Tag: Traditions

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Traditions Tavern

Traditions Tavern in Columbus Ohio

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.

front sign for Traditions Tavern in Columbus Ohio
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:

  1. “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.”
  2. 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.
  3. “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.”
  4. “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…”
  5. 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.
  6. “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 Tavern in Columbus Ohio
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 spent a couple of years (from roughly 2004-06) battling this new law, to no avail. 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.

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January 14, 2000

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
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.

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