OSU – Love Letter To Columbus

Cafe Bourbon Street

Though a local live music institution at this point, it’s kind of funny to look back and recall that Cafe Bourbon Street took considerable arm twisting before owner David Brown agreed to host a single show. Considering it was the guys from Superstar Rookie who finally convinced Brown to give it a shot, it therefore soon turned out that the bar and the band both were marking this as their first ever live show. At the time, understandably, Cafe Bourbon Street didn’t even have a proper stage.

Regarding the photo up top, I took that on an actual film camera (gasp!) back in 1998. The exterior still looks basically the same, with that dark blue awning, the name spelled out in white. I love the color composition on this shot, as it possesses a warmth you normally can’t get with your handy little smart phone, at least not without a filter. And it looked the same at the time, too, it hasn’t really faded much if any.

Chef Ninja X used to run the Taco Ninja business inside here, up through at least 2006. Was also drummer in something called Classical Ass. Cafe Ninja had homemade falafel. Other signature dishes are Big Bad Buddha’s Black Bean Hummus, Nunchuck Chimichanga, unfried pinto beans, shredded chicken. He liked to say, “your hunger has been assassinated by the Taco Ninja!” when serving you.

A line of mirrors, halfway up the north wall, has always lined the stage. They would string Christmas lights up and leave them well past the season, perhaps even year round. There for a while – I’m not sure if they still do this – musicians would get free Black Label beer on the nights they played. One other interesting tidbit is that my all-time favorite piece of bathroom graffiti was formerly located inside the men’s room here, a scribble on the stall which declared mustache + beard = face. And then demonstrated such with a drawing of just a moustache and a beard, which was indeed enough to suggest a full face. I’m not sure what inspired it, but found it so moving that we eventually used it as a name for one of our albums.

That was for one of my crappy little “bedroom” type home recording projects. Regarding real bands that have, you know, attempted to learn their instruments in earnest and rock out through the years, I will attempt listing every show I can find here, as well as whatever other history I can dig up on this establishment. Since this club remains a going concern, though, this is going to make for a daunting task, in that the meter is still running, so to speak, with live shows booked constantly. But you’ve got to start somewhere, so here’s what I’ve come up with so far.

Click the year in question to jump ahead – otherwise keep on reading…

2006

2007

2008

2025

II.

Our first visit here will transpire only a few weeks before this initial live show, during that summer of 1997. Dan Bandman rings up the house and talks to Alan, suggests we meet him at this place up the road called Café Bourbon Street. The two of us have never frequented this establishment, though it sits just a few blocks from our house. With its eyesore interior of tacky multicolored tile and walls painted so bright they nearly glow, the horseshoe shaped bar in the center is a point of refuge we scamper for and cling to, more so than usual. The bar stools represent a small chain of islands, ports against the storm of crass interior decoration. Of course we’re still left basking in an eerie hue of orange and green overhead lights, molding our faces into monstrous masks if we catch the wrong angle.

Dan is one of the good guys, among the cooler people I’ve ever met, a stout, dark haired, conscientious Jewish boy who’s loyal to his friends and kind to the casual stranger. When he smiles his face actually seems to shine, somehow. Our core group often remarks that he could and should probably be the fifth member of the inner circle. The only reason he isn’t, really, aside from possibly not having quite the same enthusiasm for our more off the wall stunts, is that his first passion has always been music, and he works relentlessly at it. Hence the instrumental demo cassette he’d played in our kitchen earlier this summer, featuring him and another friend, Travis Tyo, and a drummer we’re not familiar with by the name of Dave Copper. Now Dan tells me they’ve settled on the tentative moniker Superstar Rookie. I think it’s great and suits their sound like a well-oiled kick drum, but he is having second thoughts, at present considers it a mismatch.

The old man who runs this place is pacing around between this bar and the one next to it, Summit Station, a lesbian hangout. He oversees both through a door connecting these two disparate establishments, though he doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything at either. Wondering how he’s going to pay the bills this month, maybe, judging from the sharp creases on his brow.

Slinging drinks here, while the owner paces around, is a sharp Asian fox by the name of Seresa. Seresa, it turns out, graduated from Clearfork, a country school district in the sticks about ten miles southeast of Mansfield. She smiles a lot and flits through each of the conversations taking place at her bar, which at this hour and day doesn’t amount to much. Her shiny silver blouse and tight black slacks accentuate a body I’m already a big fan of, that and everything else I’ve seen from this girl.

“You gotta watch her, though,” Dan cautions, “she’ll start you a tab and keep slapping drinks down in front of you when you’re not paying attention. Last time I was here she hit me with an eighteen dollar tab.”

Aside from the three of us, Dave Kemp’s sitting further down the bar, at one of the corners, next to another face I remember from high school, Tiffany Miller. Tonight Kemp’s already drunk and just as hilarious as ever, though he’s also apparently taken a serious turn with his music, and is now playing in a band called Secret Of Flight. As for Miss Miller she’s wearing a sleeveless black blouse with tattoos up both arms. She’s younger than the rest of us and I never really knew her, but don’t recall that she ever looked this incredible before. Elsewhere, across the bar from us sits a tall, lanky goon who resembles the bass player from Nirvana, with a couple teeth missing and messy black hair. He and the chick sitting next to him, representing the only other people in the bar right now besides Seresa and our Mansfield crew.

One of the perks hanging out with some fresh faces delivers, apart from the possibility of catching up on old times, is that it allows you to shake up your conversational game. With Alan, Damon and Paul, the four of us pretty much never talk about anything else but girls, alcohol, and classic rock music. That’s it. Entire weekends have been kept afloat without a single variation in this material. Seated at the bar tonight with Dan, however, we’re venturing into offbeat topics such as Beethoven, jazz, and the films of Kevin Smith, all of which are welcome diversions – although some of the old standbys aren’t necessarily verboten, either.

“You guys try that Pink Floyd/Wizard Of Oz thing?” Bandman asks us at one point.

“No,” I admit, having somehow become the mouthpiece for our party as Alan’s not saying much tonight, “we keep meaning to rent that movie, but I always forget.”

“My roommate Norman tried it,” Dan explains, and by this he means Norman Flores, yet another familiar face from our Mansfield days, “but he said it didn’t work. I don’t really see the connection anyway – The Wall and The Wizard Of Oz?”

“No!” I protest, laughing, “it’s not The Wall you’re supposed to use, it’s Dark Side of the Moon!”

“Dark Side?” Dan returns, intrigued, as if he’s just been afforded some amazing revelation. “Well, no wonder it didn’t work…I’m gonna call him right now actually…”

At this, he strolls over to this alcove where a working payphone awaits. I take this opportunity to have a look around at the rest of this fine enterprise. A piano along one wall, a jukebox next to it. A tiny raised platform in one corner utilized exclusively on karaoke night, as they’ve never had live music here in all the years that old man’s owned this tavern. By the door, this minuscule booth with a window serving a small selection of pub grub, though closed at present and the lights turned off.

Concerning the embargo on live music, Dan addresses this upon returning, when he explains that they’ve just about convinced the wearied owner here to host his first ever rock band. Naturally, that band would be Superstar Rookie. They wouldn’t fit on the stamp sized karaoke stage, obviously, but there’s no reason a handful of tables couldn’t be shoved aside in that vicinity, enough to cram in their gear. They’ve been practicing with a singer of late, Brandon Tuber, and are just about ready to play out. The owner isn’t sold yet on the concept but they’re convinced they can draw enough if persuading him.

2006

January 10, 2006: Early Empire is already three songs into their set when I arrive. They sound great as ever, though I can’t hear Tony’s guitar quite as well as I’d like from where I’m standing. They play three new songs, one of which, Medicine, has this really cool semi-jazzy breakdown in the middle, just Tony and Joel playing. Something different for those guys.

Norman, Taylor, Martha, Tim, Artie, Scott Smallwood are all here. $3 cover, small crowd. The second band is from Jersey, Scream Hello!, and despite the dumb name they are fucking awesome. The drummer has a beard and looks almost like he should be wearing a turban, but no, he’s white, and he is a complete animal. No lie, I think he might be the best drummer I’ve ever seen. Anywhere. He never overplays, even though he’s playing the hell out of the kit, and has all these terrific ideas. Keep in mind I’ve seen Neil Peart, and while Peart may technically be better, I’d rather have this dude in my band. Copper acts like he’s unimpressed, though shouting otu “stop making me look bad!” to the guy. Then recovers and later hangs out by Rob’s kit, nods along, shouts same thing.

The singer is this scholarly type, tall, dark haired, somewhat of a wisecracker but not too bad, he plays a red guitar the same as Eddie Vedder’s. Tall, bald, muscular bass player does a lot of the between song bantering, and the kid w/ big nose and long black hair headbangs, dances around while he plays. While Early Empire were playing, Dan and Martha were doing goofy dances as well, though Martha later explained to me these were “Heidi Palermo dances,” making fun of some night I guess the notorious band hag was out making a total ass of herself recently.

“This song is about a friend of mine who lived across the street when I was growing up,” the singer explains, “he was literally about 80 years older than me. I was 10 at the time, and he died. My parents tried to cover it up but that didn’t really work too well,” he laughs.

“Was it Bruce Springsteen?” someone from the crowd shouts.

“No, he’s still alive,” Taylor calls out.

“Yeah, unfortunately, he’s still alive,” Copper yells.

“Ooh. Hey now,” the singer grins.

“Must have seen the video for Tunnel of Love!” someone else in back speculates, as to why the old man kicked it.

-The Handshake play last, and new bass player aside (tall, older guy w/ receding hairline and beard – very serious acting, but good) they only sound okay. Nonetheless I’m shaking Rob’s hand afterwards, as he’s leaving, telling him they sounded good. “That’s always nice to hear, anyway,” he laughs, putting their performance down.

-Dan tells me about this writing club he & a couple other guys are attempting to start

-Joel and Travis are talking about the Anthrax show tomorrow night. Travis about has a heart attack, acts like a robot, says, “does….not….compute…..” when I admit I actually like John Bush better than Joey Belladonna singing for those guys. Joel leaps to my defense, agreeing Sound of White Noise is a great album and they did some quality material w/ Bush.

-Tim is working for Bob the Fish Guy now, down at North Market. Says, “I need a new job.”

-Martha has gotten a job teaching down in Raleigh, she and Travis will move there in July. She tells me Travis scolded her for “bugging” us during the last poker game and that she’s “not allowed to interfere anymore.”

-half assed string of Xmas lights, one string, spanning these two walls – a W with one extra ass cheek, so to speak. That’s it.

-Chris has 3-4 shots of tequila, the last of which looks like it’s the size of a wine goblet.

-nice to see my favorite piece of graffiti is still on the men’s room wall: mustache + beard = face. Think that would make a great song title.

-Chris says after hours at their place; Tony and his girlfriend say they’re coming over, not sure who else.

March 9 – Man Man

April 26 – Sword Heaven. A solid Wild Oats contingent and other assorted associates are in attendance.

June 9 – Gasohol

June 24 – Deadsea. My coworker Smitty (Adam Smith) plays guitar and fronts this trio, who are awesome. I know a ton of people going to the show and of course was extended an invite myself. However, the populace is divided, so to speak, in that a bunch of us wind up going to Comfest instead. I suppose a handful did both, but I was not among them if so.

August 25 – The Minor Leagues

October 13 – Grafton play a CD release show for their album Jumpstart Wire. Times New Viking, Guinea Worms, and The Patsys open.

October 14 – Earwig play a CD release show for their latest album Center of the Earth. Rosehips and The Proper Nouns open.

October 26 – Mission Man is in town to ply his wares.

2007

All shows start at 10pm unless listed otherwise, though bands generally don’t begin playing until 10:30ish. They would typically start loading in around maybe 8, through the front door, then chill a bit – no small concern considering the bar at this time had a policy of unlimited free PBR (canned) for musicians on the bill. A door guy would cost you $25 and sound man $50, however. Most shows cost a buck, but a popular touring act might bump it up a little. Circa ’07 they are also boasting a bigger stage, touchless paper towel dispensers in the restrooms and, according to their Myspace page, a “staff who despise bullshit.”

March 16 – a benefit for the lead singer of ? And The Mysterians, who had apparently suffered a recent house fire. Cheater Slicks headline, with Guinea Worms, The Patsys, and Magic City also playing.

March 17 – a “St. Pat’s Garage Rock Shindig” featuring The Beatdowns, The Gentleman Callers, and once again Magic City.

April 13 – Columbus Power Squadron, The Proper Nouns, The Libertines US

April 14 – The Main Street Gospel, Modena Vox

April 20 – Cheater Slicks, Shellshag

May 25 – Wifey, Voluntary Mother Earth, The Sutra, German Castro. Was apparently quite a spectacle considering that J.R. Wifey, a member of that first band, is apologizing the next day on said Myspace page for their behavior: sorry if i yelled at anyone. hopefully we Wifey will play a show at Bourbon street and i will NOT make an asshole of myself.

May 28 – DJ Captain Lonesome is spinning soul, garage, and other types of albums. No cover, $1 tacos.

May 29 – Knockem Sockem Robots, Jacoti Sommes, Bitwise Operator, Nick Messer

May 30	DJ detox and dj rare groove hosted by blueprint, FREE!!!!
May 31	Gunfight, Phantods, Lo-Pan
Jun 1	Masters of Luxury, 1.3, Boy/Girl, Gay Blades
Jun 2	King Kong, El Jesus the dude who does stuff, Guinea Worms
Jun 3	Best Karaoke Ever!
Jun 4	DJ Captain Lonesome is spinning soul, garage, and other types of albums. No cover, $1 tacos.
Jun 5	Meah, The Hot Damn, The Science Logic
Jun 6	DJ Detox and dj rare groove hosted by blueprint, FREE!!!!
Jun 7	High Violets, Big Black Cloud
Jun 8	Crimson Sweet, The Means
Jun 9	MV/EE and the Bummer Road (ecstatic peace), Time+Temp, Sarah Asher
Jun 10	Best Karaoke Ever!
Jun 11	DJ Captain Lonesome is spinning soul, garage, and other types of albums. No cover, $1 tacos.
Jun 12	The Tanks, Ospreys, Mosquito Bandito
Jun 13	DJ Detox and dj rare groove hosted by blueprint, FREE!!!!
Jun 14	The Leper is Lenard, Hellsfire Sinners, Descolada
Jun 15	Grave Blankets
Jun 16	MC Cum Dumpster, DJ Bexley and the No We’re not Rich Crew.
Jun 17	Best Karaoke Ever!
Jun 18	VCR, Attractive and Popular, Phantods
Jun 19	Warmer Milks, Swamp Leather
Jun 20	DJ Detox and dj rare groove hosted by blueprint, FREE!!!!
Jun 21	Elephant Bones, The Great Mad Hoax
Jun 22	The Genders, Vietnam II, Sweet Melons
Jun 23	TNV, Jersalem+the Starbaskets, Pink Reason, Screaming Yellow Zonkers, Psy. Hors., Unholy 2
Jun 24	Best Karaoke Ever!
Jun 25	DJ Captain Lonesome is spinning soul, garage, and other types of albums. No cover, $1 tacos.
Jun 26	The Drams, Chris Mccoy and the Gospel, Evil Queens
Jun 27	DJ Detox and dj rare groove hosted by blueprint, FREE!!!!
Jun 29	Church of the Red Museum, Winter Sounds

July 10 – J Roddy Walston and The Business

July 21 – Shellshag

October 29 – Sonic Chicken 4

2008

Now they are touting $1 well drinks that rotate daily; also a happy hour special at Mr. Peepers Pizza where you stroll up to “Dave’s window” and order a cheese pizza for $3.50. A new and improved PA, as well as urinals that work! The classic Simpson’s Pinball Party game, video crack, and “the best goddamn juke in cowtown.” Oh yeah, and the staff still allegedly despises bullshit.

March 14 – The Helio Sequence

April 14 – American Music Club

June 3 – Mudhoney, surely the highest profile gig I’ve stumbled across here so far. As such, their set list is known:

The Money Will Roll Right In
Next Time
I’m Now
New Meaning
The Lucky Ones
Into the Drink
Suck You Dry
It Is Us
Inside Job
You Got It
Sweet Young Thing (Ain’t Sweet No More)
Touch Me I’m Sick

Cheater Slicks opened.

August 19 – Black Cobra, Weedeater

September 5 – Don Caballero

September 18 – Dan Melchior

October 3 – TsuShiMaMiRe, Jellyhearts

October 5 – The Antlers are listed in one events calendar, Excess Karaoke in another.

October 9 – an “Outer Sounds” show (whatever that means) featuring Russenorsk, Melty Melty, James & James, Blood On My Neck

October 10 – Rosehips, Sexes

October 11 – Royal Pines

October 15 – Hip Hop with So What Wednesdays

October 17 – Jerry Decicca & Matt Bauer

October 21 – The Anabolics

October 28 – Pale Young Gentlemen

October 31 – Sword Heaven

November 1 – Cotton Jackson, Ghost Writer, Swamp Witch

November 7 – Ugly Stick

November 8 – Black & Whites, Fey Gods

November 11 – HEALTH

November 13 – Penetrator

November 29 – Jeb Morris Betny, Country Death Rats, Couch Forts

December 15 – Times New Viking

December 19 – Mors Ontologica, Warhorse, Tree Of Fern, Time & Temperature

?

I have busted Dan Bandman’s chops (member of The Handshake) about this before, regarding a different flyer, but…it’s driving me (retroactively) nuts that a lot of these don’t state the year. I have a paper copy in my collection, yet don’t remember attending it, and doubt that I did. Guaranteed at least The Handshake portion was a good time had by all, though. Um…depending on which member(s) of Kopaz were involved, then I might have liked Jinx Palm as well. And presumably Life In Bed did not travel all the way from Pittsburgh to completely suck. But yeah, if you have a hot tip concerning the exact date, by all means hit me up!

2025

March 29 – KJ Valium

I spent most of this day, off and on, working on the very post you are reading now. Then was finally kicking back in front of the TV, much later (technically 3/30 by this point) and decided to pull up my Instagram account. The instant I did so, a message flashed on the screen, saying there was a live broadcast of some show at Cafe Bourbon Street in progress, if I cared to watch.

Anyone who knows me or for that matter has read much of my stuff might recognize that I could scarcely resist this bit of coincidental happenstance. Though often chalking up such occurrences to “randomness,” I believe the technical term is actually synchronicity – and yet whatever the case, am a huge fan of following these so-called rabbit holes or huge flashing signs to see where they will lead. It’s just really weird, because I’ve never done anything like this, and for that matter don’t even recall getting one of those notifications before concerning any account that I follow.

So I tune into this live show, which is already in progress. It’s a static camera, tilted to the left of where this one guy is playing. I can’t tell 100% what’s happening but he appears to just be playing records and occasionally screaming over them. The song in question sounds like someone singing something about I’m just trying to make a living, etc, and at times this KJ here shouts along with parts he either knows and/or likes, while at others screaming stuff not found in the song at all.

You can’t see any of the crowd from this angle, although I do occasionally catch the tiniest sliver of the right side of this one girl’s face, and an occasion or two where she’s holding up her phone to take a picture. But it does at least sound like a decent sized audience. Even so, and not to rip on this guy or anything, but according to the little “eyeball meter” up top on my screen, I am the only person tuning in for this broadcast the entire time I’m on here. Which I would clock at about a half hour or so.

I find this more interesting than anything else, as it has me thinking about how maybe some of these concepts have come full circle. Back in the late 90s and early 2000s, live venues and musicians were just dipping their toes into the water with stuff like this – single cameras mounted in a fixed location, left rolling, with the show broadcast live on the internet. Even the image quality in this instance I would have to imagine is probably not much different (and there are even a few brief buffering delays!) And so it would seem we have now seen this complete arc over the past 25-30 years: stuff like this went from total obscurity, to where it was only oddball cultish weirdos who would have been online watching live shows, and you might have realistically had just a single viewer; to where it kind of blew up into a mainstream phenomenon and people would have been flocking to this relatively novel trend; but then the current landscape, where we are maybe just so overly saturated with all these events happening all the time, everywhere, with people flung in every direction following them, that the audience is diluted to the point it’s reminiscent of that earlier internet vibe.

So it’s fascinating to think what the next major trend will be. Regarding tonight’s actual performance though, when the first song I’m watching ends, our guy here engages in a little audience banter. Someone in the crowd shouts that they love him, and he says he loves them, too. As if you probably couldn’t guess, I should mention that our performer is a shaggy haired white kid in a tee shirt, college aged from the looks of things – but it’s just dingy enough that I might be wrong about that.

“I’ve been drivin’ a lot,” he says at one point, and also offers other such disconnected tidbits as “I’m like, super autistic n’ stuff,” and, “I didn’t mean for things to be all silly n’ stuff…I’m a serious artist.”

The walls in here are black, as is the drop tile ceiling. They don’t have much of a light show beyond some swirling red, green, and blue circular patterns swirling around off to the right side of this performance area. A black light also beams directly down from overhead, onto this table, in front of him, that’s supporting much of his gear. Like a boombox I think I see there, and a keyboard or a synth, who knows what else. Directly in front, where it looks like a crowd could be gathered, nobody is, possibly because they do not wish to appear in this live feed. Beyond that, however, are a couple of open internal windows, which you can see people walking past every now and then, and even one girl with glasses and a face mask (possibly the one I could partially glimpse, though I’m not certain) pausing to lean into the window and watch for a handful of seconds.

I’m trying to figure out where these various pieces are all oriented in the room, but can’t match it to the furniture in my head, and am forced to conclude they must have remodeled since the last time I was in here. Which was admittedly eons ago. I also for example don’t recall this one giant decorative art piece painted on one wall, featuring a bunch of interlocking black and white geometric patterns, random, like triangles and parallelograms and so forth, with exactly one red circle I can see in the middle.

But back to the music. Up next, for the second selection, some other kid joins DJ Valium on stage. He kneels on the floor, facing this way, to bang on some kind of plinky percussion piece. While the main dude now shouts spiel into the mic – no other music to speak of during this stretch, just some windy sounding background noise piped in. Except then Valium switches to synth and begins cranking out a bunch of crazy sounding squeaks and squiggles.

There are some cool sounds on this one, though no actual “song” to speak of. And it does go on a bit too long for my tastes. For example this other keyboard part that follows, either programmed or taped I think, which drones on for an eternity. Having stopped, the percussion guy now starts back up atop the keyboard drone, which buys the ringleader time to get his gadgets set up just so for the next segment. In this instance it’s an unholy buzzsaw synth that overpowers and outlasts everything else. And then he is definitely messing around with the boombox now, as it sounds to be broadcasting some staticky radio station.

That was the 2nd to last song of their set, meaning I get to watch 3 total. The final one consists mainly just of an echoey, slowed down spin of this somewhat popular tune I remember, maybe ten years ago, about “…I wish I could…be like the cool kids…” which he’s just sort of singing along with sometimes.

In summary, though initially believing that this was going to suck – and actually wasn’t entirely sure he was even officially “playing” yet when I tuned in – I have to admit, this was better than expected. There were some mighty interesting ideas and sounds on display here. Having said that, I wouldn’t exactly be listening to this material every day or anything, in part due to the repetition and the excessive song length. But, you know, I would have to conclude that he is on the right track, if he can iron out these kinks.

When the song ends, some guy in blue jean coveralls runs on the stage and grabs the mic, announces that this “Sanctuary” event continues tomorrow and will be streaming live on Twitch. KJ Valium, or should I say most likely whoever was in charge of filming this, “waves” to me on Instagram, and then the broadcast ends.

Posted on by Jason McGathey — Leave a comment

Ohio State Buckeye Football

Another year, another spectacular crash and burn. By now it’s not exactly a seismic event for you to stumble onto one more article lamenting how this season has gone. However, unlike most pieces you’ve probably read – or at least most articles from a Columbus-leaning source – let me state for the record that I have never been a huge fan of this program. And at the risk of alienating half my readers (all…dozens and dozens of them) I would like to add that the primary reason for this is because their fan base is so ridiculous and annoying.

Of course, even my own in-town friends (and plenty out of town) have always considered me a heretic for admitting this. And I get it, sports are a fun diversion, and you should support your local athletes, et cetera et cetera, all of which is true. But for a large swath of the populace, their rabid devotion to this football program extends way beyond “diversion” and merely supporting the home team, into something they are foaming at the mouth about year round. For a season that lasts, what, something like 3 months and 11 games? It gets to be a bit much.

There is also one other weird angle here that I would like to address. As far as I can think of, the only other fanbase that acts in the manner I’m about to describe would be maybe the Dallas Cowboys’ backers. So already, with this fact alone, you’re not in the best of company – and even Cowboys fans have somewhat mellowed out with this attitude in recent years. But okay, the followers of most sports teams fall into one of two categories. Either you are boasting about how many titles your team has won…or you are commiserating about how long it has been since your team has won. Well, I suppose there is a third camp, those of the scrappy underdogs who have recently won a title, and therefore everyone is happy.

However you slice it, though, Buckeye Football fanatics fall into none of these camps. Instead, by whatever bizarre chains of logic have led them to think to this way, your typical OSU football zealot will ACT as though they win national titles left and right…despite almost never doing so. It’s a thoroughly baffling phenomenon. In the past fifty years, they have won the title three times. So this puts them slightly ahead of the Kansas City Royals in the universal dominance category. Which is fine – but you are not the New York Yankees, folks.

It’s even more ridiculous when you consider that, in my opinion, the college football system is much more rigged than the major professional sports are. The top ten or so schools already have a leg up and will therefore continue to attract most of the best high school talent. This allows them to perpetuate this self fulfilling feedback loop, year in and year out. The big teams play the other big teams…then, regardless of who wins or loses, are given preferential treatment come playoff time over “strength of schedule.” And they retain their big dog status in recruiting the next class, and on and on and on. It would take twenty straight years of catastrophic, Cleveland Browns level ineptitude to unravel some of these quote unquote top programs.

Based on the evidence, I think any rational, level headed person might look at the OSU football results of the past four decades or so, and conclude that this has been a gigantic bust. Actually, that is what I’m saying: this program has been the biggest bust, in all of college football, for decades upon decades now. Despite its enormous recruiting pull, the most national press attention of any school, and what I would wager has to be one of the most profitable operations in the game, they still keep coming up short over and over again. This is without even getting into some of the outrageous sideline scandals, and also what you might say has been some charitable decisions from the playoff forming committees. But somehow, this information has just not transmitted to the Scarlet and Grey Fever riddled zombies.

I know this year’s playoff loss was an especially painful nailbiter, but still, they were lucky to have made it that far. This program has been given every break to grease the skids for its success, yet has consistently come up short anyway. Unless you are talking about what really matters, when you get right down to it, which is the money generated. But of course, the university itself would likely deny this was ever at the forefront of its thoughts. Sure. If pressed they would give lip service to athletics and competition and the great untapped potential of youth and so on and so forth, skating around the whole meal ticket angle presented by these collegiate sports. And in so doing, hope that you, the fan, conveniently forget about what they’re really playing for as well. Which I think works, by and large, as evidenced most recently by the reaction to this playoff loss – though insanely pumped up about the game beforehand, almost nobody I know has discussed it since. It all plays into this weird collective amnesia where Buckeye nation will continue acting as though they win titles constantly.

Having said that, I am a fan of the history of the football teams, and commonly find myself rooting for the players when they make it to the NFL. And when it’s been a disaster, this football team is usually if nothing else at least highly entertaining. Below I am going to sort out notable Buckeyes, past and present, alphabetically, based upon a few loose categories.

Personal Favorites

Cacchio, Chad: Among the more recent additions to my list, as much as you can call the year 2000 “recent.” But anyway every time I see or hear his name, I’m instantly drawn back to this memorable party in September of 2000, and watching him play. As a result, I will always think of this as The Chad Cacchio Game. And though this was his final year, became somewhat attuned to and followed his results from there. Glancing at his career overview now, I see that he played for them from 96-00, and enjoyed a fairly distinguished career, which included “academic all Big Ten” four times – not bad for a walk on! He even had to play for John Cooper the entire tour of duty, imagine that.

Since then, he has gone on to get a pair of degrees from OSU, first in business and then in dentistry. After which he opened up his own dental practice, on Lane Avenue. As soon as that went in and I drove past it, I instantly thought of that old game. And of course just had to look up and confirm, yep, this is the same guy.

George, Eddie: Number one on my list of all-time favorite Buckeyes football players. Just a class act guy, based upon everything I’ve known about him, to the extent I’m even willing to overlook that last season playing for the Cowboys. He won the Heisman in ’95 and, which I had totally forgotten about until researching this, was drafted by the Houston Oilers and played for them in their final season, before relocating to Nashville and becoming the Titans. We got to watch him compete in the Super Bowl in January 2000 – for my money, one of the best ever – and he later returned to OSU, after his playing days ended, to finish his degree. He would open a restaurant on south campus called 27 Grille, in honor of his jersey number that was eventually retired. Considering he cracked 10,000 rushing yards and holds a veritable cruiser ship full of Titans records, all without missing a game, I’m still astounded that he hasn’t been elected to the Hall Of Fame.

Ginn Jr., Ted: To this day, I can’t see his name without thinking of an OSU game where my buddy Matt Montanya, watching it on TV, keeps rooting him on whilst nonetheless mispronouncing his last name as “gin.” Which in turn always compels me to sing the chorus to that Kiss tune Cold Gin. Ted was a track star in his younger days and could have excelled at this as well, but chose football instead. He would go on to have an accomplished 14 year pro career, after graduating, and is the only guy in this category that I got to see play live in the NFL.

Glenn, Terry: I know he had his personal problems, but still, I was always rooting for him. Also could potentially get to “double dip” on this website in that he was actually born in Columbus, a rarity among those featured here. His biggest claim to fame is possibly that he caught Tom Brady’s first ever TD pass in the NFL. That fact alone should have him popping up in trivia games for roughly the next 3000 years. Glenn played in one Super Bowl, and was later with the Patriots during their first championship season, though they decided not to give him a ring. He would wind up crossing paths with Eddie George for that one season in Dallas.

Katzenmoyer, Andy: Andy here endured considerable ribbing during his OSU days, mostly due to the lightness of his class schedule. But he was drafted by the Patriots and spent 3 seasons with them, meaning that he and Glenn spent a few years together there. Like Terry, however, he was injured and did not play in Super Bowl XXXVI. Mainly I’m a fan now because, for reasons I can’t quite recall, I sent him a connection request one time on LinkedIn. Which he accepted.

Pace, Orlando: The Buckeyes were on a real roll in the late 90s with the draft picks, including this guy. Unlike everyone else featured here, however, including the criminally underrated George, Pace would go on to make the Hall Of Fame. He was also the #1 overall pick in the draft, taken by the Rams in 1997. After which he spent a dozen years with them, as part of their notorious “Greatest Show On Turf” defense, appearing in two Super Bowls and winning one.

On a personal note, we kept spotting him around town, too, shortly after his OSU career had wrapped. Alan, at the time one of my roommates, came home one day gushing that he’d just seen Pace at the DMV; in an even more amusing twist, right after the Bethel Road Kroger store opened, though I didn’t know it, he and former Buckeye coach John Cooper were on hand for an autograph signing session together. As a part-time employee there, I often felt out of the loop, and it wasn’t uncommon to not have the first clue about store happenings. So it transpired that I was hanging out behind the meat counter that day, when a dad approached with his young son in tow.

“Hey, can you tell me where to find Cooper and Pace?” he asked.

I, thinking that this must be the name of a law firm or something, and having just moved to Columbus not even two months ago, told him, “sorry, I’m not from around here.”

“Sorry, I’m not from around here,” he repeated, scoffing and shooting me disbelieving, halfway dirty looks as he whisked his son off to find help elsewhere. Only later would I learn what he was talking about.

Smith, Robert: Like Eddie George, I always thought he was a classy dude. Another running back, he got in and out, made his money and bolted for the softer pastures of a TV analyst instead. Smith played 8 seasons for the Vikings and could have kept going, considering he led the league in rushing his final season. I remember reading an article, though, where he explained he wanted to get out at the top of his game and without having suffered any major injuries. So hats off to him. At the time of his retirement, he was Minnesota’s all-time leading rusher. As far as personal anecdotes, I remember Bridgette telling me one night that she was at Bumpers on Bethel Road, and Robert Smith was there as well. Although at the time I clearly was not following his career too closely.

“What, the guy from The Cure?” I questioned.

“My brother said the same thing,” she marveled, then added, “no! Not the guy from The Cure! Robert Smith the football player, from the Buckeyes!”

Spielman, Chris: Out of everyone on this list, it’s possible Spielman has maintained the closest ties to the community. After his playing days ended – a long, decorated career in the pros, mostly with the Lions, where he became their all-time leader in tackles – he returned here to attempt coaching OSU (passed over in favor of Tressel) before eventually winning a consolation prize of sorts, a gig heading up the Arena League’s Columbus Destroyers. He and his former wife, the late Stefanie Spielman, were of course majorly involved in the community, too, primarily in their efforts to raise awareness and funding for cancer research.

The Rogues Gallery

Bellisari, Steve: mostly what he’s remembered for now, of course, was his DUI arrest while a QB for OSU, and subsequent stint in the clink. Compared to everyone else in this category, his offenses are pretty minor. But hey, you’ve got to establish a floor somewhere. After losing his starting job as a senior, thanks to the drunk driving episode, he was brought in late as a sub in the Outback Bowl, but concluded his Buckeye career by throwing a catastrophic interception. Somehow he was drafted by the Rams anyway (as a safety, but still) yet failed to appear in a single game.

Clarett, Maurice: football-wise, he really just had the one season – but what a season it was. As a freshman, he led the Buckeyes in rushing on their big national championship team of 2002, the program’s first title since Woody Hayes was stomping around on the sidelines. Then was booted off the team for personal issues in September of ’03 and never played for them again. By some miracle, like Steve Bellisari, he too was drafted (Broncos) yet never appeared in an NFL game.

And it’s only after this that the real trouble started, beginning with an incident on New Year’s Day 2006, where he robbed some people at gunpoint at the Opium Lounge. Then, before that case was ever wrapped up, he found himself in hot water again in August of that year, a police chase stemming from an illegal U-Turn. Once they caught up to him, cops found Clarett heavily armed and with an open bottle of vodka in his car. While spending a few years in prison, however, he was able to begin taking correspondence courses, and by all accounts has really turned his life around.

Schlicter, Art: if only that were true of this guy. His collegiate career was actually almost blemish free, surprisingly enough, apart maybe from that one infamous interception, which led to Woody Hayes’ firing over The Punch Felt ‘Round The World. But even back then, there were apparently some grumblings that he had a gambling problem, though somehow this didn’t raise any red flags even after he was spotted at Scioto Downs with coach Earle Bruce.

The Baltimore Colts took him as the fourth pick in the ’82 draft, which is basically about the last positive moment of his football career. In four years he failed to win a game as a starter, threw about four times as many picks as touchdowns, and blew every penny he had (as well as those belonging to others) on gambling and other weird schemes. Since that time gambling, theft, and drug charges have landed him in hot water repeatedly, including a ten year prison stint. You would need quite the index to catalog his offenses at this point.

Random Ongoing List of Many More Other Dudes

Bellisari, Greg: Linebacker who enjoyed a cup of coffee with the Buccaneers. Brother of that Greg fellow listed above.

Bosa, Joey: Attended OSU from 2013-15. Drafted 3rd overall by the Chargers in 2016 and picked up a Defensive Rookie of the Year award. Was most recently seen making a total ass of himself in a playoff loss to the Jaguars.

Bosa, Nick: Joey’s younger brother. His 49ers were in a playoff game earlier that same day, but won in convincing fashion. I have to imagine this hasn’t happened very often – brothers appearing in an NFL playoff game, on the same day, but for different teams. He attended OSU from 2016-18 and was taken 2nd overall.

Frey, Greg: Starting QB in the 80s who had some decent moments. The highest he ever rose professionally, as a player, was one season in the Arena League. But he’s enjoyed other successes, as an assistant coach for a couple local high schools, another gig coaching players on the side, and in more recent times as a football analyst on TV.

Germaine, Joe: This list is heavy on the quarterbacks, although then again that is the most famous position and these guys get the most press. It’s weird how many of these players crossed paths in the NFL there for awhile in the late 90s and early 00s. Buckeyes still get drafted by the boatload, of course, but they don’t all seem to wind up on the same team. In Germaine’s case, it’s interesting to note he was drafted by the Rams the same year (’99) that they decided instead to take a chance on some Kurt Warner guy. Joe got into a few games as a backup, though, and won a Super Bowl ring that year, alongside our old friend Orlando Pace. Germaine hung around the NFL for six years, then moved on to the Arena League for a spell.

Griffin, Archie: Truly a local legend, all the more so in that he was also born in Columbus. Still the only ever 2 time Heisman winner, in ’74 and ’75. He had a decent if somewhat underwhelming 7 year career with the Bengals, playing in one Super Bowl with them, and also wrapped things up with a year in the USFL. The Buckeyes retired his number (45) quite some time ago and he is of course in their Hall Of Fame. Oddly enough, I’m not entirely sure if I’ve met Archie or not – he was often found signing autographs around town (and probably still is), including multiple occasions at a Kroger where I worked. It seems like I would have made an effort at some point to drift by his table. But I honestly don’t remember ever doing so. I kind of lost interest in meeting celebrities somewhere along the line, because you’re not going to have a “real” conversation with them, and I don’t really care about the autograph. Of course, had I known I was going to start this website someday, I might have held a different opinion on these matters. That autograph would look pretty cool at the top of this page, for example.

Hoying, Bobby: I have memories of him playing for the Eagles, wasn’t aware he moved on to the Raiders after that. Even though he got to play in the AFC Championship game for them in 2000. An early 90s star for OSU, he’s high on the leaderboard for them in a few different all-time categories. As far as the NFL, eh, while there are a few highlights, on the downside, he apparently still holds the record for most completions in a season with a goose egg on the TDs.

Hubbard, Sam: Well now here’s another Bengal, a current one who was recently glimpsed running back a fumble for 98 yards, in a playoff win over the Ravens. Though still quite young, I think it’s safe to say that, as a defensive player, this will go down as the most famous moment of his career. After blocking a goal line charge, the ball popped loose and Sam here sprinted the distance with it. Though plainly giving it his all, he wasn’t exactly motoring, and yet no one from Baltimore caught up to him anyway. The missus and I were cracking up at the shots of him immediately afterwards on the sidelines, oxygen mask strapped to his face, as the announcers declared he wouldn’t catch his breath until Tuesday. Yeah, that seemed to pretty much sum it up. But raise your helmet to this guy, rising to the occasion in such epic fashion.

Krenzel, Craig: He will probably never have to pay for another beer in this town as long as he lives. With Craig at the helm, the 2002 squad won their first national title since Woody Hayes was menacing the sidelines, a feat they’ve still only accomplished once more in the 20 seasons since. As far as being fit for the NFL – not so much, with just a single season with the Bears to his credit. Then again these guys all have Wikipedia pages, so what do I know.

Tomczak, Mike: I actually remember this guy playing for OSU, as a little kid, from my dad watching the games. Probably because he had a somewhat funny sounding name, at least to this wee lad. And then he hung around the NFL for an absolute eternity, I recall (15 years, it turns out), with some huge moments. None larger, perhaps, than participating in the Chicago Bears’ infamous Super Bowl Shuffle video. Although yes, it’s true, he did get some playing time in their ’86 Super Bowl victory. Somehow that season with the Browns totally escaped my memory, though he did have that memorable resurgance with Pittsburgh to close out his career.

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Out-R-Inn

It takes us a lot longer to discover Out-R-Inn than it ever rightly should. Located somewhat slightly out of the familiar campus loop, on Frambes, which may explain why none of us have ever been here. A house which has been converted to a bar at some point, with a jagged stone wall in front guarding this elevated patio, a patio that in turn lords over the sidewalk. They’ve got a doorman checking I.D., always a positive sign that things are happening enough to bother, and we cross that threshold in turn. Upon first entering, our initial impression is that this place appears tiny, with a scuffed wooden bar and stools, not a ton of breathing space in this first room. They are blasting tunes from a CD player behind the bar, for which the drink slingers also choose the discs, although the most curious aspect about this arrangement is that the music is louder out on the sidewalk than it is in here.

We order a beer at the bar and walk toward the back, though, and it’s only in so doing that the full breadth of this operation reveals itself to us. Now, the space looms like an optical illusion in the other direction, where you’re struggling to picture how it’s this much bigger on the inside than would appear possible on the outside. There’s a side room, an upstairs, plus this gigantic back patio with another bar at one end. Brick arches which look like they’ve been around since the 1800s, in fact brick and wood everywhere, mostly the latter. Hardwood floors which are polished in some spots, mostly not, and this wooden corridor for darts, some low riding wooden picnic tables on the back patio, many a shiny wooden wall inside. The smallest stage known to man in one interior corner, but then also, curiously enough, basketball hoops in another behind the place. Television screens everywhere, as it considers itself somewhat of a sports bar, and some of these weird walls that double as windows, these wooden flaps that open whenever the weather is nice.

If there’s one downfall to this bar, it’s that there are way too many guys and not enough girls. Then again, you might say that about pretty much anywhere, given the wrong night. And there is enough visual candy to hold our attention, anyway. We entertain ourselves for the duration of the first beer, pretty much, watching this chubby blonde in a short skirt shoot pool, hoping for a panty shot. Then get bored, order a second round – Damon talks me into trying Moosehead, which isn’t bad – for a voyage onto the patio. They’ve got a shelf behind the bar, just below the monstrous CD rack, with every variety imaginable, and price tags hanging off of each, in a novel twist, which leads to such experimentation. The four of us have made a pact to drink nothing but imports while here, no American swill allowed.

It’s out on the patio that we make our first unexpected encounter, bumping into Frank Wiseman and his trusty sidekick Lauren. These two are hunched before drinks, alone, at one of the picnic tables, a quaint if somewhat bizarre tete-a-tete. He’s telling me he bartends at the Claremont steak house downtown now, and says I should stop in sometime for a drink. In addition to getting canned at our restaurant, he says he also quit Bowties, and is working solely down there at the moment. As for her, though in theory her friends, the other clubhouse bitches continue to make smirking wisecracks about her “drug problem” as they complain about her table thievery – and you would have to say these rumors are beginning to bear visible fruit. She’s looking a little thinned out and pasty these days, actually quite a bit so.

“Ugh. She’s not looking too hot these days,” I remark, after we leave them.

“It’s funny you say that,” Damon chuckles, as we excuse ourselves from that awkward private conference, “I was just thinking that. The first time I met them, I thought, what the hell’s she doing with him? Now I would say it’s the other way around.”

He has no sooner completed this thought before a second acquaintance comes bounding over, right when we step back inside. Carmen, the really cute, curly haired brunette he knows from school, seems delightfully surprised to see him here, and we stand talking to her, Damon most of all, naturally, for quite some time. He says she’s got a cool personality, and this observation seems to hold water in my limited interactions with her. She does have a tendency to lean in extremely close when speaking to you, which could be either intimidating or a turn on – mostly the latter, once you get to know her. It helps that she has a pretty face and a curvaceous body.

She’s here with friends, and returns to them as we head up to inspect the second floor. They have an actual jukebox located at the top of the stairs, and three pool tables. Also, some windows affording a terrific view of the surrounding terrain, both restrooms for some curious reason, and a curved exterior stairwell which leads out to that side basketball court.

We are among the few inquisitive souls actively hanging out up here, thus are able to immediately claim both a pool table and the jukebox. Alan puts some quarters into the juke and plays five or six tunes, with me right behind him. Then Paul, who almost never does this, saunters over to shell out for some songs.

“Watch, he’s gonna play Back In Black next,” Alan jokes to me in a whisper, and then we bust out laughing as this is exactly what happens. Followed by You Shook Me All Night Long.

Still, as predictable as he can be on many fronts, obsessed to no end when the rare subject appeals to him, Paul is still nonetheless capable of blowing your mind with the unexpected revelation now and then, more so than these other two friends. We’ve all got secrets, of course – you wouldn’t be human otherwise. But beyond those, speaking just about our basic personalities, I feel like you’re pretty much going to hear everything interesting that happened to Damon in the course of a day, unless he has a strongly compelling reason not to reveal it, and he will make these tales mighty hilarious in so doing. That Alan probably hews closer to me at the other extreme, as we’re more selective in relating our stories – either because these are the only ones which occurred to us, or we don’t want to bore people, or it’s just too much work – while Paul’s off to the side somewhere from all of these viewpoints. It’s as though he often considers admitting to anything other than the canonical obsessions as diminishing those obsessions. So while we’re chortling over the AC/DC, he seems undisturbed, and possibly not even registering this, raving about this album for the thousandth time…but then abruptly switches gears, when a Soundgarden song airs, says he used to be in a band that played Jesus Christ Pose and he always thought his was a killer cut. I’m floored, and in a way can’t imagine Damon or Alan would ever tell me anything more shocking than this.

It feels like one of these strange nights, though, where everyone’s in a somewhat giddy mood for no concrete reason. I’m not the only one gripped by this sensation that something interesting is bound to happen tonight – which of course often winds up being a self-fulfilling prophecy, as such good cheer and optimism makes things happen on its own. Even as I’m just about out of money and cut myself off following this third round, and Kathleen either passed out early or blew me off, nothing can diminish the potential of this still young night. Alan talks me into drinking a Beck’s Dark, same as him, even though they screw up and give him a regular Beck’s. Damon and Paul beat the two of us in both pool games, somehow, even though Radick’s easily the worst of us, and rarely plays. Then we decide to head down the sidewalk, in favor of Que Tal.

II.

Bob Gil, an OSU graduate, purchased the Out-R-Inn in the early 1980s. At the time the place was struggling to turn a profit, but he soon turned it into a money-making success. For unknown reasons, despite owning a couple thriving businesses around town, in the early 1990s, he decides to bring in some buddy from his softball league, Marty McNamee, as co-owner on all his enterprises. This is a decision he will presumably come to regret, however, as in September of 1994, Gil will wind up dead, courtesy of a single gunshot wound to the head – and McNamee himself has to be considered the prime person of interest in this still unsolved case. He has a profile in Business First, oddly enough, on the exact same day he goes missing. His van is discovered September 28 and his body October 1.

For much more on this incredibly strange odyssey, I would recommend checking out the always excellent coverage on that episode of True Crime Garage. In the wake of Bob’s death, though, his dad will actually inherit a chunk of these businesses. Then Marty buys him out (their holdings also include the sports bar Pockets on Kenny Road), in 1995, shortly before running into a whole heap of legal trouble himself, one which will conclude with a 36 month prison sentence.

As for us, we will return to Out-R-Inn often, both for the remainder of our campus years and well beyond. It’s the rare kind of establishment where you’re likely to find a bunch of college students but also a sizable middle aged or older crowd, who feel right at home here. Easily the campus establishment I’ve visited most since moving out of the university area, where for example, when one of my aunts and a cousin came to town for a visit, this immediately leapt to mind as our best option. Our go-to choice before and after concerts at the Newport…but also a place I went to alone, one night, after fighting with Jill, while the rest of my friends went to a show at the Newport. After which, but of course, the friends were kind enough to join me.

In the name of full disclosure, I have to admit the night this really cute and curvaceous brunette barmaid decided she was too hot, and to serve drinks in just her bra, this was reason enough alone to return for many, many months. Even if, as Closing Time is playing from their boombox near the end of the night, and Alan mouths the words, the whole I know who I want to take me home line, jabbing an insistent finger in her direction as she slings drinks, he is not exactly successful in these romantic efforts. I know we will never forget that night, and hope to never forget about checking into this so-called inn, either, every now and then.

To see it a couple of decades later, in 2019, not a whole lot has visibly changed. Almost all of the updates seem to be music related, which is a fitting commentary on our modern era. The tunes aren’t nearly as loud when approaching the building, and once inside, you will immediately observe that the racks of compact discs behind the bar are gone. Upstairs, the juke box has been yanked, but otherwise it’s like stepping into a time warp.

This is my first visit since I think 2006, so there are plenty other details I had forgotten about, but am pretty sure were always in place here. Like nearly every square inch of the wood and brick walls being covered with signatures up on this second floor, and the men’s room with the giant piss trough and just one toilet stall otherwise. Downstairs again, I am confronted with the unfortunate sight of just six draft taps, most of them offering cheap domestics. Although it’s easy to forget this is a college campus, and they’re just giving the masses what they want.

McNamee sold the place somewhere around 2005-ish, as he was filing for bankruptcy…although this would soon turn into a tax fraud/money laundering case against him. According to a September 11, 2007 article by Columbus Business First, McNamee was sentenced to three years of prison, in addition to some hefty restitution to the tune of about half a million dollars. This had something to do with, in part, staging a flood for insurance money (not here, but at this residence). A federal grand jury convenes in D.C. and convicts him with a slew of charges, including money laundering, tax fraud, conspiracy, mail fraud, cash skimming, a false insurance claim, and fraudulent tax returns.

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St. John Arena/OSU Ice Rink

Though plans have been hinted at for years now to demolish the thing, at present this fabled athletics shed still proudly stands. OSU’s men’s and women’s basketball teams both, as well as the men’s hockey squad, stopped playing here after the 97-98 campaigns, in favor of the Schottenstein Center up the road. Over the years, this multi-purpose venue has seen everything from a Rush concert in 1980, to presidential hopeful Barack Obama stumping here on the campaign trail. Of course, at least one active commander-in-chief has been here, too, when Gerald Ford delivered the university’s summer commencement address inside St. John Arena in 1974. I skated this ice back when they had a dedicated night of the week for public use of the rink, and watched my buddy Damon play hockey in these dim confines when he was a member of the Buckeye “B” squad, or whatever you call it. As recently as 2016 this arena avoided a very close scrape, when its proudly announced replacement was nixed, and it continues to find use for some of the less popular OSU indoor sports.

As pure chance would have it, I manage to catch the last ever hockey game the OSU men’s team played here, on Febuary 26, 1998. Damon’s ex-girlfriend Angie is in town this afternoon (all the more interesting in that Damon hasn’t gotten around to breaking up with his current girlfriend yet), and the three of us are hanging out at the house. While attending class, Damon heard something about this promotion they are running, and snapped up two tickets, before inviting Angie down: for a meager $5, students can catch this momentous event, which also includes an all-you-can-eat pizza dinner at the campus Tommy’s before the game. Upon learning that I’m off from work tonight and will be around, he’s hatching a plan to include me as well.

The three of us squeeze into his truck and drive across campus to the building where he bought these tickets. We reach some office on an upstairs floor, back near where Woody Hayes Drive crosses the Olentangy, and Damon’s speaking with the receptionist.

“I’m sorry, we’re all sold out. You might be able to buy some off the guy running it, though, he might still have a few tickets left on him….”

“What’s his name?” Damon asks.

“Eric.”

“And he’ll be there tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Damon nods, “thanks.”

Undeterred, once we are outside the building again, he lays out a feasible backup plan. The chance of this Eric character having any tickets left is probably pretty slim. Nonetheless, Damon advises, what we’ll do is head into Tommy’s like nothing is awry, dive right into the free pizza and grab a seat. “And then if this Eric guy acts like he wants to see your ticket, tell him the secretary you talked to said he’d have one you could buy here.”

As it turns out, none of these machinations are necessary. Nobody is inspecting anything whatsoever at this restaurant. We help ourselves to reams of the gratis pizza, the free Pepsi to wash it down (or was it Coke? I feel like Bruce would surely know, off the top of his head, precisely what they serve here), and then Damon feels inspired to go buy a pitcher of beer and really ramp up the festivities a notch. Only when we are leaving, to walk across the street to the arena, does Eric ask for everyone’s ticket. When we reach him, I recite the spiel Damon had concocted.

“As it turns out, I do have one left,” he says. I hand him the five dollar bill, and he forks over the ticket.

Once everyone spills across Lane Avenue, flashing our proof of entry at the gate, the three of us snag some choice seats near ground level, right behind the visiting team’s net. Up the street, at the Olentangy River Road intersection, construction is nearly completed for what will be the new home for this as well as the basketball programs. If you want to get technical, though I and who knows what other high percentage of campus denizens aren’t aware of this, the hockey team plays at OSU Ice Rink. Yes, this is the name they actually use for the space where we currently find ourselves, a 1,400 seater on a separate wing of the same building, accessed via the same entrances. Everyone seems to refer to the entire building as St. John Arena, though, and you surely would too if driving past and pointing it out to your parents or something.

Now that we’re nearing the tail end of the 1997-98 campaign, the Buckeyes are finishing out an amazing season, with talks that winning state seems perfectly reasonable, and a Frozen Four title might even be in the cards. First, however, they must dispense with the Miami, Ohio squad, not exactly known as much of a powerhouse in anything except maybe illicit substance consumption.

But this will actually turn into a well fought contest. Miami is outplaying OSU in the early going, scoring first, in period one. The home team looks ragged and has virtually no offense, though somehow tying things up with about thirty seconds left in this period.

A seesaw battle develops from here, and though digging live hockey as much as the next guy, for some reason it’s a struggle keeping my eyes open during this one. It could be the afternoon beer or excessive work schedule or lack of sleep, and surely not because nobody scores at all during period no. 2, or most of the third one as well. In the closing moments, though, OSU fires the puck into Miami’s goal once more. As a desperation move the visitors pull their goalie, to give themselves a better shot at scoring, though the Buckeyes capitalize on this backfiring tactic and slap a third point on the board. Final tally is 3-1, with the good guys further cementing their status as impending tournament heavyweights.

Following some road contests, the season will end and they will advance as far as a semi-final game in the tournament bracket. Fittingly enough, this campaign proves the most successful in over 25 years, probably since the class of 1971-72.

Two nights later, the men’s basketball squad will play its final scheduled game here, across the hall in the actual St. John Arena. An overtime loss to Penn State drops them to 8-21 on the year, with an especially miserable 1-15 record to this point against the Big Ten (they have one road game remaining, against Indiana). The season actually began well, with a 7-3 mark, before this horrific 14 game losing streak within their own conference. A change of venues will do them good, however, for they experience a complete reversal in the following season, their first at the Schottenstein Center, when they reach the Final Four. Scheduling mixups at their new home leads them to return to St. John Arena for a single game during both the 2004 and 2008 seasons.

After a ten year break from the place, in November 2018, they again return to this old shed, in a promotional gimmick which sells more tickets than the average game at Value City Arena does. How is this for irony? In the straight up sad department, however, I seriously spent well over an hour online trying to find the date for the final women’s basketball game here. OSU’s website doesn’t have it and neither does the NCAAW’s. If anyone can locate this information, by all means hit me up.

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Not Al’s Rockers

Hunting down the exact coordinates for this place has been one of the more amusing and unexpectedly frustrating challenges of late. The only specific online reference I’ve been able to find, after months of searching, and believing I hit the jackpot with locating a late 90s campus bar directory at last…listed its address as “corner of 10th and High.” And yet even that isn’t quite correct, because it actually sat across the street from where 10th dead-ended into High.

Located near the end of the line, where campus attractions begin to steadily thin south of 9th, it’s a live music dive bar in every sense of both extremes. Live music a surprisingly difficult find at the time, the muted thud oozing through its pores is like a siren song to us the first occasion where we pass this place. Three dollars at the door and we’re ushered inside, privy to the Local Color experience.

A bohemian outfit gracing the minuscule stage, Local Color somehow cram a small army upon its meager surface. Just left of the entrance, amidst a sea of swirling red and green pinspots that would make Pink Floyd jealous, the band is flailing away, half a dozen strong. Fittingly, these dislocated hippies are slithering through Floyd’s seldom heard gem Fearless like ripples on a pond, and as we stumble our way past the queued throng beside the ladies room door, our eyes never leave the stage.

For a small time local act, it’s immediately apparent these cats have their ducks in a row. More than the half assed combos gearing up at Ruby Tuesday each night, though for all I know Local Color plays there too. It would certainly seem their ideal locale, sticking, as they do, to golden 60s nuggets by the Dead and Country Joe. Normally this music drives us bonkers, but they pull it off with such splendid grace, often bettering the originals, that we’re hopelessly drawn into their hazy web.

Tight and musically competent, I feel they could do with a slimmer roster than that of the lead guitarist, the singer who strums an acoustic, the bass player, the saxophonist who picks up a rhythm axe when not blowing his horn, the keyboardist and the drummer, but whatever the particulars they impress. Their craggy faces, impenetrable and unreadable behind tinted glasses and facial hair, stake wordless claims upon the years these songs cover. Ponytails and jeans and faded tee shirts worn like badges of honor, war medals, further strengthening their unspoken bond with the crowd.

As for the crowd, words can never do this mob justice. Body odor hanging in a ripe fog, whether male or female those wearing dreadlocks and overalls prevail in equal proportions. These chicks are by no means averse to sporting rampant armpit hair, nor are the guys opposed to donning what I’m guessing to be potato sacks with holes cut out for the arms and head.

“Look at the way they dance!” Damon howls, pinpointing a handful of specimens with the precision of those swirling red and green lights.

Truly a sight to behold, this jig. Pervasive enough to make us wonder whether someone at the door is passing out booklets detailing this single particular maneuver, and we’ve failed to pick one up. Throughout the bar everyone else except us is operating under the same mysterious spell, dancing in a like manner. Arms raised slightly, elbows bent, they shimmer their bodies up and down, swaying side to side, with an occasional three hundred and sixty degree turn thrown in for good measure. When inspiration strikes they elevate their arms and hold them there, though only as high as their heads. Then it’s back to the same routine.

Uncomfortable, we slide onto the only seating we can find, at a picnic table located near the sound booth. Situated in the center of the bar, it affords an enviable view of Not Al’s Rockers, in every direction, confirming our initial suspicions that this is in fact the only piece of furniture in the house. Aside from the bar, along one wall, and its few token stools, Not Al’s unfurls as one large concrete slab, whereby its occupants either dance or stand along the rear wall. Making no effort to conceal their continuous daisy chain of joints, those situated furthest from the stage lean against the wall with giant dopey grins, suffusing the room in that sharp aroma just a notch below the foul armpit smell.

Together, these elements lend the occasion more the feel of an outdoor festival than a Monday night at some run of the mill tavern. We stick out here like the proverbial bulls in a china shop, but care not the least, and in fact find this unfamiliarity, the newness of a community such as this, of unmitigated interest. Wholly fascinating, this submersion into their hippie subculture, if only for one night.

Local Color finishes Shakedown Street, and we respond with modest hand claps, with respectable hollers. But here, these cliched responses stand out like an animal activist’s paint splashed against a fur coat. They have the clapping thing down, but we’re not about to hear a woo! or an oh yeah! anytime soon, we’ll perish before someone sets forth the first whistle. Instead of what we’ve come to characterize as the standard classic rock response, these peculiar beasts toss off wild kingdom shrieks, and what might be snatches of bird song.

“What was that, a mating call?” Alan jokes, just before hooting like an owl.

But as we’re sitting on the picnic table, the fever and an all purpose weariness are crushing me, I can barely kept my head aloft. My left hand accidentally grazes someone else’s beer bottle and sends it spilling out all over the table, onto the floor, but the goodwill vibe of the place is such that the guy isn’t the least bit angry. Such that I would hand him a twenty, tell him to buy himself another drink, on me.

“I can’t believe you just did that!” Damon gasps, eyes wide.

But the guy has a face I feel I can trust and sure enough, he returns with my change, thanks me. No problem, brother. Maybe these hippies aren’t really our scene but their laidback kindness sure beats the snooty bitches we’ve encountered to date at those other clubs, and the assholes surrounding them.

1998

The only occasions where we ever seem to make it to this place are on Mondays, to witness Local Color. Even so, a year will separate visits, before Damon and I finally get around to checking them out again.

We pay our three dollar cover in exchange for a hand stamp, and enter this no frills, warehouse looking place with the concrete floor. It’s an aesthetic so rustic and unadorned that it’s almost come back around full circle to being trendy again. Almost. Throngs of long haired, shabbily clad, often odorific youngsters fill the room, with an older variation of the same occupying the makeshift stage over our shoulder, along the street facing wall. And “stage” is a loose term, for like many bars of this caliber, it represents only a cleared off corner where bands are able to play.

Immediately, a few slight differences between previous visits here and our current one become obvious. For one, the crowd is more normal, or should I say offers more babes while at the same time boasting proportionally less girls with hairy armpits. And yet as far as the band is concerned, Local Color has almost moved in the opposite direction, not quite the same slick classic rock outfit we remember.

For starters, they appear less professional than the competent, laidback cats we last saw onstage a year prior. Their performance is a tad bit sloppier, while the light show, which had bowled us over back then, how impressive it was for a bar band playing covers to possess such a rig, this has been scaled back to a cut rate version of its former self, featuring only the bare essentials now.

But none of these developments can quite match the impact of their new drummer, a younger kid going way too far overboard trying to make his presence felt, or else in an effort to pump up this somewhat moribund crowd.

“COME ON PEOPLE!” he shouts into a microphone while standing up in between songs, “I WANNA HEAR YOU SING!”

“CLAP YOUR HANDS PEOPLE!”

“MAKE SOME NOISE!”

After the latest of these ceaseless entreaties, I quip to Damon, “Jesus, if I wanted to watch Lars Ulrich, I’d go see Metallica.”

“No shit, man!” he agrees with a laugh.

Still, even a cheesy, too flashy and incongruous skins basher isn’t enough to spoil a basically solid boomer rock combo. They break out their Traffic tunes, more than a treasure chest’s worth of Dead, the expected Santana, even one old early Floyd obscurity. All in all, not a bad show and certainly a reasonable entertainment option given the relatively low door charge – though it is strange that, considering all the hippies I work with if not knowing from elsewhere, Joel’s neighbor Buddy is the only familiar face I bump into here all night. Especially when considering that Ruby’s for example boasts a similar vibe and cribs many of the same bands, though serving them up to smaller crowds, yet I can’t recall the last time I stepped in there without recognizing some of the clientele.

Inspired by this trip down memory lane, we soon risk another, this time with the girls Damon and I are seeing, Shannon and Jamie respectively, and the latter’s burned out hippie aunt, Lynn. We spend a good fifteen to twenty minutes in getting there and our girls, surprisingly, don’t seem too bothered by the walk. After forking over the small, apparently inflation proof cover charge, we gain entry and stand not too much further inside the door, directly right of the stage and near the restrooms.

No sooner have we arrived, and here comes Carrie and Sara drifting through the front doors, too, along with about three other friends. Carrie is an extremely popular name for girls our age, and this is seriously maybe one of five we’ve hung out with – or more – in our year plus of living here. This Carrie would be, of course, that dark haired, plain looking girl Damon had met at Maxwell’s one night last spring, Sara her taller and considerably better looking brunette friend. They’d been freshman then, are sophomores now, and we haven’t seen them since Carrie’s short lived attempts at wooing Damon had ended. So naturally fate has it that she reappears on a night when his rarely visiting girlfriend comes out to a campus club.

Carrie stands and talks to Damon for quite some time, wearing the camouflage jacket like always, her face still riddled with acne and pock marks, black hair shoulder length and kind of greasy looking. Still no beauty, but she’s always been a cool one to party with, and the same goes for Sara. Speaking of Sara, as Carrie’s yapping Damon’s ear off and Shannon’s looking either angry or bored, Sara spends a good twenty minutes in the restroom, having darted inside there immediately following their entry.

She emerges, and right away it’s obvious the girl’s fucked up on something. Normally, you can’t get two words out of her, but now she suddenly wants to converse with both of us at a breakneck clip herself. Ordinarily, Sara’s cool, almost too cool, low key and laid back, but at this mysterious moment she’s bubblier than a bottle of soap.

“How you doing?” I question.

“Oh, good, good! How you guys been! It’s been so long since we’ve seen you!”

“Are you okay?” Damon asks, laughing.

“Yeah! Why?”

“Well, you were in that bathroom for quite a while, I thought maybe you were sick or something.”

“Oh no, no! I’m fine!” she insists.

Carrie and Sara eventually forge onward, toward the back of Not Al’s swelling, crowded interior. Damon can tell Shannon isn’t enjoying herself, now – these matters are a continual juggling act – and so by mutual consensus it’s agreed upon that we should leave, after not even sticking around for one full set, not even long enough to form any impressions of the band tonight. As far as I can recall, this is the last time we will see Local Color perform live, and our final visit to Not Al’s Rockers as well. This hippie oasis won’t last too much longer, and might not even survive the 1990s.

Tag: OSU

Cafe Bourbon Street

II.

2006

2007

2008

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2025

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