Ohio Girl

We all have to get out now and then. Cut loose. Let off steam. Shed our skin. I am sure you have your own, preferred cliché. Here are some off-the-beaten-path locales that might be just what you are looking for.

The Parkview Nite Club

The Parkview is a nice place. It is my neighborhood hang-out and the starting point for any further bar-hopping. Most people would find it accessible to their needs. And indeed, on most nights, you will observe all ranges of age, race, and socioeconomic class. It boasts some good food, some funny regulars and a really cute bartender. Best of all, at whatever time you stumble out there is a lovely view of the Lake and the Cleveland skyline. Note: They do not regularly carry Wild Turkey. They purchased a bottle for me, but it is now gone. They have promised to get more, especially since Thanksgiving is coming.

Sample Conversation:

Bartender: Hi ladies. Long time, no see.

Me and My Friend: Yeah.

My Friend: How you been?

Bartender: Oh, you know.

My Friend: Have you seen the one-armed guy lately?

Me: No, no, he had one leg and two arms.

My Friend: Oh, that's right.

Bartender: No, not since that night. And we have found no bread in the bathroom of late.

Me: Bread in the bathroom?

My Friend: Remember, I left a trail of bread crumbs.

Bartender: More like a pile.

Fatboy's Country Club:

I would not recommend going on karaoke night, but Fridays and Saturdays are just fine. Live bands play contemporary country as well as some important standards. Bikers slap backs and make crude gestures in the rear of the bar. Women wear tight jeans and peroxide-laden hair on the dance floor. And if you put David Allan Coe on the juke box everyone, and I do mean everyone, will sing along. Note: No Wild Turkey. Go when you are ready to settle for Beam.

Sample Conversation:

Man who looks like Sean Connery in a black, cowboy hat: Hi girls.

Me and My Friend: Hi.

Me: Is your name Ramone?

Man: No, it's Angel.

Me: Well, that's close isn't it?

My Friend: Yes, a close second.

Man named Angel (to My Friend): Are you Puerto Rican?

My Friend: No, but I speak Spanish.

Man (to me, when My Friend has gone to the bathroom): Are you Puerto Rican?

Me: No and my Spanish is not nearly as good as My Friend's.

The Victory Lap Café:

Definitely DO go on karaoke night (Friday) where long-haired men belt out metal tunes, while women sing 'You Light Up My Life.' The wood-paneled walls are covered in NASCAR paraphernalia which, for me, gives it a homey feel. The bartender is friendly and good at guessing your age. Note: The Wild Turkey is flowing freely.

Sample Conversation:

Dave: Your friend speaks perfect English.

Charlie: Sure does.

Me: Well, I mean, she was born right here in America.

Dave: Are you Spanish?

Me: No, but I speak some Spanish.

Charlie: Really?

Me: Si.

Dave: But you're NOT Spanish.

Charlie: I speak English and Hillbilly.

Me: Ah, yes, I am conversant in that dialect.

Dave: She said 'dialect.'

Charlie: You gonna sing something?

Me: No, you?

Charlie: Naw.

Me: Aw, come on.

Charlie: What do you think I'd sing?

Me: If I had to guess, I think you'd go for some George Jones.

Charlie: That's right, doll, you got that exactly right.

The Ugly Broad Tavern:

I was hesitant about the name at first--like maybe some jilted dude named it after his wife--to be mean. But it is welcoming, complete with a fluffy, bar dog that wags around and free condoms in the lav. The owner is a large woman who plays touch-screen, video games while the bartender pushes Jell-O shots. Note: They have Wild Turkey, but are really hot on the Jell-O shots.

Sample Conversation:

Me: You know this is the sidewalk don't you? You missed the driveway.

My Friend: Well, I wasn't sure if that was the driveway. The sidewalk works.

Me: We just drove completely around the building on the sidewalk.

My Friend: But it worked. Let's park on the street.

Me: I wish you had dropped me at the front door.

Partner's Pub:

Well, I recommend going once just to soak up the weirdness. Black boys in baggy, white tees dance the mating dance with Appalachian, White girls who have gotten all gussied up in their best tank tops. The bartender has a spiky, bleached do with a cut-off sweatshirt, zipped open to his navel. It hangs off his shoulder exposing one nipple. Note: Wild Turkey is in ample supply and they even have a vintage, Turkey statuette that once held the precious liquid. If you ask to hold it, they will let you, but only for a moment. Then, they will assume you plan to steal it.

Sample Conversation:

My Friend: This woman is asking where you live.

Friendly, Slightly Out-of-Place, Woman: Where do you live?

Me: Near here.

My Friend: Lake County.

Woman: I live right off Dennison. Come over and I will make you biscuits and gravy.

Me: I'm a vegetarian.

My Friend: Me too.

Woman: I will make you tomato gravy.

Me (whispering to My Friend): Is this not like the 10^th time a nice, lesbian has offered to make us biscuits and gravy?

My Friend (whispering back): I was just thinking the same thing.

Happy Hopping!

Lordy boys. Y’all sure do get mad, huh? Yesterday’s race at Loudon was NOT boring. The first race of the championship season included some good, close racing, as well as some real, bad behavior.

The first caution came in Lap 3 when Scott Riggs got loose and sent Championship Chaser Kurt Busch into the wall. Once in the garage, Busch climbed from his car and flanked by a posse of NASCAR officials and reporters, stomped down pit row and climbed into the #10’s pit box. It looked as though things might get ugly for a moment, but Busch accepted the explanation and apology of the crew chief and eventually got back out on in track to make up some spots.

Next Kasey Kahne got turned for a hard crash by the junior Busch. Kahne pulled his wrecked car to the bottom of the track and waited for the 5 to come by. He then darted out in front of him hitting his left front under caution. He later justified his actions to reporters with something like, ‘you mess with me, I mess with you.’ He was clearly angry, but Kahne, who looks like he is barely twelve, is hard to take seriously as the heavy.

It took a veteran to really escalate things to full blown crazy. Following a wreck involving Spencer, McMurray, Nemechek and some others, Michael Waltrip turned around Robby Gordon under caution. Robby wrecked hard and snapped. He first attempted to ram Waltrip on the track, but missed him, almost collecting Chaser Stewart instead. Once he parked his car, he proceeded to march out onto the track, in front of traffic, throwing his helmet at the 15’s door. The camera inside his car caught Mikie ducking at the attack.

Swarmed by reporters, Robby was still not done. He raged against Mikie’s good boy image and called him a piece of *hit, which sent NASCAR announcers into a twitter of apologies. Poor Robby. This year has just not gone his way.

A little road rage on camera can be fun. That is what has historically been so entertaining about Bristol. Loudon, however, was out of control. Maybe someone spiked the Gatorade; maybe it was a season’s worth of tension bubbling to the surface. Whatever it was, the penalties that NASCAR will be doling out will be justified and well-earned.

There was some actual racing in the midst of all of this. Chaser Kenseth came back from a pit row mistake to run well. Junior, now reunited with Tony Eury, Jr as his crew chief, pulled a top 5. And Stewart, who led for most of the race, battled hard with Newman in the final laps with each pulling past the other. Chaser Newman was the victor getting his first win of the season.

For the sake of the imaginary NASCAR fans among my imaginary readers I will do some catch up. (Yes, I am aware you are not real, but as I have told my therapist a thousand times, insight just means one has the ability to discuss yet another layer of dysfunction.)

Bristol, Baby…the most famous short track in NASCAR, maybe in the whole racing kingdom. This short track is also incredibly fast. The night race is always eagerly anticipated as fast cars and not a lot of room equals poorly behaved drivers and lots of bent up sheet metal. I know, I know, it is not about the crashes, it is about the skill and the technology and blah, blah, blah. What is more entertaining than watching grown men act out a road rage opera under the lights, live on camera? Besides some bad behavior by Dale Jarrett that resulted in a two lap penalty, this year’s Sharpie 500 was actually pretty tame. Matt Kenseth, the former Cup champion, made good on the recent renewed energy of his team by bringing home the checkered flag for the first time in over a year.

California…I missed most of this race. I was busy camping out in the back yard at my folk’s house with my nieces and nephew and sibs. In fact, I think it was right around the time we were singing ‘The Gambler’ around the campfire that Junior’s engine blew officially ending his dark horse chance to make it into the chase. He’s had an abysmal season and has promised his fans he will give them something to cheer about next year. He’s so darn cute in his Wrangler’s we’ll just have to take his word for it and move on. Rookie Kyle Busch, referred to as ‘Shrub’ by Tony Stewart, got his first win. His big brother is Championship defender, Kurt Busch.

Richmond…the final race before the ten-race battle for the Championship, was a nail-biter. The tenth spot was hotly contested throughout the night with Ryan Newman, Jamie McMurray and Elliot Sadler racing one anther for position. McMurray was spun out and eliminated from the running. Jeff Gordon, also trying to get into the Chase, had a horrible night. Kurt Busch took home the win and these are the lucky guys who will be competing for the Championship: Stewart, Biffle, Wallace, Johnson, Kurt Busch, Martin, Mayfield, Edwards, Kenseth, and Newman.

Richmond Busch Series Race. I happened to catch the last half and was reminded why I always like to watch the Busch Series. Those guys (and girl) really race. The championship points leader found himself punted. His car actually ran up the wall and went around the race track on its side, before righting itself. Martin Truex, Jr., the driver, climbed out without a beat, and ran out to flip off the car that did the punting. Meanwhile, his crew hammered out his wreck of a car so he could go out on the track and try to defend his lead. Now that’s some racing.

I have started to emerge from a haze of round-the-clock news coverage. My eyes are still squinting. I have no words for what has happened, but this is a blog and not an interpretative dance. My words are: heart-broken, ashamed. As I write them I am sensitive to usurping someone else's tragedy. It is convenient to be distracted from my own, everyday, malaise. But at 2 AM--watching the pictures--alone in the house--even the TV reporter dissolving into tears--the sadness and the outrage are all one.

"Unacceptable" doesn't begin to cover it.  

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