I Heard it Downtown

Early fall is absolutely the best time of the year to be in Columbus.  Our trees explode in a sea of bright oranges and yellows, and for a few fleeting weeks, we actually have pretty good weather. The campus at The Ohio State University springs back to life, bringing with it one of the great spectacles of American Sports, Buckeye Football (and more importantly, TBDBITL). Frisbees are flying again, the bands are playing, and life is good (at least until it gets cold, and the city becomes a barren, post-apocalyptic wasteland again).

But its not all marching bands and cornhole in the fall here. Tens of thousands of new freshman and unsuspecting transfer students means that the usual evil forces are out and about…trying to lure innocent students into their destructive life style…a lifestyle that will only lead to shame, tears, and regrets from their college years.

Frat guys? Well, them too I guess. ..but I’m really talking about the militant vegans here.

Sure, they seem innocent enough. At first glance, they’re just a bunch of environmentalists who happen to be passionate about beans and stuff right? Maybe they’ll chalk up the Oval with stupid anti-meat slogans, but they’re not actually *bad* right?

I felt that way too, back when I was a witless freshman at American University, but my dealings with the vegan community there quickly changed my mind. My second day in Washington DC, I was out strolling around embassy row, minding my own business, when I saw PETA basically causing an international incident outside of the Australian embassy. Because I try to keep this website (mostly) PG-13, I link to any pictures here, but lets just it involved individuals yelling and wearing nothing but veggies…and they weren’t exactly doing the world a public service by being that naked. Food from TDR was hard enough to eat as it is (mostly cause half the food was vegan bean crap)…but every so often, that mental image would come popping up…and that would be it for me.

But the madness of the vegan extremists didn’t end there…they actually snaked their way into actual student politics. Later that year, students became upset that the chickens used in TDR (the AU dining hall) were being “abused”. Petitions were circulated, demanding that AU only use “free range chickens”, despite the fact that doing so would cause an increase in costs (AU is over 40,000 a year). This movement attracted so much attention that USAToday did a little blip on it.

Thats when I lost it. I was in over my head money wise at American, the idea that throwing in an extra 700 (or more) bucks a year so my chicken tenders could have ipods and massages boggled my mind. Plus, Karl Rove lived a few blocks from campus. The CIA was running secret torture camps in eastern Europe. FEMA failed New Orleans, and oh yeah, our University President stole over $500,000, further making our school a national laughingstock (I went to this protest btw)…AND WE’RE PROTESTING CHICKEN’S RIGHTS??!!?!

Look. You won’t find a bigger advocate for youth political activism. I think its critical. But…seriously. Talk about misplaced priorities. And who is to blame? The vegans. Who knows? If we weren’t distracted by chicken nuggets, maybe we’d be out of Iraq….or maybe we could have shaken up the administration enough to find a way to get me enough money to stay at AU.

But that was a long time ago, in our nation’s Center For Misplaced Political Energy. Surely things have changed? Their assult may be on a smaller scale here at Ohio State, but left unchecked, the consequences could be huge.

They’re starting to hit campus common spaces in full force, throwing up posters and chalkings with stupid slogans  like “WOULD YOU EAT A DOG? NO??? THEN WHY EAT A COW??”. I think the entire Philosophy department just cringed there. MEAT IS MURDER AND CRUEL, CHICKS DIG GUYS WHO ONLY EAT CARROTS,  blah blah.

Okay, you wanna talk about cruel? Lemme tell you a joke. What did the Matt Brown say to the roomful of vegans? give up?

Nothing. The vegans farted so much that Matt DIED.

I hate to break it to you guys, but if you eat nothing but hummus and assorted bean spreads for a long enough time, that cute girl sitting next to you in Earth Sciences is going to notice. She isn’t going to notice how ecologically conscious you are…she’s going to notice you smell like you’re wearing Sex Panther.

All kidding aside, I’d like to remind my meat protesting…er..fellow citizens, that there are better ways to get involved right now. In case you forgot, we’re about to elect a new leader of the free world, and Ohio tends to be a pretty important state. We also live in a very competitive US House district. Maybe those 3 phone calls you could have made while you were ranging against the evils of Cow Milk could have decided the election.

Think about that, then put down the chalk, put some clothes on, grab a turkey sandwich, and get to work.

(editors note: Note that the word vegetarian appeared nowhere in this article, except like, 6 words ago. My beef (hahaha get it??) is not with you. I have many vegetarian friends.)

 

So a few days ago, me and Blake headed back to Granville for the annual Hot Licks Bluefest. If the Granvillle Street Fair is the best event in downtown Granville, then the Bluesfest is certainly right behind it. Downtown Granville is closed down all day, and replaced with a beer gardens, food stands, and of course, a huge stage hosting master bluesmiths melting faces all day. Plus, the whole thing is free. Clearly, my kinda event right?

I hadn’t been back to Granville for any real length of time in almost a year, and haven’t really *lived* there for 3, but that didn’t stop every third person from stopping me and wanting to catch up. Granville is one of those “Main Street Americia” towns, where everybody knows everybody. Sometimes the smallness of the place was terribly aggravating to me (like when it was Friday night in high school and I had run out of ideas for things to do like, 4 months ago), but the community togetherness is very comforting to me now. Its a great feeling knowing that I could knock on every 4th door in town and say “Hi, I’m Matt Brown. I’m Regina’s son/Maya’s Brother/that drummer kid. Could I crash on your couch tonight?”, and know the answer was prob. going to be yes.

Plus, blues festivals just seem “homey” to me, even when they aren’t being held on that same little familiar stretch of pavement where I grew up. The blues community is full of my kind of people…its a warm, friendly atmosphere, full of smiles, the smells of familiar, delicious food, and of course, fedoras. I will always feel at home with a crowd of people in cool hats.

After I had made the rounds with some old family friends, I made my way over to the Columbus Blues Alliance tent. The CBA is a non-profit organization that helps manage the blues community in Columbus, and was absolutely instrumental in promoting Aces High, the blues band I used to play in. I walked over to see if I could get a replacement “Got My Mojo Workin’” bumper sticker, since mine was starting to fall apart. I was a little surprised by what happened next.

“Hey, I remember you. Aren’t you in that local blues band here? Aces something?”
“..yeah, Aces High. I used to be their drummer!”
“…used to be?”
“…Well…yeah. I got jobs in Arizona and DC, and they needed a replacement.”
” DC huh?…buddy, you went out and got straight jobs. Are you becoming a square?”

This sent me reeling like I had been blindsided by a Mike Tyson knockout punch. I was becoming a square! It wasn’t just the increased responsibilities of growing up that scared me, it was the slow abandonment of the things that made me cool. The second I sold that drumset and went to work for the Federal Judicial Center, I traded in my fedora and sunglasses for a power tie and an ID badge. Thats responsible…but it isn’t cool. Huey Lewis was wrong. It isn’t always hip to be a square.

I left the CBA booth feeling a tiny bit bummed…and nearly walked right into Sean Carney. Sean is the frontman for the critically acclaimed Sean Carney Band, a blues group out of Columbus that now tours the world. Sean is actually a Granville native, and we opened for his band several times in Columbus. Me and Sean caught up for a little bit, and then he dropped this little bombshell.

“After the festival, me and a lot of the other musicians are going to jam at an afterparty at Brews (the neighborhood bar).  You and Blake ought to come up and join us.”

Who could turn something like that down? A chance to temporary relive my rock star dreams, and with the finest musicians in three area codes? Thats like Brett Farve asking you if you want to hang out after the game and play a little catch. We agreed, and went back to catch the last act of the festival.

And guess who the headliner was? The regal and legendary James Cotton himself. Mr.Cotton was the harmonica player for blues legends like Muddy Water and Howlin’ Wolf, and is pretty much considered the gold standard for harmonica playing everywhere (yeah, even more than John Popper). What is he doing in my tiny excuse of a hometown? I mean, Granville isn’t even on every map!

James Cotton is a seriously old dude. Me and Blake weren’t 100% sure he was alive (wait, so does the James Cotton band just tour without James Cotton now?), and he needed a hand to get to his chair to start his set. But man, he can still make some serious soul come out of a Harmonica. His tone was finely aged and sophisticated, like maybe his amp smoked a few cigarettes and had some bourbon before the set. A throat problem had left him basically unable to speak, let alone sing, but ol’ Superharp didn’t need to…every note, every thought, every expression was coaxed out of those 10 holes with ease. Seeing a true blues legend practice his craft with the familiar backdrop of Granville behind him was absolutely one of the coolest things I have ever seen.

After Cotton finished his set, me and Blake headed over the Brews, Granville’s neighborhood bar. As you all might imagine, I’m not typically a big fan of the bar scene. The other thing puts me a big social disadvantage I think. Its too loud to properly tell a joke or a story. I’m not drinking, and everybody knows I can’t dance. Whats left? Play Foosball and drink my ginger ale I guess.

But not today! No, today I would be back behind my drums like I belonged. Sean and his band played a brief 5 song set, and then called me and Blake up to sit in with an “All Granville Band”.It was me on drums, Blake on the Harp, another old granville jam-circuit friend on the bass, Sean on guitar, and a man dressed head to toe in a bright red pimp suit on the other guitar. I need a suit like that.

I hadn’t played drums since Febuary, I was a terrified that my skills atrophied drastically…but after the first min. or so, muscle memory and pure emotion took over. I’m not linguistically talented enough to properly express the cleansing feeling of making music after a long hiatus. I had forgotten how comfortable and righteous it is to bang out 2 and 4 behind a face-melting guitar.

Blues, at its most basic level, isn’t a genre about sorrow…its music of redemption. It isn’t just I didn’t get up this morning but, I’ll get tomorrow and the sun will shine. It isn’t just my baby girl done left me , but Maybe I’ll find love somewhere tonight, where I don’t expect it. I am down now, but tomorrow will be a better day.

And thats exactly what this experience was, pounding and filling away with great musicians and old friends. Maybe the whole square thing is just a cover. Maybe I can still be cool.

First of all, thanks again everybody for your support during my period of homelessness. It was great to see so many people offer up their couches/digs, offer well wishes…and in the case of the Kishler family, allow me to turn their kitchen into a temporary press room at 11:30 at night (and we’re going to do it again tonight!) I’ll have you know that me and tony are now finally settled into our new digs (well, mostly settled). Ya’ll ought to stop by and say hey. Well…not all of you at once.

 

Anyways, I want to explore a term thats been thrown around an awful lot lately, without being very well defined. Perhaps you’ve heard it used to describe certain media outlets, or politicians. I’m talking about the words “Elite”, and “Elitism’.

 

I’m well aware of what Mr.Webster and Mr.Wikipedia (citation needed) have to say about their definitions, but I’m more interested in the practical, applied definition, as far as our culture is concerned. What makes something *elite*? Is there a difference between being elite and elitist?

 

I sometimes eat sushi

I drive a Japanese car,

I read the Times and the Post

And I’ve traveled quite far

I think Colbert is hilarious

And I don’t care for Lou Dobbs

Am I out of touch with my people?

Am I an elitist snob?

 

But I am so withdrawn

From the common man

When I’d rather watch football

Than PBS or C-Span?

Do I need to turn off soccer

And watch NASCAR instead

In order to recover

My “normal” street cred?

 

Do we define people as “elite” or “elitist” by their hobbies or interests? The Republicans aired a famous ad against John Kerry near the end of the 2004 election that showed him windsurfing  Who the hell windsurfs right? Only rich people who live near the water! Those damn east coasters, they’re too different from people like you and me. They don’t understand our problems. Maybe if John Kerry tried to play football, he’d related better. Or rather, if he could play football without looking stupid.

 

What about the media? The term “liberal media”, or “media elites” are thrown around so much that you’d think that the combined powers of the Washington Post and the New York Times rival that of the Illuminati, the Skull and Bones, the Freemasons, and the New England Patriots. (The Washington Post did a decently funny bit on this concept, which you can check out here

 

So forget NPR and The Sun

Its talk radio for me

They can tell it like it is

Without some fancy degree

The liberal press is arrogant

And their stories make me bored!

Give me missing white girls

And the WSJ editorial board

 

It bothers me a little bit when people talk about “the media” like its some sort of monolithic entity that moves and operates as one. I’m part of the media. In addition to writing snarky facebook notes every once in a while, I write for a real life newspaper, which has about as much in common with the Times as I do with Amy Winehouse. Given that there are so many different and varied media outlets, what makes one elite and another, I dunno, average? Is that distinction a bad thing? Is being elite a bad thing?

 

My hypothesis is we cast people as elitists when they’re smart folks who happen to disagree with us. Remember the gas tax holiday idea? Hillary Clinton proposed it, and basically every mainstream economist (the people who are paid to determine if this sort of this is a good idea) said it was a gimmick. Does Hillary try to explain her own economic reasoning, and why they’re wrong? Nope, she basically calls them elite Washington economists. They don’t drive a truck, they don’t know what its like. They went to Georgetown. They’re biased.

 

If that’s the case, its pretty disconcerting to me, because then we run the risk of glorifying the unsophisticated, or worse, the stupid. Do we need our leaders to have the exact same background we do in order to be effective? If we’re inclined to believe that, we ought to support the guy who just recently paid off his student loans, not the guy who hosted SNL twice and was in Wedding Crashers.

 

This whole thing is rambling and disorganized, but its meant more to spark discussion. What do you think it means to be elite (and/or elitist?) Are certain institutions/professions “elitist” enough that you discount them? I’m honestly not fishing for a particular answer here, I’d like to hear what you guys think.

 

This has not been a good week for Matt Brown.

The big story here is my housing crisis. I can’t go into a whole lot of detail, as its a pending legal matter, but basically, the girl who was living in the apartment we contracted for refused to leave, and the landlord won’t put us up in some sort of temp housing while we’re waiting (which would be at least 60 days). Its an ugly situation, with a small army of lawyers bickering back and forth…but most importantly, in the meantime, I am homeless.

College students are able to adapt to not having a lot of “important” things pretty easily. A working knowledge of what clubs are meeting where can yield all sorts of free dinners when grocery money is not forthcoming. Some clever technological innovations can snag a wireless signal. We know what classrooms have the best bathrooms if we forget to buy toilet paper, and we’re willing to even sell our plasma for a few extra bucks. The one thing that is not so easily appropriated is a house. Needless to say, this is a *big deal*.

The other need that is difficult to work around is a car. I’ve been blessed with a working set of wheels…my old 1997 Mirage that I’ve covered in bumper stickers, and affection ally named The Mormon Meteor (even though it has maaaaaybe 4 horsepower). It certainly isn’t a glamorous or sexy automobile, but it gets me to point A from point B with a minimal amount of cursing.

Naturally, I parked it on Neil Ave on street cleaning day, and it has now been towed. Or stolen. The impound lot doesn’t answer calls after 4 PM, when the rest of the civilized world is still at work, so I can only assume its been towed. Who would want to steal my car?

Being deprived of two building blocks of the College Student Hierarchy of Needs, I’ve naturally been in a bit of a crabby mood…which is a bad state to be in if you’re a Democratic political junkie during the Republican Convention.

I’ve tried to write about several different topics this week, but nearly all of them have broken down at some point into some sort of Sarah Palin hit piece. I honestly don’t mean to degenerate into another cheap political hack, like say, James Carville (who I gotta say, has absolutely been beaten to death by the ugly stick. CAJUN STYLE)…but what I can say…I can’t resist cheap political one-liners.

Sure, the media has been over saturated with Palin stories…ranging from the important (Palin supported earmarks and the Bridge to Nowhere), to the crude and personal (potshots at her pregnant daughter), to the wildly stupid (did you know that Palin attended 5 different colleges? Or that there is a picture of her as a college student wearing a t-shirt with a boob joke on it??). But just because a few overzealous reporters have overstretched on some stories doesn’t mean that pick wasn’t full of cynical pandering. Sarah Palin is clearly much more qualified to be a companion on the Oregon Trail than she is the Vice President of the United States. (Moosehunting skills + ability to withstand cholera and other gold rush era illnesses)

I gamely tried to listen to part of her speech, but I couldn’t get last through some of the other speakers. Mike Huckabee, the runaway populist, was ranting about expanding the size of government…and somebody had the bright idea to let Mitt Romney, one of the richest men to ever run for president, to complain about Liberal Washington and Eastern Elitism. Really?!? I couldn’t handle it. I had to switch to baseball.

Mark Jackman, my tough, seriously professional Film-Noir journalist alter-ego, couldn’t handle it either. He shook his head in disgust, muttering something about dames, hung his snappy fedora on the door, and retreated to his study, where he would be nursing several cigarettes and fine booze the rest of the night.

I wanted to join him, but my religious cultural inertia keeps me from setting up a good drunken bender to cope with the madness of the world. Instead, I grabbed my ipod and running shoes, and ran off into the night.

Running as a way of clearing your muddied head may be healthy, but it sure isn’t always easy. My shins protested every step down the pavement, reminding me that I have a perfectly good Norman Mailer novel that needs read, and a perfectly comfy couch. Its a temping offer, but I decline. Time to turn up the ol’ ipod to 11, and lose my troubles in thundering basslines and wailing saxophones. Redemption comes from my ol’ muse, Bruce Springsteen

Don’t worry darling

Oh baby, don’t you fret

We’re livin in the future

None of this has happened yet

Ol’ Bruce is a smart guy. He’s certainly a man who can appreciate the value of a good ol’ stream of conciseness essay. He knows that I’m Born to Run, and when I tried to run down my broken heart and confused mind in Rock Creek Park, I swore Bruce was singing to me. He’s right. Its hard to be a saint in the city.

Maybe thats the solution…time to live in the future right? A future where somewhere or another, I have my car back, and my own roof over my head. A future where I can turn on the television again without being baraged by bitter, unfunny campaign ads. I hope its soon.