Pondering "sober curious" movement after a weekend in Athens, Ohio

(593 words)

I was this weekend the focus of on odd male custom where men who love you most and think you’re going to die in, say, 5 years, gather to engage in the wanton misbehaviors that could kill you in 2 nights.

I survived and made it home where I’m loved by even sober folk.

The weekend reinforces my contention that my popularity with any group surges in direct correlation to how much alcohol they’ve consumed. 

So if you think this blog is off to a slow start, why don’t you stop here for a moment and go take big slug of hootch to loosen up. I’ll wait.

There. You back? Feel better? 

If it puts you at ease, I had one, too.

Okay, I’m lying.

I had two!

Have you heard about the new sober curious movement? It says people are sick of drinking and are thoughtfully considering what it would be like going out without spending the night drinking beer, wine or strong liquor.

Well, I know exactly what that would be like. 

It’d be like staying home!

Really, I’ll not disparage. I can see alternatives to intoxication working for a lot of people, albeit not for people who make their living keeping many of us tipsy.

Excessive drink, I know, is the ruin of many well-intentioned adults. But so is excessive sobriety. As H.L. Mencken once said: “All the great villainies of history, from Abel to the Treaty of Versailles, have been perpetuated by sober men, chiefly by teetotalers.”

I’m curious how different my life would be had I chosen a sober path. For starters, my lawn today would appear tidier because I wouldn’t have spent the weekend in Athens, Ohio, still after all these years the Drinker’s Disneyland. And my life, I believe, would be emptier without all those vital friendships and raucous memories.

Being back in Athens with a dozen old buddies reminds me how essential my time there was to me. It’s where I became who I am.

Times were different — and I tried without success to impose a penalty shot anytime anyone said, “Boy it’s a good thing there weren’t camera phones when we were here!”

I felt more melancholy than I’ve ever felt in fun circumstances because, indeed, I was the focus of the weekend. Many of my friends came long distances to wish me well. My Parkinson’s diagnosis is bumming my old buddies out. That bums me out. 

I told them I’m fine — and I am — but I realize how upsetting it is when you see something once so vital, so alive — me and you at 19 — showing signs of encroaching mortality. 

Where I once ran naked, I now limp fully clothed.

Still, I should have done something to lift everyone’s spirits, something that would have yielded at least one new story we can tell over and over years from now — and new stories should be the goal of any gathering among old men being stalked by nostalgia.

So next time it’ll be up to me to either swim naked in the hotel pool, pee on a cop’s foot or try and sleep with Miss Benson, that hot history prof, who is by now either 80 or dead — either of which would make a good story.

And that’s another problem I have with the whole sober curious bit.

I mean, really. Where are you going to find a sober guy daring enough to pee on the cop’s foot to liven things up at last call in Athens when the boys are getting bored?

Related ….

Do friendships extend lives?

Back when drinking ouzo always made my pants disappear

No.1 Party Boy from No 1 Party school

My #MeToo moment in ’85, Athens, Ohio

Back behind bars

My wild & wussy weekend

My new Tin Lizzy office! (from '15)

(1096 words)

The critical criteria for selecting a new office space were two: Would it allow opportunities for fun? And would it be a good place to fend off the marauding zombie hordes?

Because you just never know.

So my office search loosely paralleled the plot from the uproarious 2004 zombie Brit flick, “Shaun of the Dead.”

See, I’m not at all like the fancy writers, and by fancy writers I mean ones who earn their livings getting paid to write.

No, all I need is a quiet place I can make loud.

I don’t want interruptions or chat mates. I just need a small, still room for me, my laptop and my Bose wave radio. Then I just sit down, plug in and crank up (right now it’s alt-country/blues/rocker/folkie/geriatric hellraiser Ray Wylie Hubbard).

Loud music for me seems to vacuum away all the mind clutter that gets in the way of necessary thoughtfulness. I don’t know why that is so and I just hope my daughters don’t inherit the trait or else I’ll soon know the lyrics to all the songs by the band One Direction.

Because of past happy experience, I confined my search to places that served hootch.

Who knows? Maybe I’d write better if my office were above (or below) a place of worship.

But I know if someone religious-minded wandered by and heard me playing Ray Wylie Hubbard’s blasphemous “Conversation with the Devil” it might lead to a long, philosophical discourse that would sidetrack me from writing about important blog topics like how sad I feel when my socks don’t match.

And who the hell needs that?

So after about two days of exhaustive research, one of which I did while hungover, I found two places that fill those needs.

The first is Little Rock, maybe the world’s greatest bar. It has great live music, eccentric clientele, chummy bartenders and is owned by my old college roommate Quinn Fallon, who’s endeared himself to me by never once having charged me for a single libation.

But Little Rock — so named because Quinn believes every bar needs a “little rock” — had two logistical drawbacks.

One, it has no second floor. I didn’t ask, but I’m sure Quinn would have let me put a card table and a lawn chair up on the roof. I might have become a local tourist attraction.

But without walls, I might one day blunder right off the roof and OSHA would have its first case of a writer being hurt while in the act of writing.

Second, Little Rock is in Columbus, Ohio.

If I could pull it off, I’d gladly make the 3 1/2-hour drive to Columbus, spend an hour blogging, an hour drinking with Quinn and then heading home — really, being gone 9 hours a day is a typical existence.

But I’d miss daily watching “The Price is Right” and let’s be honest: I haven’t been able to confine my convivial drinking to one-hour-a-day since the 4th grade.

That left one obvious choice.

Hello Tin Lizzy!

My commute has been cut in half. I’m now just 1.2 miles from home.

My wife said I could walk.

“Hell,” I said, “I’m gonna zip line!”

Won’t that be cool? The historic Tin Lizzy is Youngstown’s landmark building.

Youngstown, remember, is the one-stoplight town just outside of Latrobe. Before moving up the mountain, Val and I lived just 1/4 mile from the Tin Lizzy from 1992 through 2007. It’s a great town and, in fact, is the birthplace of both Fred Rogers and Arnold Palmer.

Locals know Latrobe Country Club isn’t in Latrobe. Neither is Palmer. They’re both in Youngstown.

For seven wonderful years, my office was above a really great bar.

Now, it’s above three of them.

The basement is the Rathskeller (live music); the ground floor, a perfectly cool townie bar; the second floor is Flappers, a 1940s-themed martini bar. 

I’m now the entire third floor.

To enter I need to pass through four locked doors. I like Maxwell Smart from the iconic “Get Smart” opening sequence.

It’s 79 steps to the third floor and I have it all to myself.

There are 11 rooms, but not 11 doors. It’s perfectly maze-like. I can get my daily exercise without ever having to leave the building.

There’s no shower, but the restroom gives the discerning urinator the choice of either bowl or wall-mounted receptacle.

I’m weighing an even/odd calendar routine.

Most of the rooms are like being in a bar’s attic. There’s old chairs, tables, paints, work space. One room has all the Christmas decorations so I can commune with Claus anytime I need a jolt of holiday spirit.

The actual office is one slim room overlooking Main Street. It’s a great view. 

The floors are badly warped so writing while seated on my wheeled chair is like writing on the pitching deck of a ship.

I was very pleased when my friend, Buck, offered me the space. He’s been running the building for, I think, 25 years. He’s gone way out of his way to make me feel welcome, as have his staff.

I got an unexpected call at 7:30 this morning. It was Sandy offering me coffee.

How sweet.

I screamed at her to not bother me again until she’d prepared a three egg-white, all organic Western omelette with Bavarian goat cheese was ready.

She hasn’t called back. She’s either insulted or is having a difficult time securing a Bavarian goat.

The most awkward aspect of moving has been answering so many questions about where I’m going to get drunk.

While I (mostly) exaggerate my drinking for blog purposes, people are concerned I’ll abandon The Pond.

It’s a tough call. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. All my buddies are at The Pond and I have loyalties there, but The Pond did evict me and I should convey some loyalty to the people who are welcoming me in.

I endure long stretches where my writing is roundly ignored, but I’m never lacking for interest in people who want me as a drinking buddy.

I feel like a highly touted college QB prospect being fought over by competing NFL teams.

Not a draft pick.

A draft beer pick!

I guess there’s only one thing to do that won’t hurt anyone’s feelings among all the people who’ve been so nice to me.

Columbus, here I come!

It reeks of pretentiousness, but the reaction is convincing me what every bar really needs is a little Rodell.

Related . . .

Germanwings & The art of living suddenly

Excessive traffic lights drive man to drink

My history of drinking at or near work

Drunk on the job

“Office” Christmas party recap

I am being evicted from The Pond

Farewell Pond! I am outta here

RIP Bobby Keys: Is this his last song?

(717 words)

The thing you have to love about Bobby Keys is that in rock’s most excessive era he was exiled for being too irresponsible.

By Mick Jagger!

It’d be like Fred Rogers and the Dali Lama having a gentle dispute over who is more deferential.

This wasn’t parting ways with Brian Jones over creative differences. This was Jagger saying, “‘The bloke’s jus’ too much! When ‘e’s inna next room, ‘e’s so loud I can’t even enjoy me orgy!”

The ’73 split was over a champagne-filled bathtub. In the tub with Keys one day in Belgium was a naked French model and the pair had commenced to guzzling. The situation was apparently too compelling for Keys to depart for that day’s required sound check.

I love the Stones, but I see a lot of logic in Keys’s decision. 

Banished, he made only sporadic contributions to subsequent Stones recordings. You could argue the band never again returned to the heights it had hit with “Sticky Fingers” and “Exile on Main Street,” classics where Keys' contributions are indelible.

Back then the Stones understood that when rock ’n’ roll swaggers into the saloon, it’s the sax man who kicks down the door.

Don’t believe me?

Think of some of their best songs: It’s Keys who delivers the signature sounds on “Brown Sugar,” “Live with Me,” “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking,” “I Got the Blues,” and so many songs that make “Exile” so essential. Songs like “Casino Boogie,” “Rip This Joint,” “Sweet Virginia,” “Let It Loose” and “Ventilator Blues.” 

My very favorite might be “Bitch,” a song that plays like Mick and Keith wrote specifically with him and his sax in mind.

He was born December 18, 1943, the same day as Keith Richards (and the day before my Mom’s birthday 11 years previous!).

He met the Stones in ’64 when he was playing with Bobby Vee at a San Antonio festival. It’s all there in Bill Wyman’s 1990 book, “Stone Alone.” The part about meeting Keys also includes an anecdote about The Stones sunbathing at the hotel pool when alarmed guests called police with reports that five young girls were there topless at the same time.

How scandalous.

It turned out it was just The Stones. Their long hair had confused the prudish guests.

Born in Lubbock, the cradle of some of the greatest and influential American music, Keys played with Buddy Holly and Roy Orbison before most kids earn their driver’s licenses.

He’s said he played the baritone sax for Elvis on “Return to Sender,” but that is in dispute. Others claim it is their work.

I believe Keys. Why would he lie? To make himself more famous?

For heaven’s sake, the only saxophone player on earth who’s ever rivaled him in fame is Lisa Simpson.

D’oh!

He played with The Who, all the Beatles and, in fact, played the last session ever between Lennon and McCartney, a 1974 bit called “A Toot and a Snore,” which I’ve never heard of and may or may not get around to researching.

He played with Jerry Lee Lewis, Fats Domino, Barbara Streisand, Joe Ely, Carly Simon, B.B. King, Chuck Berry and the great Quinn Fallon.

Who?

Quinn Fallon. Yes, I’ve written about him before, many times, but I refer to him again in this instance because it may be historically significant.

Quinn’s a great roots rocker who was so enamored of Keys and his legacy he wrote a song based on Keys’ 2012 book, “Every Night’s a Saturday Night.”

He told Keys about it when they met when Keys was performing in Columbus, where Quinn runs a bar named Little Rock.

Why Little Rock? Because every bar needs a little rock.

Keys was so flattered he agreed to play on the song on Quinn’s recently released Los Gravediggers album, “Get a New Ghost.”

So Keys’s last recorded song may be “Every Night’s a Saturday Night,” a song based on the title of the book about his own life.

I hope someone plays it for Keith. He’d think that’s perfectly cool. He’d be correct.

But I’m sorry Bobby’s dead. 

He was 70 and I would love to have heard another 10 or so years from him as the legend expanded even further.

Really, it’s worse than a pity.

It’s a bitch.

Related . . .

Shuffling off the shuffle: a “new” way to listen to music

Stones 50 best? ForGGGGet it

Roll on, Stones

Keith’s bio: Warts ’n’ warts

Mick Jagger: An appreciation

My wild and wussy weekend

My wild and wussy weekend

(961 words)

I can always tell when I do something that disappoints my friends my wife will be elated and vice versa. It’s very difficult for a convivial family man to do anything simultaneously satisfying to both demographics.

So this weekend was in some ways sort of a wash for me.

On the downside I disappointed my friend. On the upside, I avoided being murdered by someone who 25 years ago swore he’d kill me if I ever behaved in the wussy way I behaved on Saturday night.

Friday night I stayed up partying until 6 a.m. at my buddy Quinn’s new bar in Columbus.

Quinn’s had a terrible year. His wife left him shortly after he learned his mom had terminal cancer; she passed six months later. It was two years after the death of the step-father who raised him.

Me, I had a much better year.

My buddy Quinn opened a new bar!

I know, it’s not like I need yet another bar-owner friend to inebriate me for free, but it’s unwise to maintain some commodities in quantities fewer than one.

It’s why people keep spare tires in their trunks.

His last bar was Andyman’s Tree House, which he and co-owner Andy Davis sold in '08, shortly before Davis died unexpectedly in 2010. That bar was named by Esquire as one of the 50 best bars in America.

I think Little Rock is even better.

Why is a bar in the state capital of Ohio named like a city that is the state capital of Arkansas? 

Because every great bar needs at least a Little Rock.

And rock it does.

See, Quinn’s also the singer/songwriter who cryptically named his band Los Gravediggers. His bandmates have included Dan Baird of the Georgia Satellites and Bobby Keys of the Rolling Stones. Quinn's the best songwriter I know and among the best songwriters I’ve ever heard.

He’s that good and it’s a confounding disappointment in a world awash in so much lousy music that Quinn’s music struggles to be heard.

And he’s very funny. When he learned former Hootie Darius Rucker was going to switch genres to country he suggested he be called “Brocephus,” which I’ll not explain save to say it’s an off-color country music joke about a man of color.

We were roommates for one year in college when I was in the midst of a 10-year heyday for running wild. Often running wild and naked.

Quinn and our buddies loved that part of me. That’s from whence the murder threat stemmed. I remember him telling me the night after some vivid antics that he and another friend were discussing what then was my legend.

“We said, ‘What are we going to do if Rodell ever changes?’ We decided we’d have to kill you. We wouldn’t be able to stand being in a world where you’d disappoint us by behaving like a normal, boring guy.”

We stayed up drinking in Little Rock straight through until 6 a.m. I laughed myself hoarse.

I was pleased that after all these years of waking up at 6 a.m., I could still when duty called stay awake until that time.

But — and I’m not ashamed to admit it — the revelry turned me into a boring old man by Saturday afternoon. I was eager to get home. It was causing me to reconsider our plans to drive to Athens and meet some other old Ohio University friends and again drink the night away.

And I’m at an age where I don’t belong in many of the bars in Athens. To spend a night amidst a mob of binge drinkers 30 years younger than me requires a kind of cool I can no longer summon.

After about four hours, I told Quinn I’d had enough. I’d be walking back to the hotel at 11 p.m. I told him I didn’t want to be wrecked all day Sunday and that I was looking forward to spending the day with my family.

He looked like presidential candidates must look the instant they’re told, despite all the rosy poll results, they’ve lost the election. He was crestfallen. He demanded a recount.

He couldn’t understand how I could want to do anything with my family when I had an opportunity to again get falling down drunk with him and our pals. I told him I planned on being on the road by 7 a.m. 

“Why so damn early?”

In hindsight, I really should have told an artful lie. The truth didn’t make me look any better in the eyes of one of the very coolest guys I’ve ever known.

“We’re going to see the new Muppet movie.”

I slept lightly back at the hotel, fearful he might fulfill his ancient oath and slay me in my sleep.

It’s an emphatic example of just how difficult it is to have a family you love and enjoy and friends about whom you feel the same. The one group will never understand why you want to spend so much happy time with the other and the two will never fully reconcile.

It probably gives you some idea, too, of why it would be impossible for a guy like me to ever hold down a full time job.

But this weekend I got to spend a lot of time with a friend I love, and a lot of time with the family I love. So to me it was one of the best weekends of the year.

See, I love The Muppets, too.

Related . . .

America’s No. 1 party boy from America’s No. 1 party school

Let’s all America go to the movies

CDC report on binge drinking has me reevaluating binge drinking

When Facebook becomes Fakebook

My history of drinking at/near work