A'way back in summer of 2009, East Dayton was fast becoming the center of my social life, and I was only weeks away from making the big move myself.
Back then, the idea of a three-piece band with harmonies, ukulele, melodica, and toy percussion wasn't quite completely run into the ground, and I was at a house show in Walnut Hills celebrating the release of State School's seminal (and only) release, the Cats In Boxes EP. I had missed the first band, came in for part of M. Ross Perkins's acoustic performance, and watched with slightly boozy, childlike wonder as State School played one of their last shows.
Last up was banjo-playing, transgender singer/songwriter Jordan O’Jordan, in from somewhere else. I hadn't eaten that day, and by late in the set, hunger had overwhelmed my affection for wholesome, twee entertainment. The burrito fixins in the dining room had been decimated before I arrived, but I was able to scrape together a tortilla, beans, and salsa. It was messy.
Very suddenly, it seemed, the show was ending. Lights were being flipped on throughout the house. I was still eating in the kitchen, with burrito all over my hands, beard, and face. I decided that I'd be damned if this fat kid would be found in such a state by the city's assembled host of hipsters, so I crammed the rest of my burrito in my mouth and stepped to the sink to rinse off.
And then I started choking.
I did my best to clear my throat, but it sounded for all the world to the quiet, contemplative audience as if, while their polite applause died down, somebody was violently retching in the kitchen, and the sound reverberated throughout the old house. People had begun to trickle back to where I was, but everyone kept their distance, their faces showing the kind of revulsion and embarrassment usually reserved for raving street derelicts.
Panic started to set in. I threw my hands around my throat, hoping to alert someone to my predicament. My vision was starting to narrow into a tunnel as I stumbled onto the back porch. After a couple of herculean convulsions, I horked a wad of unchewed tortilla and some of my stomach contents down onto a couple of fixed gear bicycles below.
The world seemed like it was bursting with possibilities, and I felt it even more keenly as I beat a strategic retreat from the party, life punctuated by a fleeting brush with death.
Back then, the idea of a three-piece band with harmonies, ukulele, melodica, and toy percussion wasn't quite completely run into the ground, and I was at a house show in Walnut Hills celebrating the release of State School's seminal (and only) release, the Cats In Boxes EP. I had missed the first band, came in for part of M. Ross Perkins's acoustic performance, and watched with slightly boozy, childlike wonder as State School played one of their last shows.
Last up was banjo-playing, transgender singer/songwriter Jordan O’Jordan, in from somewhere else. I hadn't eaten that day, and by late in the set, hunger had overwhelmed my affection for wholesome, twee entertainment. The burrito fixins in the dining room had been decimated before I arrived, but I was able to scrape together a tortilla, beans, and salsa. It was messy.
Very suddenly, it seemed, the show was ending. Lights were being flipped on throughout the house. I was still eating in the kitchen, with burrito all over my hands, beard, and face. I decided that I'd be damned if this fat kid would be found in such a state by the city's assembled host of hipsters, so I crammed the rest of my burrito in my mouth and stepped to the sink to rinse off.
And then I started choking.
I did my best to clear my throat, but it sounded for all the world to the quiet, contemplative audience as if, while their polite applause died down, somebody was violently retching in the kitchen, and the sound reverberated throughout the old house. People had begun to trickle back to where I was, but everyone kept their distance, their faces showing the kind of revulsion and embarrassment usually reserved for raving street derelicts.
Panic started to set in. I threw my hands around my throat, hoping to alert someone to my predicament. My vision was starting to narrow into a tunnel as I stumbled onto the back porch. After a couple of herculean convulsions, I horked a wad of unchewed tortilla and some of my stomach contents down onto a couple of fixed gear bicycles below.
The world seemed like it was bursting with possibilities, and I felt it even more keenly as I beat a strategic retreat from the party, life punctuated by a fleeting brush with death.
