Archive for the bar Category

Houston VIP Poetry Slam – First in the Season

Posted in bar, houston, poetry, review, southmorehouse, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 4, 2012 by tymora42

It was good to see some of the old guard keeping watch over the up and coming Houston Poetry Slam talent. This was their first slam of the season to prepare for sending a team off to North Carolina. It was a great show, but that is hardly what I want to talk about. I might be a little rusty on appreciating the quality of the poetry involved, yet my good natured heckling skills were alive and well toned. You have to keep yourself in shape.

The venue was a low key coffee house on the east end called Secret Word Cafe. The same place Marcel Murphy, Houston Slam Team alumni, runs a writing workshop every Saturdays at 11am. The barrista / owner (i don’t even want to try and spell her name without seeing it) made a special tea for me and named it after the African name Jelani Williams gave me before he died off continent retracing his roots for the umpteenth time. Can it really be retracing if you have already done it, embraced it and started to live it?

The event was live and I am looking forward to future showcases – every Friday at Secret Word. They have a lot to work on before the Nationals in August. Some great poets spat in our face about greater issues than teen angst, politics, sexuality, color and growing up. The winner, DEEP, hit us with a first person piece about a mother sticking her babies in a dryer or an oven or a microwave. i was never sure which and it could have very well been all three. They were nearly going to forego the encore. i could not let that happen.

Marcel performed a sacrificial piece. It was not his best. It was not his worst either though. My only disappointment (aside from not seeing some of the old school greats: Karega, Rassul, Murph, Marie Brown, Craig Lindsey, Cedric “Brother Ced,” Alex Wukman, Doug Shields…. this list could go on for a while) is that Kyle Blue never stepped out onto the matt. His girl did. She rocked a piece about an aspberger kid wanting to be treated like an adult. My favorite was Peter “the Rock.” Although he did not win that night, I am positive he will be a member of the Houston Slam Team.

Come out and support them. Secret Word Cafe every Friday. Doors open at 8pm.

Advertisements

Pondering My Workd

Posted in bar, beer, blog, houston, life, rant, relationships on January 21, 2012 by tymora42

I lay here half drunk, the designated driver just got homemkimdamhalfmdrunk, drinking a beer in bed, beautiful woman passed out next to me, the its my birthday I can drink if I want to kinda drunk, and the whole world beckoned me to ponder it. So I did. Never do that. Or do it often. One of the two. Tonight we talked about limbs and conservationists and museum and art and running as oopposed to biking. Then the random shit started with people that claimed to throw up blood when faced with extreme emotion, a girl on a date with a cat psychic (like he knows,you have cats but doesn’t know the names variety), monkeys who won’t climb trees no matter how vast their dungeon, someone whose name may or not be James but prefers now to be called Jizz Hands for mysterious reasons and other of the like. I’ll have to tell her she snores in the am. Not every night. On her pre birthday birthday? Yes!

Here I am pondering the world – mostly harmless. Wikipedia shut down for a day. You could still get into a back door. I never saw it. I turned off the Internet. I typed “google” into Google and it broke. Instead I went door to door selling stock in myself. A couple of takers. They called me today to set up appointments.

One of the most ponder able moments was the dialogue about the Beatles lyric, “Oh, that magic feeling. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to go.” Each of us had a time when it applied. It always fit. Some were right outta college. Some were en media res. Each was a journey the other could never know. Nowhere to go. Magic!

We cursed people with cuss words in good fun. I would curse without cussing some other people in less fun later. Whatever. They are just jocks. They angered and frustrated me because I thought they did not like me, when, as it turns out, after I pissed all over the bed about it I realized that it was probably more that I did not really like them. We had no relation. They talked about running and beer and marathons and racing and winning shit like a Bostonian talking about baseball or a Boulderite and their diet. One dimensionals bother me. I want to know what they thought about politics or technology or the last movie they saw or a TV show they watch or even (gods forbid) how they feel about their job. I want a connection with people beyond the immediate easy road. If we met on the plane we can get the small talk stuff out of the way – this is a really big plane, do you fly often, is that your final destination, are you from there, where were you originally coming from, business or pleasure. Done. Now we can get into the really interesting stuff. I have had more connection with people on a city bus.

And my ponderance gives way to sleep as the final thoughts of teacher versus student accountability, Perry dropping out, whether “Food Stamp President” is truly racist or not, and the million stupid puns I can make about one eyed one horned flying SOPA / PIPA eaters.

Spirituality Behind the Ritual of the Traditional Bachelor Party

Posted in bar, beer, family, life, love, passage, religion, spirituality with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 22, 2011 by tymora42
Purification Ritual by Jonas Lonborg (catinatree)

just so you know - we will not be doing this

My best friend is getting married. Being my best friend I have the opportunity to be none other than the best man. As the best man you are in charge of arranging the bachelor party, the sendoff of your friend into the new and exciting realm of matrimony. To perform this function correctly one must reflect on the spiritual aspect of the bachelor party, the debauchery, the objectification of women, the wild romp through the night before the union of two lovers. In our current politically correct society we must slough off the reins of morality to a point and carry on like the animals we are. Aside from the base pleasure orientation of the crusade, I propose there is a spiritual underlining to the ritual of the traditional bachelor party.

In the past I have been in four other wedding parties, this one will be the fifth. The very first I was a groomsman to the highschool buddy just graduating college to go off and have a life with a wife, who was also a mutual highschool friend. They hated each other in highschool. He asked her to prom and she declined because one night he dropped in the bushes next to the Sonic. Now, they have two children and a third on the way if it has not got here yet. My second wedding I had a shared best man duty with another guy. There was a bachelor party – sorta. More about this later. The marriage ended in a bitter divorce with affairs and distrust. The third was unmemorable. He was a good friend at the time. We lost contact. I was a simple groomsman that did not attend the night before sendoff. I think they played golf. I have no idea how they are today. The last wedding was my sister’s. Being the minister I took my role seriously and did not participate in the debauchery, which took place in New Orleans on Bourbon street so you can imagine there was some serious debauchery going on. They are still together.

The traditional bachelor party can wax and wane in structure, however, there is one key aspect that needs to be upheld: 1) The women and men must be separated on the night before the wedding. And this goes for ALL women and ALL men. Just because the groom is better friends with this girl he has known forever does not mean that she should come to the bachelor party. If they are really that good of friends the bride should invite her to the bachelorette. And this goes for the brother of the bride as well and that guy she has known forever. The typical modern pre marriage get together is the combination of both groups of bride and groom for one big blowout. That is what the wedding reception is for. Save it for the rehearsal dinner, split the parties on the night before. The bride and groom will be all mushy mushy the whole night and you do not get the chance to have a special moment with your buddy where you tell him how awesome she is and that he is making the right decision right before you send him and the stripper into the private room for a VIP lap dance. At my first bachelor party I watched the groom’s father, the guy who was always viewed as an authority figure through highschool when we were upstairs in his game room carefully trying not to mess the groomed fuzz on his pool table, slipping twenties into g-strings. This was the moment I started feeling like an adult. It passed.

Another bachelor party I attended did the whole strip club thing with one MAJOR exception. The groom was also friends with my girlfriend, who came with me because she was invited. Thanks pal. His marriage failed. Good. Maybe next time you will split the genders, dumbass.

Failed bachelor parties end in failed marriages. I have theories about this. The co-bestman wedding with the bitter divorce had one of those dinner at Chilis night before gatherings with both parties represented. Lame. Halfway through the night, myself and the rest of the groomsmen kidnap the guy out the back door to hit the town. One guy yelled, “Tittie Bar!” and we were off to our destination. None of us really cared to go, but it was traditional so we did. The groom lasted no more than ten minutes in the place before he paid the bouncer fifty bucks to throw him out. A half hour of searching later we figured out what happened. That pussy had already called a cab from the payphone outside to take him back home to his woman. They woke up together on the day of the wedding. If that was not bad luck, what is?

This anecdote brings up a few of my theories as to why that marriage did not work based on the failure of the bachelor party. Having the parties together hints on distrust, whether it is the bride distrusting the groom or the other way around. Distrustful people have either been burned really bad in the past or are not loyal people to begin with. Then there is the issue of distrusting yourself. Putting yourself into a lustful position with a potential and almost certain one night stand situation is a test of your fidelity. If you do not love her enough to resist that casual urge, much less do not trust yourself in that situation, what the hell are you doing marrying? Obviously your wild oats have not been successfully sown.

Then, there is the matter of going home to her and waking up together on the day of your wedding. You are roped. There is no out. Not that you would take it, but it needs to be presented for you to reject it. Get a hotel. Sleep alone. It may be the last chance you will get. A fundamental part of the bachelor party is for the groom to have that soul searching alone time where he accepts his future. Your brain has been so wrapped up in her and the catering and sending out invitations and getting a minister on top of normal life stuff like work and bills and keeping the house clean. You are stressed. You need a wild night of release where you can ask that one fatal question: Is the sacrifice of all of this worth her for the rest of my life? In a drunken stupor you sleep it off and answer yourself in the morning. Then you go get married.

This is what the whole shebang, the ritual of, the purpose for the bachelor party. This one question is what it is all about. The job of the best man is to be the devil, to throw temptation into the face of the groom to be. The rest of the attendees are minor demons assisting in bringing those temptations to the forefront. It is not because we do not want him to marry. Do you really think Satan, sent by God, really wanted Jesus to cross out of his circle of stones instead of dying on the cross? Hell no! He just wanted him to be confident he was doing the right thing.

remembering southmorehouse

Posted in band, bar, beer, blog, family, houston, life, love, music, passage, performance, review, southmorehouse, technology with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 12, 2010 by tymora42

southmorehouse logo

Tooling around on the social networks that will remain nameless I saw a post onto a friend, the poet / musician Aaron Trumm’s wall (this may be a better link to him) from a guy I knew back in the southmorehouse days, Alex Wukman, another poet that frequented the community. He commented from his mobile on watching Marie Brown, a Houston slam poet, performing at Inprint! , probably for slam nationals, and remarked how great she was. “When Ruby do hair, Ruby do hair right!” I can remember her starting the rhythm. Alex said he almost forgot how good it was. So did I.

southmorehouse was an avante garde art space, sometimes called a venue, sometimes a gallery, sometimes a commune. Overall it was a loose knit community of outsider artists in many genres. As quoted from a lighter bearing the logo that I pocketed one night, it was a “home for the functionally insane.” The best summary of its existence from beginning to end was written by Buffalo Sean’s Art Blog. Sean would know. In the early days he would pass out drunk on the sidewalk and we would spray paint a chalk outline around him. In the later days he would pass out drunk and we would spray paint a chalk outline around him. Although the location changed, the outlines remained. After 7 years Sean had spray paint outlines of his body all over the city.

I snooped around Alex’s profile not sure if I should send him a friend request. We knew each other. I remembered him. Self doubt crept in and asked if I really thought he remembered me when I saw a link on his favorite movies, “Southmore House: the Rise and Fall.” Edd McCoy, president of the community in the last of its days and art coordinator for the three years prior, told me of a rumor he heard that this was being created. We both thought it was pretty bold for any movie to be made about the venue without consulting either of us. Now that I saw the title “Rise and Fall” it was downright shocking.

After I got over the elation of somebody actually wanting to make a movie about this piece of time that played a major part in my life, I began to notice discrepancies that unsettled me. The first was the separation of “southmore” and “house.” The second was that they capitalized it. Not being much for capitals I tried my hardest to make the lower case clear to the people who made the flyers, but they were making flyers so i was happy enough about that. One thing that did come across eventually was the lack of separations. Evidently not to these guys.

The next, and the biggest, was the lack of the logo anywhere on the page. That logo was a branded symbol encompassing the spirit of the (dis)organization. One part anarchist’s circled A, another part the chaotic randomness within the order of pi, a house with a swooping roof and arched doorway like the original when it was on Southmore street, simple enough to be drawn quickly with a paint can, encouraged to be done on as many occasions as would arise, yet flamboyant enough to be penciled with care and stenciled over with a sharpie there was never a set graphic style to the logo. It was made for everyone to use. It was trademarked and copyright free. But I still never saw it anywhere on their profile page.

So, I looked harder and realized from the photos and videos and comments posted that these were all the kids from the post founder days. These were the attendees that took it over after 2005 when it turned its focus to the hardcore scene. One friend that I do keep in touch with must have seen the “Tyson Moore likes Southmore House: the Rise and Fall” post on my page and went to check it out while I was still perusing for the logo. He seconded the comment Alex made about not focusing just on the music. Alex mentioned the poets. Doug Shields, an event coordinator at southmore, really jump started the slam scene in Houston at the space. Another guy brought up the theatrical production of “The High Elves Christmas Play” hinting at the other stage presentation offered in the pre mid decade years. Rob, the aforementioned friend, said he had the best birthday of his life there. He had pictures to prove it. Was that the night when Organ Failure from Super Happy Funland played Robot Parade and Muff of Amish Acid Dealer knocked over the cabinet? We could not get the smell of vinegar and mustard out of the floors no matter how much Terry, Wendell, and Guido tried. Yes, in case you were wondering, that is what that smell was. Armpits, ass, and vinegar. Maybe a little corn syrup dried up and leftover from the Halloween Blood Bath party. The good ole days.

These memories made me seek out pictures, videos, blogs, whatever would show up in the first couple of google pages. This was problematic. The version of the house that will be remembered by people who do not read will be the latter years when it ended. In 2000 when it started we were on the edge of social technology. Digital camera were astronomically expensive. You can imagine how much streaming web cams cost. You were lucky if your cell phone had color much less the ability to take images or, god forbid, video. Facebook had not even been invented yet. The documentary had 400 friends. I can only imagine how many friends the actual place would have had. For better or worse we touched many lives. If you go to the place our website used to be, southmorehouse.com, somebody bought it up and is selling painting on it.

My next favorite summary was from Loop Scoop in a nostalgic look back on Houston in honor of their 200th post. “#83: the southmorehouse for being whatever it wanted it to be.”

So, I ask you who find this to tell me in the comments about your favorite show at southmorehouse. Make it as long as you want. Put it on your blog and provide a link for us. If you were involved in any way, put a link to yourself. Tell us what you did. Tell us what you are doing. Post those rare pictures and video. Especially the pre 2005 days.

Thanks to everyone who made up southmorehouse. You were the best.

Tuesday Trike Night at the Dark Horse: Fail

Posted in bar, beer, boulder, colorado, review, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on June 17, 2010 by tymora42

It is rare that I attend an event and not have a good time and even rare that I feel compelled to write about it. What happened this past Tuesday at the Dark Horse in Boulder for me to feel so completely underwhelmed by something that should have gotten my motor revved? The burgers were great. The beer kept flowing. Most of my friends here were there with me for a going away party that my roommate, Nick, organized. The energy was flowing and we all filled out team slips to compete in the adult tricycle race around the bar. I will tell you. The host.

When you are given a microphone you should use it wisely. You are the central figure to tie in the various acts that follow with enthusiasm and encouragement. You are the instigator of the audience. You are to keep them entertained during lulls and drags along the course. You are to make them forget the dull. You return their attention to the fun they are having. Our host this night did not deliver. When he felt a loss of words for what was being witnessed he used profanity, which does not normally bother me if it is used creatively, but research shows that cussing makes you less likable even if the observer is a regular potty mouth themselves. He used the same jokes in rapid succession following each other like he thought maybe we did not hear him the first time. He went beyond failing to encourage the abnormal behavior of the participants to downright dissing their efforts. He was slow to keep the ball moving and uninteresting in his wit. None of these things are befitting of a host. When he took a bathroom break we almost cheered that he had removed himself from the stage except we were all waiting impatiently for our turn on the cycle. I expected more from a place that obviously likes to screw with their patrons.

Which one would you choose?

I will give the event this: It has potential. Free drinks meaning shots and beer. A large, welded big wheel trike for adults with ramps up and down and a crowd of people cheering you onward on your plight around the central area of the back bar to a spot in the corner where you take a shot, spin around in a barstool, relay back to the starting point, chug a beer, tag up and send your partner round for the same ordeal. You get to pick a team name, perfect fodder for a good host to chum about with while everything gets ready for the go, and a theme song. Why were there not more crazy helmets or costumes? I did not see one. Why were there not more terribly drunken wrecks part for real and part for show? There were a few. Maybe we should have had them chug a beer before they got on the bike rather than at the end. Or at both points. It still would have come down to that damned host to keep the crowd together cheering. After five heats things began to dissipate for the audience and the entire event became suddenly not as humorous.

One team spilled his beer. The host completely missed it. You have to pay attention to those sorts of things and call them out on it. Another team was obviously too drunk to be behind the wheel of the kiddie rides in front of Walmart. He called them out, but not the right way. He was discouraging rather than en-. Say something to the tune of, “We got a real winner here, folks. He has been practicing. Everyone needs to take two steps backward out of this guys way for the wide turns and weaving.” The guy was larger than most. He could also have said in mimic to the boss, “Did we remember to put the beeper on that thing in case he decides to back up?” Another group lost his group member, so he went two round by himself. He got more for that than the guy who spilled his beer. No matter how hard we tried, the host would not let anyone get into it.

It was Team Rocket’s turn, us. They could not find our song. I purposefully picked something obscure because he said that they could find it. They couldn’t. They gave us Team America instead, “Fuck YEAH!” We had our pit crew set up at the shot table interval waiting with salt on his neck, a lime in his mouth, and a shot of that Mexican powerhouse, Tequila, hovering near his breast. Yes, “his” breast. Greg took the first wave. he had some difficulties rounding the video game dead man curve, licked it, slammed it, sucked it, spit, took the required shot of grossness provided by the competition, spun in the stool, and ate it at the next corner. The host was speechless. He had nothing to say. So he fell back on what he knew, cusswords. My thoughts were this, I am going to get messy. He did say two things that could have been better if the energy was consistent. First, as I threw the shots all over everywhere, “You know we do not have showers,” and then following me reentry to the trike, “Are you going to make out with me next?” I should have stood up for that and made the attempt to do so, but my mind screamed, “Go! Go! GO!” So I went and instead made the attempt to run him over. He was standing right in front of me, but still I angled the wheel to make him leap backward. To further emphasize my lack of caring to the no shower policy, my beer chug consisted of dumping it onto my face and catching what little I could in my mouth. It was Budweiser. I do not drink that crap anyway. He says, “Well, now we can get back to normal racers.” Why would you want to do that? We were entertaining unlike you. You should want more people like that to keep alive the cheap gimmick of getting people into the bar and keeping them there drinking.

I have an idea. Get the guys from PropGay to host their homosexual takeover on a Trike Night. Then, you guys will be in for a show. It is just too bad more of them do not wear dresses to those things.

Oh yeah – And get some speakers that actually have bass.

Fish Out of Water

Posted in bar, beer, blog, boulder, california, colorado, music, review with tags , , , , , , , , , , on June 7, 2010 by tymora42

Walking a friend home last night, involved in a deep conversation about the social stigmas placed upon the American culture regarding homosexuality despite the youthful curiosity of childhood, we passed the Mountain Sun, a brewery pub in Boulder with the best beer you cannot buy in stores. They were the only establishment rocking hard enough for us to take notice. Some funk band was jamming out inside with a small crowd of people dancing out front. When the population floods out of the hall where the band plays still grooving, it is always a good sign. We made the end of the block, gave our hugs, set our stage for the morrow, and parted ways. You bet I went back to see what they were all about.

The group was called Fish Out of Water from Mendocino, CA. They were kids wearing bellbottoms without shirts and I think they brought their own panties for girls to throw around. I only caught the last two songs and the encore, but it was enough. One song had two endings, the airplane, and the drown to stop. They thanked everyone for a good time. Everyone thanked them by yelling, “Its only one o’clock. Why the hell are you stopping?” So they brought out the little tykes xylophone keyboard and whanged away with the drummer on an instrumental. Two boys from Bongolov (playing July 10th at the Drafthouse) jumped on the mic for some ambient rhythm flow devoid of many real words or so it seemed. It was like Lisa Girard rapping to a George Clinton lullaby.

Fish Out of Water is playing again tonight (June 7) at the sister spot of the Mountain Sun, the Southern Sun. You should go.

Behind the Ogden and Over to the Cheeky Monk

Posted in bar, beer, blog, colorado, denver, music, review with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 6, 2010 by tymora42

We set out onto the Denver night with the focus of seeing David Rhinehart at a house concert hosted by as place called, “Behind the Ogden,” which was by the plum de nom, behind the Ogden. The venue was not a real venue at all, meaning it was devoid of licenses or even chairs for that matter, but it had drinks, a performance space, and music. It also had a table of vintage, and soon to be vintage, americana materials neatly arranged around the CDs of the artists for sale. The centerpiece was a table diner style ketchup and mustard rack. Instead of the condiments there were, very confusingly I should add, a single bottle of Wonder Bubbles. This home did not look like the type of home that would be very accepting of some stranger walking in and blowing bubbles all over their wood floors. Believe me, I was tempted.

Recently, a girl my roommate invited over noticed my construction and decoration of faerie wings. They freaked her out. In a juvenile, third year psychology major mindset she rationalized the creepiness with mental disorders fresh from her most previous classes. One of those, among other upsettingly judgmental accusations, was that I had age identity issues. I accept the truth of this to an extent. Much of my writing has reflections of it. Daily I struggle with the modern quarter life complex of being an adult, yet maintaining a youthful demeanor and playfulness. In extreme cases it is difficult for me to find my fit. Tonight was no different. At the house concert I felt too young to be there. Passing the Ogden and the Fillmore on the streets I felt too old.

Eventually I could stand it no longer. I took the soap outside to play. The evening air had the right amount of humidity for bubble perfection. Surprisingly, I did not take their hula hoops for a spin. When the music started again, I laid out on the cool, soap scum free, wood floors. The atmosphere was very church like. Rhinehart slowly brought the energy up a notch, keeping it in the tolerable realm for the stoic audience, then back to comfort. He was holding back. Only during the “Murder Song” did he reveal his desires to cut loose a little more. The song was still slow but the content, a man who killed his wife contemplating the life taking of the widow next door, breached. I would have liked to see the same show with a rowdier crowd.

Afterwards, we crossed the streets of children at the Tech N9NE concert to the Cheeky Monk, a belgian style bar with Dubbels, Trippels, Saisons, Kwoks, and ales from left to right. I was not so much in the mood for drinking until I had the fried pickles. The waitress brought me a glass of sweet and sour cherry mash called Kasteel Rouge. It was good. Really good. I must also mention that they are the only bar I have ever been that had Delirium Tremonds on tap.

More than the street with the kids trying to be all grown up in their hot pants, dreadlocks, struts, and puking in corner trashcans; more than the adults trying to be kids with their do not disturb bubble containers, vintage paraphernalia, choral recital halls in living rooms, and sleeping in designer sheets; the Cheeky Monk was my place with my people. They served us quality. the wait staff stooped to our level of immature dialogue, and they let us make noise sitting outside on the patio. They would have had no problems with us blowing bubbles and nobody needed to puke in the waste bin.