept would really take off.
When it was still a two store operation, he cut in a trio of local friends on ownership, and the four of them cleaned house after Wendy’s went skyward. One of them, Ron Musick, was renting an apartment in Worthington at the time, and essentially told his wife to piss off when she was questioning this investment. This foursome moved into an office on Henderson, one which also housed a Coca-Cola arm of sorts, some Anchor Hocking glass operation, and other oddball businesses. Dave recounts here that, although at the time of writing this book, he was sitting in a much fancier office up in Dublin, that these Henderson Road days were actually his favorite. The four of them and their wives were here all the time, in this cramped but vibrant atmosphere, and there were days where they had hundreds of thousands of dollars stacked in the hallway, despite the other businesses in the building, if the banks happened to be closed at that hour.
By 1979, Dave Thomas is receiving a Horatio Alger award from Norman Vincent Peale at the Neil House downtown. OSU donates a chair for his fancy office up in Dublin, joking that he never had enough seats at the original location. Still, though we are definitely in victory lap terrain by this point, it’s impressive how he keeps pumping up the legends of even obscure local people he has known throughout the years. Roger Webb, who was just a student in the accounting department at OSU way back in those early days of Wendy’s, grinding his way through this fast food gig for pocket change, is mentioned as having made many important contributions during totally random conversations he had with Dave in that Broad Street restaurant. Thomas is also quite enthralled with this Jim Near character, a Columbus figure who is eventually appointed chairman of Wendy’s.
In summary, I think Dave was probably a mostly cool older guy you would have rolled your eyes at if working for, even as you reluctantly learned a few things from him. It’s nice to see him mention in passing a few charitable things he did, too, to give back to the community. Recreation Unlimited, a camp for the disabled which he was encouraged to support by sportscaster Jimmy Crum, and Charity Newsies, a vaguely familiar concept I seem to remember, where they would sell newspapers on street corners to buy clothes for kids, were a couple of his pet causes. Daughter Pam was also in charge of the volunteer program in Columbus as well.
My parents actually went out to dinner with Dave Thomas once. The photo above is taken from that night, though I’ve cropped them out of it – sorry, folks, but you don’t quite make the cut on this particular post. In case you’re wondering, though, what restaurant did Dave immediately recommend, during a brief discussion on where to eat? Why it was Wendy’s, of course, and this is precisely where they went.
Philip Michael Thomas
Actor most famous for playing Tubbs on Miami Vice was born here in 1949 but moved away at (you guessed it) a very early age.
Kenan Thompson
This highly entertaining actor technically hails from here, yes, but might have set a record on this page by leaving town before he was even a year old. And therefore it’s highly unlikely he gets too teary eyed reminiscing about ol’ Columbus.
James Thurber
I recently finished The Years With Ross, which is a memoir about his time spent working at The New Yorker. This is the first thing of his that really made much of an impression on me. We did, of course, have to read The Secret Life of Walter Mitty in high school, and while that famous short story does have a memorable premise that you basically never forget, I wouldn’t say it meant much to this particular teenager at the time.
The Years With Ross has a great atmosphere to it, though, about life on a magazine staff, and is also laugh-out-loud funny in spots. Mostly it is of course concerned with NYC tales, although Thurber does include a few short anecdotes about Columbus here and there.
I also have Fables for Our Time and Famous Poems Illustrated in my collection, and just read that one. The first few paragraphs have you thinking that this is going to be a silly enterprise, but it’s actually pretty hilarious much of the time. In fact, these days I mentally lump Thurber in with Twain because it’s surprising to me how funny these guys still are after all these years. Each of these fables features one or two of James’s own illustrations, of course, and a moral at the end, the most comical of which might be, it is better to have loafed and lost than never to have loafed at all.
The famous poems section is more of a head scratcher to me, although then again I don’t know anything about poetry. All you can say is that these timeworn pieces (by Longfellow, Tennyson, etc) must have meant something to him, considering he drew even more illustrations for these than he did the fables. Regarding the artwork, it’s basic but effective enough, about on par with what you’d expect from a newspaper comics section. These can provide a surprising amount of comedy themselves, however, like for example this sheep at a typewriter on the cover, which conveys a great deal of emotion somehow despite its basic form. It would have been interesting, actually, to see how Thurber would have fared in some alternate universe, if wholly dedicating himself as a newspaper comics creator instead – I’m guessing he would have done quite well in that medium.
Overall, this collection makes me wonder if John Lennon wasn’t striving for something similar with his own bizarre books. If so, he missed the mark considerably. Anyway, as far as Columbus references are concerned, he mentions the city just once, in passing during one of these fables.
Twenty One Pilots
Well, there’s no avoiding it any longer – it’s time to address the heathens in the room. Now, I know some people have been known to protest, “nuh uh! They come from the suburbs, dude! It doesn’t count!” But I don’t know about any of that. They bill themselves as a Columbus band and I can’t find any evidence to contradict it.
On September 8, 2021, they played a Sirius exclusive show, broadcast from the Newport Music Hall. I happened to catch this and am really glad that I did so. Prior to hearing this, I have to admit I liked Heathens and that was pretty much it. But they kind of won me over with this performance. Before the show there was even a little intro interview and the two main members (Tyler Joseph and Josh Dun) came across as chill and even hilarious at times. They threw out mentions to Hounddog’s Pizza and “that car dealer guy…carrying an acoustic guitar around everywhere he went,” (Fred Ricart), for example, so that’s something. As far as the show, the drummer (Dun) displays some serious chops, and they played a lot of deeper cuts that I’d never heard before. The singer (Joseph) has pipes, too, and while it started to get a smidgen repetitive by the end – and I’m still not a fan of a couple hits there where he kind of sounds like Eminem trying to pull off reggae, or something – overall this appearance has me wanting to check out more of their material. The songwriting was often much weirder and edgier than expected, even if the crowd (singing along with virtually every word) clearly leans toward the teenybopper demographic, and the whole enterprise seems like something Jared Leto might be into. Which makes total sense considering the soundtrack Heathens initially appeared on.
So I guess this is my dark secret, confessing that I kind of dig this band now. We are surely a minority creeping around in the shadows. Or maybe not – I seem to recall reading somewhere that Twenty One Pilots were the best-selling rock group of the 2010s. This despite not getting a ton of press, and hailing not from LA or New York, but Columbus Ohio. That last point gets stranger and stranger the more I think about it.
Dwight Yoakam
In the pre-internet days, you would hear all kinds of crazy rumors, and begin to tune most of these out after a while. Having said that, I never heard anyone whatsoever suggest that Dwight Yoakam spent a great deal of his formative years in Columbus, although this happens to be true.
In retrospect, in these modern times, it seems way more obvious than it was back then. My parents actually received Hillbilly Deluxe on cassette as a Christmas present the year it was released, and we wore that bad boy out. Readin’, ‘Rightin’, Rt. 23 was a family favorite, though you would have been considered a cheesy flake at the time to suggest he was talking about the route 23 which passed not that far from our house…even though we would eventually discover he was.
Beyond that point, I actually caught Panic Room during its original run, at Studio 35. It’s crazy to think now that he graduated high school maybe ten minutes away from there, but I had no clue at the time. Not to mention that Studio 35 actually sits on the route in question, 23. By then he was already famous for Sling Blade and it seemed like he might transition into acting completely. Yet Nashville or Bakersfield were distant concepts which basically might have been located halfway across our galaxy, not to mention I had no idea still that he spent most of his childhood here, even attended OSU for a while. In the 2000 presidential election it turns out I actually voted at Dwight’s old high school, but wouldn’t realize this for another ten years or so. He graduated from Northland in ’74, before briefly enrollling at OSU, then blowing out of town for good.
But then on the flipside, well, there must have been something there, to explain why he’s not only one of the few “modern” (as in, mid 80s onward) country guys you don’t just tolerate, but have somewhat liked from the outset. And this is reassuring when it happens, in a way, that somehow your subconscious vibed with a musician and you weren’t sure why, except instinctively knowing it wasn’t quite the same old thing everyone else was doing. Which was true for a lot of us, I think.
Well, I can’t even believe it. But I just found out DiMarco’s is gone, replaced by something called The Crescent Lounge. In what strikes me as comical yet fitting fashion, though, they seem to have kept half of the DiMarco’s marquee sign intact and unchanged – that entire right side, where it says LIVE MUSIC in white letters on a black background, POOL DARTS & PINBALL below it in red on a white background. Funnier still, though passing underneath this sign countless times, and though I can see some Facebook posts talking about live music…if you had asked me, I would have guessed they did not have live music here, because I can’t remember seeing any in the hundreds of hours I’ve spent in this place.
At least Ange’s Pizza next door is still an ongoing operation, and that corrugated blue header that runs atop this tiny strip (it presently includes Quenching Caverns Drive Thru and Northwest Cleaners as well) continues to visually tie this era to that of previous occupants. And what difference does a name make, anyway, right? Though I knew DiMarco’s previous owners, from coming in here often, and am sad they no longer have this, otherwise I’m thinking little has probably changed. Probably the same vibe, and many of the same regulars. Nonetheless, something about a change like this inevitably leads you to a stroll down memory lane…
DiMarco’s is a simple dive bar with a pair of real dartboards along the back wall, one pool table near the front picture window and not much else. Booths around the rim, and wobbly mismatched tables in the middle, square and shoved together in blocks of two or three. Jukebox topheavy with 1980s hair metal the clientele has never stopped listening to, one large screen television between the pool table and the entrance. This place might not have much of that elusive element, class, but enough that nobody’s cracking someone else over the head with a pool cue. Everyone here’s a friend, including the squat blonde middle aged barmaid Jan, quick to smile, her slightly pudgy right hand man Zerby, wiry black curls distributed sparsely across his prematurely balding pate, large black eyeglasses lending him the appearance of an owl. They are always here, I’m told. A schedule as religious as the price slashes they apply each trip to the bar, just because we know Doug and the Yanik sisters.
This has at no point ever been my favorite bar in town, but I sure have spent a ton of time here, nonetheless. Enough friends who lived up this way did consider it their top spot, to where the rest of us wound up here constantly by default. There’s so many random memories swirling around my head about this place, as is often the case, that it’s difficult to determine what episodes or details to share.
I know I’ve spent at least two Halloweens here, including the 2001 edition. As far as other memories are concerned…Roy, Doug Fogle and I once caught a ride here in a pizza delivery girl’s pickup, in an absolute downpour. A bunch of us had been at Polo’s and virtually everyone else in our crew already left on foot for DiMarco’s. By virtue of hanging around just a smidgen too long, the three of us are caught up in this rain, though we don’t know it until stepping out the front door.
“Hey,” Roy says, spotting a pizza joint next door, “let’s wait in there until this lets up.”
We walk over and begin rattling the locked glassdoor.The lights are still on, there are two girls working behind the counter, and an Asian couple is milling around in the lobby.So what gives?Finally, the Asian lady strides over and unlocks the door, to the visible consternation of both employees.
“We’re closed,” one of the girls calls out as our motley trio staggers in. Apparently, the two ladies were making up one last order for this couple, and that was to be the end of their night.
“Here,” the other, nicer girl offers, a modest looking brown haired chick, “we’ve got two whole pizzas left over – you guys can have them.”
We thank her in an appropriately profuse fashion, and Roy hands a pie each to Fogle and me. Then he lays three dollar bills on the counter before we leave just as abruptly as we came, and in no better shape.The rain hasn’t abated any yet here the three of us are standing beneath the same awning, except encumbered now with the additional weight of two pizzas.
The nice girl bursts through the glass door, jogging to a nearby truck, expertly toting a piping hot pizza bag in one hand which bears the well known company logo.One last delivery, it seems, before her night is through, before she can wash her hands of fools like us – that is, until her next shift in hell comes calling.
“Hey, can you give us a ride up to DiMarco’s?” Roy shouts across the parking lot, long after she’s passed us. She’s standing beside her truck now, fishing for keys, and offers no immediate reaction to the question, or whether she’s even heard it.
“I’m not supposed to,” she shouts back to us, “but okay. Come on!”
Sprinting over to join this chick before she changes her mind, Roy jumps into the shotgun seat while Fogle and I are left sitting like a pair of rain drenched idiots in the bed. She tears out of the parking lot and only then do I realize we’re still holding the pizzas, also, too moronic to keep them inside the truck with Roy.Still, weighing the pros and cons of this arrangement stacks up well for us, better than walking, and the cardboard boxes somehow fare better in the rain than we do.
Two minutes later, we arrive at DiMarco’s. Roy and Fogle sprint inside, while I stop to have a few kind words with our driver.Inviting her to either come in for a drink or else swing by Doug’s apartment later, though she laughs off each suggestion before driving away. I have no choice but to join the others, now, and meet them inside.
II.
I happen to remember the night Damon first met the Yanik sisters, too, for whatever reason, even though nothing about it is all that remarkable. I think this is because we’d been in town for almost a year, and Alan and I both had already enjoyed some scattered bedroom adventures with Lisa, not to mention partied with these people an unholy amount for months on end. Yet here our third roommate had somehow not even made their acquaintance, not only the sisters but this entire crew.
Then again, our lives are often more compartmentalized than we think. Coworkers we’ve worked beside for years upon years, though they’ve never met our families, to give one example. Or, like how this particular gang never really ventured down to campus or Grandview much, just as my campus and Grandview friends were almost never up here.
Bored on some random winter weeknight, I decide to call them up, having not seen these folks for a number of weeks myself. Since Doug Freshwater moved away and I had temporarily left Kroger, that outrageous era had ended and I hadn’t been on this northwest end of town much.Learning now that a bunch of them are heading to DiMarco’s, Damon and I decide to ride up there ourselves.
Their younger brother Tommy now occupies Doug’s old couch, and Dane, who’s gotten into one bad situation after another over the course of a few weeks, has wound up getting fired from his most recent job, at a department store, for not showing up, and basically just dicking around when he did make it in. Then he busts out the windshield of Maria’s car during a nasty fight, and Mike Nelson drops him to the ground with a haymaker and he’s kicked out of their pad as well, exiled from the charmed circle of friends.
I introduce Damon to everyone – seated at one table in the dimly lit other half of DiMarco’s, the half away from the bar, is the cool but somewhat spacey Charlie, a part-time drummer, his stringy black musician’s hair now almost as long as Damon’s; the ever talkative and impossibly busty redhead,Jen McBride; Lisa with her admittedly comparable breasts, dark blonde locks currently worn straight and halfway down her back; and her sister Maria, a brunette, whom we are fortunate to catch in a really vocal mood this time around.The two of us squeeze in beside them and brace ourselves for this conversation.
Junior, Tommy, and their preppy jock friend Cooper, who I remember from one other party back in the spring, are playing pool nearby, while the girls relate to us the latest adventures and trending gossip concerning everyone else. Meanwhile, Damon sits looking bored and sipping on a beer, or else trying to strike up a conversation with Lisa and Jen, even though they didn’t know what to make of this longhair character in horn rims.
Although, it is possible he’s having a better time than it appears. “I knew I’d be in trouble meeting these fat girls with pretty faces,” he whispers to me at one point, after downing a couple brews. Even if Lisa’s ruining the good cheer by bitching incessantly about her roommates. Finally, the clock reaches two thirty and house lights are coming on, as we pay the ever present bartending duo and head for the doors.
“Jesus Christ, Dude!” Damon exclaims with a sigh as we step outside, “they seem like nice girls and all, but man, that one was getting on my nerves.”
“She’s usually not that bad,” I explain, which is true.
“And what about that other one, the redhead, what was her name, Lisa?”
“No, Lisa was the blonde,” I correct.
“Well, whatever, she was the one sitting on the outside, right? I couldn’t believe she was bitching about everyone not cleaning their rooms! Maaaaaaan, I’d tell that bitch to fuck off!“
“Well, they’re usually not that bad,” I tell him, “especially after you get a couple beers in them.They throw good parties though, and they do have some nice looking friends.”
III.
They used to keep decks of cards behind the bar here at DiMarco’s, as we played many a game of euchre here. There was a long running tradition of pool tournaments played blatantly for cash in this bar, and nobody batted an eyelash. Then again, I don’t remember ever seeing law enforcement around these parts, and the help situation was always remarkably consistent, with Jan and Zerby here just about every night. So you weren’t going to catch any heat from them, either.
That TouchTunes jukebox at the very least had an REO Speedwagon album on it. This I know because Lisa, who I constantly berated for her somewhat horrible tastes in music, was particularly fond of that one, would play it here often. At some point along the line, though sleeping together off and on for about a decade, we did try actually dating for approximately an eight month stretch there in the middle. One night she was at this juke and that infernal Speedwagon disc was blasting Time For Me To Fly, while Lisa and Jen F stood there still picking out further tunes, and Jen told her, speaking of me, “Lisa, this song is for you. It’s time for you to fly.”
Despite this period (or maybe because of it, as the more Lisa would yell at me, the more inclined I was to laugh in her face), I always was and continue to be thought of as somewhat of a zany, hopeless goofball with this crew. It’s funny how you get off on a certain foot with various scenes, be it socially, or with work, or with family, and nothing much can ever really change this. You begin to realize it’s a combination of elements contributing to this phenomenon: a little bit of people only seeing what they expect to see, a little bit maybe of you falling into your familiar role with each circle, but then also, I half suspect sometimes, it almost seems like life is throwing events in everyone’s lap to bolster these impressions. Even one night here in DiMarco’s where Lisa’s been screaming again and Tommy’s threatening me with, “don’t do anything stupid!” won’t change the dynamic, is pretty much forgotten about five minutes later.
“She doesn’t listen to anything, dude,” I tell him.
“It’s my fuckin sister – you think I don’t know that?” he retorts.
Perhaps riding around with pizzas in the rain isn’t the best idea, if you’re trying to dispel some image. Even so, in the late 90s I was dating this perfectly fine looking brunette named Stacy, however briefly. I’m pretty sure that the first time I ever came out with her around this group, we were at DiMarco’s. At any rate, it was one of the few occasions I was ever with her around this bunch. We’ve been here a while and she says something about wanting to dip over to Polo’s. So the two of us say goodbye to everyone, climb in my car and drive over there. Stacy and I sit at the bar and order one beer…and then she completely disappears. She saw somebody she knew across the bar and was going over to say a quick hello, and this was the last I saw of her that night.
I was more than a little embarrassed at the time about my pathetic glasses, thus would never wear them. So my eyesight wasn’t the greatest to begin with. Nonetheless, I did sit there for quite a while, nursing my beer, and even made a cursory lap or two of the place. May have possibly ordered a second brew, even. In this pre-cell-phone era, this basically represented the extent of your options. Therefore, despite not exactly rushing into this decision, I eventually shrugged it off, hopped back in my car…and returned to DiMarco’s alone.
“Where’s Stacy?” everyone asks, baffled by this turn of events.
“I have no idea,” I tell them.
Of course the entire mob – which, now that I think about it, was fanned around one of those larger central tables, itself a rarity, instead of spread like normal all over the bar – is howling, clapping their hands together, pretty much on the verge of spewing beer out through their noses. I was unwittingly playing the same old part as always. I guess it’s somewhat amazing that Stacy and I actually went out some more after this. But I never quite lived this one down. Nor did I ever bring her to DiMarco’s again.
IV.
While pretty much everyone else moved on, we still continued to swing by here from time to time, of course. It was here one night that it became obvious Damon was really hitting it off with this Maryland chick, who worked with Tommy, and the two of them soon turned into a serious couple. At some point, a window was installed connecting DiMarco’s with the Ange’s Pizza next door, and there became even less of a need to leave your barstool than before. Fluke reunions across the years have almost always meant a pit stop in this place is required, if it involves any of this old gang. And though I know neither Jan nor Zerby are involved with this spot in its current incarnation, I like to think that the two of them are still behind the bar, every night, just like always.
I eventually break down and call up some of Doug’s old roommates, last seen in mid-November. Maria answers and gives me directions to this brand new bar out on Bethel, Banana Joe’s, a second outpost for this popular downtown club. With nothing better going on, Damon shrugs and jumps in the car with me for a ride out to this place.
Some buildings just seem to possess a doomed trajectory, despite the apparent strength of their location, and so it is with this one. Until recently it was an eatery called B Street, where my friend Clif worked alongside his employment at the Bethel Road Kroger. Through Clif I met other B Street employees such as Colin Gawel of Watershed fame, and the expected plethora of nice looking girls with baggage you encounter at every restaurant.
It’s only February of 1998 and already B Street is toast, replaced by this vague nightclub concept. This standalone building is located in the front of the Carriage Place strip mall, near Sawmill Road’s intersection. They’re advertising this as “Singles Night,” but I’m a little bit confused, for what is every night at every bar in every city if not Singles Night? As far as the crowd gathered here is concerned, though, it’s all seemingly mid-twenties – which we are fast approaching, Damon and I, if on the low end of this spectrum – up to early forties, and therefore bereft of the teenyboppers Paul so abhors. It’s hard to put your fingers on these gradations, although I think he’s correct in some respects, the way there’s a completely different vibe and less bullshit once you snip certain age brackets out of the equation.
Maria and Denise we locate right away, possibly because they are shouting “POCKETS!” at a volume louder than the music piped in overhead (long story, but this is my nickname with this crew, somehow). And even though exceedingly dim in these passages, we locate them right away, in a corner booth by some windows overlooking Bethel. A barmaid drifts by in an instant, pitching their highly popular $2 Long Islands, the nightly special.My associate and I both order one, though soon discovering why they’re so cheap when the small drinks are delivered in flimsy plastic cups.
I ask Maria what she’s up to, which sets loose an episodic rampage at a speed and trajectory which would have made John Glenn nauseous. By contrast we have Denise, who is possibly one of the friendlier chicks I’ve met since moving here, although unfortunately not much to look at, kind of short and dumpy and plain. Still, you might make a case for anything, in a loud, dark environment where personality or at least a person’s vibe is the prevailing consideration.
Nobody ever talks much about 1998 in the context of its major tech triumphs, but I’m here to tell you this was the breakthrough year. The 90s as a whole seem like the shortest decade I can remember, because from ’97 onward everyone was glancing forward, to the extent that the next millennium basically began right there. Lost in the shuffle somehow are the actual quotidian accomplishments, the details of when this stuff is implemented in the Midwest if not everywhere else. In the early weeks of ’98 we install an internet connection at our house for the first time…and then, right on the heels of that development, you have this gadget in Maria’s hands, the cellular phone device.
She’s the first person I’ve personally met who has one of these, and it happens at this unlikeliest of locations. Though as far back as ’92 you might have spotted commercials for such, phones tied to one’s automobile were far and away the most prevalent up until now. My parents and some of their friends even had a car phone for a spell, when those were trendy, in the decade’s early years. This is something altogether different, though, you can sniff it out in an instant, and you just know that we will soon be seeing these everywhere. I even make the mistake of resorting to the extant definitions, which immediately places me in some sort of out to lunch camp.
“I didn’t know you had a car phone!” I enthuse to Maria. She shoots me a borderline dirty look, answering the call which has drawn my attention in the first place.
After conversing a short while into it, though, she hands the phone to me, explaining that her sister Lisa’s on the other end – the second early adopter I’m aware of. This totally makes sense. These two are unlike most girls I’ve ever known, in a lot of respects. You could make one offhand reference about how you’d like to check out Flagstaff, Arizona someday, or something, and the next thing you know they’ve got plane tickets booked, hotel rooms reserved, an entire entourage assembled for some blowout a scant three weeks down the road.
As far as the present tense is concerned, however, Maria says Lisa wants to speak with me. Though I will admit to that one night of indiscretions with Lisa, last summer, she subsequently met and became infatuated instead with Alan, an obsession which continues as far as I’m aware, one which found her leaving notes on our front door for him up until a couple of months ago. So it’s hard to fathom what she wants from me right now…well, no, as Maria passes this baton, it’s pretty obvious what Lisa desires, calling from a nearby bar herself. In my corner however is the fact that it’s deafening loud in here, to the extent I legitimately can’t make out much of what Lisa’s saying.
What follows is me shouting, “HUH??!?” with my free hand cupped over its nearest ear, or else muttering enough, “yeah…uh huh…really!” type interjections in what feel like appropriate intervals until the point I can safely conclude, “okay, well, I’ll talk to you later!” before handing the phone back to Maria. I truly have no idea what Lisa just said, what I may or may not have just agreed to. But does it matter? Probably not.
Maria and Denise announce they are heading over to whatever bar that was Lisa just called from. We decide sticking around here sounds like a better option, however, so Damon and I order a second Long Island flavored water and patrol these grounds in the name of journalism.
This dance club consists of one large room, slightly bigger than your average house. There’s the requisite bar in the middle, a dance floor on the western, Sawmill facing flank, near where we were sitting, and a live DJ over by the restrooms. Tropical flourishes such as palm trees and whatnot adorn the ceiling and walls, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary about any of this, and certainly no extravagance. We observe the classy looking broads in their sharp evening attire, but then also these yuppie dorks in their sockless Dockers, sipping martinis. We order a third round of Long Islands, then split.
II.
Having already visited the newer Bethel Road outpost before the much more popular original, I’m moving in reverse of the typical pattern. About a month and a half later, at John H’s behest, I’m joining him and John L for this journey to the downtown location. It’s Friday night and the crowd promises to be insane, I’m happy to be finally crossing this one off my list to visit. The two Johns have been down here before, though, more than once, and they can’t stop raving about the place.
“I don’t know why but H and I have the best luck hooking up here,” John L offers, “this and the Yucatan, back when it was busy…”
I’m stoked already, and as we arrive down on Front Street, in the heart of the Brewery District, the lack of available parking anywhere near this club seems to bode well, too. Rolling the dice a little bit – although there wouldn’t appear to be many reasonable alternatives – a parking slot at nearby Victory’s is where this car will come to rest, despite the presence of TOWAWAY ZONE signs posted everywhere. There are enough bodies walking back and forth between the handful of bars down here to muddy any attempts of tracking them, meaning this should be just fine. The only thing I’m really questioning is what I can possibly bring to the table within this crew, if I can hold my own as an adequate wingman.
“I was just telling John L,” the H Train says with a chuckle, as if reading my mind, “you know, that J-Dog’s a pretty cool guy to hang out with, and he agreed.”
John L nods in concurrence. But while nice to hear, this still brings with it the pressure of living up to the hype. Well, at this point I’m not too concerned with my ability to hang out and function as a laid back guy who’s maybe good for a few witty wisecracks per night. Can I keep up with these maniacs in the drink department, though? And if they are picking up babes, will I be able to pull off the same?
After walking up a majestic flight of long, stone steps, spanning the width of this bar, we open one of the doors cut into this glass wall facing Front Street. And it’s immediately apparent that something special is happening here, a situation I haven’t quite glimpsed before. Wall to wall people, sure, but everyone’s been to some crowded clubs, ones boasting a larger head count than this. This is different, though, in that every available square inch of the club is one giant dance floor. There’s the bar, and there’s the dance floor, nothing else. As such it is literally impossible to avoid bumping into some girls.
Somehow, at one end of the lengthy bar, which runs parallel to the north wall, we find a trio of available stools to set up camp and get our bearings. This happens to sit right near an opening where people are expected to step up and order drinks, making for an ideal set up – or a very bad one, depending upon your outlook on these matters, and who you happen to be with.
No sooner have we sat down does John H order us a round of these Drano colored Kamikazis. I manage to slip in an order for a Budweiser, but then John L springs for another round of beers, as well as Lynchburg Lemonades for the three of us. We’ve only been here fifteen minutes.
Before we get completely sidetracked by annihilation, it’s time to focus upon the lady landscape. We rise from our chairs and begin to see about an entry point into this dance floor, which bleeds right into these very chairs. Chicks are all over the place, all points of the compass, bumping into us, carrying on conversations so close we might as well be included.
“Man, this place is packed!” I shout, “I’ve never so many hot women before!”
John H dips out to take a leak, and returns with some Pat guy he knows, the younger brother of so-and-so who apparently used to work at our restaurant. I’m not exactly paying attention to these details, and wouldn’t say this was the greatest development in the world if I were. But this introduction is no sooner handed out before all worries are absolved, as we hear some female voices calling out our names from some inner chamber of this dancing swarm. We squint at this slightly dim sea and eventually spot Keisha and Pam, merrily laughing as they wave and make their way toward us, as we move to meet them halfway.
In an amusing coincidence, John H says he left a message on Keisha’s machine earlier. But they swear they never heard it, had ventured here anyway on their own accord. Were sitting around getting ripped at the apartment before deciding to catch a cab down here.
So these two are completely torched, which can’t but assist our cause. Without much in the way of other words said, in varying combinations we are taking turns gyrating against these girls. Voluptuous, highly flirtatious Keisha and her massive tits, conservative but no less attractive Pam, with her tropically suggestive tan, her long, straight black hair and lean contour. Keisha does look especially incredible right now in a shiny silver blouse and tight black pants, yet this is just one man’s preference, for Pam is no slouch.
We are surrounded by women, which is fortunate considering that Keisha and Pam inevitably run into even more guys they know and spin off into corners unknown. All four of us guys, however, wind up bumping and grinding with random girls, will lose track of one another for lengthy stretches, only to cross paths long enough to compare notes.
This Pat guy seems okay, if a bit too boastful for my tastes. He’s tall and dresses well, which is probably just about all you need to succeed in this environment. To that point, we wind up within shouting distance of each other during one stretch where he happens to be dancing with some short, hot blonde. Yet while men of more modest height might need to work a little harder to get noticed here, it would seem I’m doing okay, too. There’s this brown haired chick grinding with another guy in my vicinity, but she and I keep exchanging glances, and she eventually glides over, jams her ass into my crotch and begins shaking it against me.
Pat decides this is the perfect time to start telling me some story. I truly have no idea what he’s talking about, with one arm wrapped around this girl as he shouts to me, though I bark out variations of, “yeah…uh huh…oh really?…you don’t say!” into any pauses. Then I happen to glance up and spot pudgy old John L on this platform, laugh my head off to see him there, with not one but two gorgeous females, an arm around each of them. Grinning, yes, like the proverbial kid on Xmas morn.
As for John H, he mysteriously manages to develop a Paul-like fixation on one girl in particular, who has short, light brown hair, parted down the middle. She resembles Jen S a great deal, both facially and with her tight, compact frame, so the source of his obsession is obvious. But he cannot stop talking about her, whenever I bump into him, until he finally works up the nerve to approach her cold.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” are his first, and just about only, words to her.
“Yes I do,” she says, kindly enough, though this conversation extends no further.
Our task force reassembles as John H materializes with yet another round of brew. John L is looking a little winded from the platform excursion. Now Pat’s trying to tell me some other story about this night up at Yokahama’s, a bar on Kenny Road, where, he claims, local DJ Ronni Hunter was trying to come home with him. She has a sexy, husky voice I’ve heard many times on the Blitz, our finest hard rock station, though I’ve never seen the woman.
“She was totally wasted, man…,” he says.
“Was she hot?” I ask.
“Eh, not really,” he says, “I mean, she was okay looking, but not that great.”
I spy this sharp little number nearby and move toward her, as much an evasive maneuver to get away from Pat as anything else. She’s okay with the dancing, but when I attempt to slide an arm around her, the girl pulls away, disappears into the crowd. So much for that.
Oh, but Keisha and Pam eventually return, and in such grand fashion. I find myself dancing between them, as both mash their sublime bodies against mine, holding one and then the other, back again, not wanting to tip my hand necessarily as to which I would prefer. Thinking all the while that then again, it would be great to have both, as this Keisha and Pam sandwich is pretty freaking hot.
They drift away once more, and are gone completely when the house lights come up. How can it possibly be this late already? Seeing those two and especially Keisha had been great and all, but once again, the night has melted away with little to show for it. And the taste she’s given me might create some lasting harm – just about the last thing in the world I need is to dive back down that rabbit hole, start thinking about her again.
But hey, at least this Pat character has vacated the premises. Unfortunately, this disperse battalion of females is stampeding toward the exits as well. John and John are convinced we can squeak in last call at Woody’s if we haul ass up there, however. I think they’re crazy but am in no position to object.
III.
I’m not sure exactly when the entire Banana Joe’s enterprise went belly-up. Going through my journals recently, I discover that there was a third location that I’d entirely forgotten about. This was the spring of 2000 and they had by this point set up shop out on Dublin-Granville Road, though I think the Bethel Road one was gone by then. At any rate, as we’re driving by it, I tell Damon, “I think this is the wrong part of town for that. If it didn’t work on Bethel Road, it’s not gonna work here.” And he agrees. It’s a warm, Thursday night in May, but the drive-by reveals a nearly empty parking lot, which probably foretold their fate.
I can understand why owners don’t exactly tell the world every detail about their defunct enterprises. It’s unforunate, and they probably don’t want to relive bad memories. But at the same time, it would be fascinating as an outsider to learn every twist and turn of what went down with a concept such as this. All you know is that they’re suddenly gone one day, despite periods of great success, and this feels a little sad. Then you might attempt learning more about them online, and discover there’s not much record that places like this even existed, and that’s even sadder.
Stop Rewind Fast Forward: 1993. (click to view/read more)
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