Monday, September 29, 2014

We Own The Shadows. We Ride the Nights.

I'm not sure if he was thinking logically. Yeah, he was drunker than shit. Mobility down to a minimum. So when I seen him listing to his right, I instantly thought that he was bedding down for the evening. The small sidewalk he was sitting on was occupied by ample, but mostly empty, beer bottles, beer cans, whiskey bottles and Red Cups. I must stress the words MOSTLY EMPTY... That's one great point about drinking. Anywhere can be comfortable if your drunk enough.

This particular fellow had fought the good fight. He gave it his all. It was time for him to succumb to the natural eventuality that faces all binge drinkers: Puking, passing-out and dealing with hang-overs... The big three.

He had taken his first step, but not the second. He rose from his listing revealing that he had deposited puke into the Red Cup right up to the cups rim. Trusted confidant, Juice By Jerry and I, had asked him if everything was Ok. Life had its fair share of tragedies and we didn't need any more if we could help it. He responded with a thumbs up and, as Juice would explain, in Mixed Martial Arts, a thumbs-up shows cognitive function. The fellow was 'still with us' ready to move onward in his journey... Steps two and three were before him and we would find out, he would conqur them.

The next day he approached Juice by Jerry and I with thanks for taking a minute to make sure this he was ok... As the story would become revealed in bits, he would explain that he was sitting next to a Red Cup up that, according to him, had a small amount of puke already in it. He filled it to the rim so as not to make a grand mess of things on the sidewalk I died the compound. I shuddered. I didn't want to learn anymore! I could draw my own conclusions. This tale would become much more twisted though. The Red Cup in question was later (the next day) mistaken for holding what appeared to be an untouched Red Cup of Sangria.


In Cincinnati Ohio, on the otherside of an invisible and maybe even non-existing dividing line (depending on who you talk to), during one city-wide music fest that's growing larger and larger each year, and another one. The other one... There was a vast shadow thrown over three amazing days in September in a booze drenched basement and its pebble gravel sparkling compound... Where, in that gravel compound, a good look around would show that it was littered with broken glass from multiple colored liquor bottles shimmering. The compounds gravel mixed with the broken glass that gave the spot the appearance of being a sparking beach. That broken glass compound enhancement, coupled with multiple sillouettes of Rock and Roll rejects binge-drinking under the backdrop of the smell of burning leaves and near-pandemic levels of pink-eye, was still a great sight to see after all these years.

I accepted my newfound epiphany of that moment of looking, listening and appreciating. There's a spot within a spot. A thing within a thing... Hidden in plain sight... It has a soundtrack, a cast of heroes, and villains. We have our place. We are that broken glass... We own the shadows. We ride the night.

Wit-Fest Three

Kill the Hippies set-list.