A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Bar...

I'd like to relate to you a story about my adventures last Sunday night while I was attending a professional conference for admissions counselors in Columbus, Ohio. I know that it is not a true blue reflection of or reaction to pop culture, but nevertheless, I feel as though the world should hear this story.

First off, I was supposed to fly up to Columbus on Sunday morning. Friday evening, while I was enjoying the final season premiere of Battlestar Galactica, I received an email from Skybus saying that I could check in 24-36 hours before my flight. Five minutes later, I received an email from Skybus saying that at midnight, all operations were canceled.

That must have been a really disastrous five minutes.

Anyway, because of the short notice, I was forced to drive the 7ish hours from High Point to Columbus. I get there around 4:30pm and meet up with all of the counselors that I've hung out with over the year. We're a rowdy bunch, so we get right to the business of alcohol and good times. There's a social that night, a "Favorite Band" themed social. You were supposed to wear your favorite concert t-shirt. Mine was a green Weezer shirt, proclaming "I have a Weezer in my pocket, and I'm happy to see you."

Anyway, we're all getting drunk and dancing and having a grand old time. A group of people I've just met say they're going out to another bar. I'm having too much fun at the hotel, so I tell them that maybe I'll meet up later. I keep dancing and drinking and I go to different room parties. Eventually, the night at the hotel stalls and people go to bed. It's around 1am, and I'm still jazzed and in Party Mode. I don't want to go to bed. I want to meet up with the Bar People.

The problem is that I can't remember the name of the bar that they said they were going to. But I THINK I can remember the bar they went to.

Here's where the night takes a turn for the worse.

I go down to the front desk and ask everyone there where "Havana" is located, not the one in Cuba, but the club in Columbus. They look around at each other, and say it's in Short North. This means nothing to me, but then they say it's about a 20 minute walk or a 5 dollar cab ride. I slur a thank you and stumble out to a cab.

Habeeb the cab driver doesn't speak a lick of the King's English. It's about a 15 dollar cab ride because of the wrong turns and misunderstandings. But whatever, you can't put a price on fun. We finally get to Havana, and I leap from the cab and head into the bar. Success, I think, time for round 2!

The first thing that I notice is that the inside of Havana looks like Miami Vice. The walls are slippery tiles, there's a weird blue light illuminating the bar, and throbbing techno-music blares from the speakers. The second thing I notice is that there are a LOT of guys in this place. Almost totally guys. Total sausage fest. And a lot of them are in just their underwear. And a lot of them are making out with each other...

...And thats when I realize that I've accidentally gone to a gay bar.

I must stress that I have no problem with the GLBT community. I support their rights and their cause and I think they are wonderful people. I would also like to say that I've been to gay bars before...but with a group of people. I didn't intend to go by myself...wasted...wearing a t-shirt that says "I have a Weezer in my pocket and I'm happy to see you."

Maybe they're in the back, I think to myself about the people I want to meet up with. Right Lars, sure. Keep a hold of that dream. I begin to wander through the bar trying to find my new friends. I have to stop myself from asking a guy balls deep in another guy if they can help me find the back. That, I think, would not be a great question to ask at this juncture.

I also decide that buying a drink would be bad too. Because after awhile I know that my friends aren't there. I also think that maybe this bar is a seedy place, not a nice gay bar but one where drug deals go down and the cops are just minutes from busting it. And what if I'm there when they busted. I will be arrested at a gay bar, and that will be my life. Nothing I've said or done up until this point will matter. I stumble out of the bar.

And thats when I realize that I wasn't just in a gay bar. I was in a gay district. There are fanny-pack displays in shop windows. Drag queens are getting off of their shifts and out of their make-up, so they look blasted out and undead. Men are strutting up the street wearing fishnets and tank tops. I feel a bit out of place.

I don't want to pay another 15 bucks for a taxi to get back, so I decide to walk. They said it was only 20 minutes, right? If anyone reading this knows of my directional abilities, they will know that this is very, very wrong.

It takes me over an hour to get back to my hotel. The main cause of this is that I get lost on one particular street. The name of the street, I'm not kidding, is Gay Street.

...

I found out later that Gay Street used to be a one way, but now it runs both ways.

...

Not kidding.

I stumble into the hotel finally, and everyone is still at the front desk. "Did you enjoy the bar?" they ask. Furious, I say "Yes," to cover the "WHATTHEFUCKDOYOUTHINKTHANKSFORTHEHEADSUP?!" that wanted to erupt from my mouth. I go to bed and pass out.

The next morning, I see the group that I had wanted to meet up with and I go over to them.

"Where did y'all go last night?!" I ask.

They're all hungover, and say, "We don't know man, we drove around, we don't know where we went."

One of the guys asks, "Did you go out last night?"

Pause.

"Yeah man, I came out last night."

The Average Termite

I just watched a commercial for a termite control service which claimed:

 "The average termite chews 24 hours a day, 7 days a week."

The average termite??

Come on.

Either every single termite has a perfect record, or we got some other termites picking up the slack putting in 25 hour days... and I find both scenarios hard to believe.

inner child

This evening a bowl of cereal went soggy, for a plastic robot was discovered in a box of Cheerios.

Random Thoughts While Drifting Through the Stations

89.9 FM
Classical music reminds me too much of Bugs Bunny cartoons to actually be taken seriously. I enjoy it, but I can't help but picture Bugs with his feet on Elmer Fudd's head pretending to be the Barber of Seville.

94.1 FM
Casey Casem sounds the same when he's hosting the American Top 40 from 1967 as he does when he's hosting the American Top 40 from 2008. This is because he is a robot. An ageless, musical robot sent from the future; not to destroy us, but to save us all with the glory of pop music.

98.7 FM
"Toto" by Africa is the greatest song ever recorded by humans.

99.9FM
I will never understand country music. Some of it is ok, but the vast majority of it is un-listenable music. How did the stoic and iconic image of the American Cowboy, something so ingrained in the pop-culture fabric of society, get bastardized and mass produced and morphed into Kenny Chesney?

102.1 FM
I will never get a girl with apple bottom jeans. Or boots with the fur.

102.7FM
Static.

107.5FM
Dear American Idol,
For the love of God, stop.
Love,
Lars

88.5FM
Car Talk is the only good show on this whole God-foresaken station. National Public Radio is the audio equivalent to watching grass grow.

102.9FM
Christmas music should be socially acceptable to listen to all year long.

103.1FM
Static.

94.1FM
The song "You're So Vain" by Carly Simon is ridiculous. Carly, you're chastising this gentlemen, calling out all of his qualities that make him so vain. And then you say that you bet he thinks the song is about him. Well it is! The song is about him! So why shouldn't he think it's about him when it is, in fact, about him! James Taylor did the right thing when he dumped your ass.

107.5FM
Radio DJ's have the easiest job on the face of the planet, and a microphone in which to share their ridiculous thoughts, banter, and experiences to the world. I want their job.

Multiple Personalities: A National Concern

I feel that with I should take a moment today and discuss a problem that has swept the nation and has taken center stage in the pop culture of this country. This problem is multiple personalities, or, in the Latin, splitus mentalius.

This is not a new problem. Over the years, multiple personality disorder has reared its ugly head in all sorts of forms. From Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde to Cybil; from Michael Caine in Dressed to Kill to Woody Allen's character in Zelig. One can also make a corollary to the desire to obtain an alternate identity, exemplified by David Bowie (Ziggy Stardust), Clark Kent (Superman), and Emperor Palpatine (Darth Sidious).

Something is happening now, however, that has made this kind of behavior more mainstream. I'm talking, of course, about Miley Ray Cyrus and her alter-ego, Hannah Montana. Their "Best of Both Worlds" tour was the highest selling of the year and their albums are flying off the shelves. This Disney princess has made good, coming out from behind the mullety-shadow of her father, Billy Ray. Miley recently presented at the Oscars, and Hannah's show is going strong.

Here's the thing though...THEY'RE THE SAME FUCKING PERSON.

The Best of Both Worlds tour touts that both Hannah and Miley perform songs. It's a double-bill to die for (read "to die for" as "leap off something high instead of watch"). How is this possibly an amazing feat? Every time Hannah performs its actually Miley anyway! This Best of Both Worlds tour is just an excuse to milk more money from poor saps that can't get enough of cheesy, shitty music.

Dear teeny-bopper kids, your parents, and the Walt Disney Corporation,

Knock it the fuck off.

Love,
Lars

P.S.: I'm sure that Hillary Duff is kicking herself when she sees that all it takes is a wig change to double your profits for one show.


Ziggy Stardust didn't walk out on stage halfway through his show and say "Hey everyone, you all know I'm David fucking Bowie, who are we kidding. I'm just gonna take this shit off and I'll sing the rest of my normal songs."

Clark Kent didn't fly around Metropolis without first stopping in a telephone booth to change into his blue tights and red cape.

The Emperor didn't show his true colors until his plan had fully come to fruition.

Are Miley Ray Cyrus/Hannah Montana this generation's answer to Bowie and his Stardust? It'll break my achey-breaky-heart if that's the case.

Hey, I like babies too.

MURDERER. HELLBOUND. SOULLESS. NAZI!

This is just a small sample of adjectives in which a certain group of people on campus would describe me. For the first in my life, I felt not only uncomfortable, but offended when I was standing in front of the pro-life tent on the USF campus. Day after day, it is not uncommon for there to be one or two die hard crazies roaming about Tampa wearing warning signs of damnation, or corduroyed clipboard people asking for money and signatures to stop suburban sprawl. So this type of in-your-face approach to have your voice heard is not uncommon. Unfortunately in this case I could not just turn up my Ipod and keep my stroll on. This is PRO LIFE.

Walking from the Library, I was intrigued by a black sign with splattered red paint, reading "WARNING, DISTURBING IMAGES AHEAD". Naturally, I walked farther. 2nd sign read: "GENOCIDE PICTURES AHEAD"... how could I turn around now?

As I turned the corner, there stood a monster display of red, white, and black. Oversize images of human beings piled together in a mass heap of flesh, atop which stood a Nazi flag, next to other images of alike horror. Littered in the holocaust of images were pictures of babies, either happy and smiling, or dead and fetus-y. Throw a couple of = signs between the two, flash a couple "pro-choice" labels, and there you have the Tampa, Florida pro-life awareness stand that haunted me for the rest of the day.

I don't understand.

Am I a Nazi?

I don't think I'm a Nazi.

I'm Jewish.

But I am pro-choice?

Isn't pro-choice Nazism?

I stood in front of this as I thought myself in circles for too long, trying to comprehend the logic behind this master display.

I understand that they don't approve of abortion. I understand that they like babies. I understand that they don't want them dead. I understand that they think anyone who supports choice also supports Nazi's and Genocide and the slaughtering of over 6,000,000 people. But I don't understand why the extent of in-your-face graphic vulgarity. Are they trying to convince me that I am a Nazi? Is this to make me feel guilty, and partly responsible for the Holocaust? Because I don't, and I'm not. Or is it a ploy to make other people think that about me? Because if that's the case, then fuck you.

My ultimate conclusion is that these people have an opinion, which is good. Opinions are an aspect of humanity that gives each special person something that separates him/herself from everyone else. It's beautiful. Except these people, in addition to having their opinion, aren't satisfied with just having an opinion. They need their opinion to be shared by everyone, and try to persuade with good a modest serving of FEARRRRR. I've seen this style of persuasion before, as I'm sure we're all familiar with the old guy we find on campus those special days wearing the billboards around his chest yelling at people walking by about how they are going to hell, no matter what... unless they confide in Jesus.

Relating that guy to the people I was standing in front of today lightened me up enough to turn around and get on with the day. I decided not to take offense to them, but instead be proud that not only do I have an opinion, but I have the grace to not shove it in people's faces as they're trying to walk to class.

Greasy Spoon

My job requires me to travel to areas that are normally not tourist hotspots. Places like Medina, Ohio, or Tusculum, Tennesee. Blips on the map, places that you only accidentally drive through and can miss in a blink. I'm constantly moving from one cookie cutter hotel room to another, rooms that look so much alike that it feels like I've never really left the one before.

The only thing that I've found really ties me to these out of the way places I go to are the places where I go to eat. 9 times out of 10, I throw out the little complimentary list of eateries that are handed out to every hotel guest and go to the local gas station. There, I ask the clerk where the local greasy spoon is, and eat there instead.

The greasy spoon is something that I feel is an important part of this country. They are places that can be found on roads called Turkeyfoot Lake Road, places with old neon signs that are slowly fading. Places that don't use fancy computers to type in orders, but instead still rely on old waitress pads and the furious scribble of food shorthand. They are places with menus that look like they were printed in the 1970's at the latest, with an ambiance to match.

And I love them. I love them for their greasy food and their daily specials and for the America they represent. Because that's what I see in them whenever I step through their doors. I see America. I see Elk Lodge meetings being discussed, I see trophies from Little League teams that these places have sponsored. I see local people, real people, blue collar people that have just gotten off from the kind of jobs that used to be respected in this country but now seem antiquated. People that want to get out of the cold and enjoy a hot bowl of chili or the best hot wings in the county.

I don't get that feeling at a chain restaurant, and I don't like that. I don't like that I can walk into an Applebee's and get the same Fiesta Lime Chicken in Cleveland that I can in New Orleans. I don't like that there's the same Southwestern Egg Rolls being served in Chili's from San Fransisco to Boston. I don't like that a Grand Slam is a Grand Slam is a Grand Slam at any Denny's you go to at any point in this country.

I feel homogenized. I feel boxed in. I feel like I'm out of options. I feel trapped.

And I feel like I've lost something. I feel like ALL of us, in fact, have lost something. It's the thing that made a group of rag-tag Vikings leave their cold Scandinavian shores and head for greener lands. It's the thing that made people cross the land bridge from what is now Russia to what is now Alaska, thus peopling this continent. It's the thing that made Spanish conquistadors and explorers defy what was known: that the world was not flat and that there was something out there. It's the thing that made a group of Puritan settlers seek a new life in a new world; it's the thing that made millions upon millions of people come to these shores. It's the sense of adventure. It's the sense of wonder. It's the sense of exploration.

And we don't have that anymore.

We've lost that when this country got too fast for its own good. We lost it when Manifest Destiny brought us across this land, full of courage and purpose, only to find the real edge of the world waiting for us. We lost it when we found out the even though the world wasn't flat, there really was an end to it and we gave up looking for something beyond it.

Think about it. How many people refuse to go see a movie based on the opinions of critics? How many people won't pick up a new album or try a different kind of music because there is a certain kind of label or stigma attached to it? How many people make choices now simply by appearance? How many books are now judged by only their covers?

We're scared, and so we retreat to our sure-thing Tom Hanks movies and our American Idol CDs. And we seek refuge from the wild and wooly world in Bob Evans, and in Olive Garden, and at the Outback. We do this because it's safe, because we know that no matter where we are, the biscuits will be good and the bread sticks will be never ending and the onions will be bloomin'.

I'm gonna make an effort to not be afraid. I'm gonna make an effort to try new things. I'm gonna listen to music I never thought I would. I'm going to unplug my GPS, which I, like many others, have become addicted to, and try the back roads. And I encourage you to do the same. Explore. Look around. Take the long way. Skip shortcuts. Get lost. Get found.

And if you ever find yourself on the outskirts of Akron, OH, take a turn down Turkeyfoot Lake Road and head to MT Pocket's Pub and Grill. It's right on the cold and frozen waters of Turkeyfoot Lake, but the people are nothing of the sort. They're warm and happy and friendly. They'll let you in on their local jokes. They'll let you listen to their stories. And they'll call you by your name when you leave, like you've been coming there for years.

Go there. And try the reuben. It's delicious.