That time I got my ear pierced: Stranded in Oxford

16 March 2007
Oxford, OH

Stranded in Oxford, OH the Friday after Green Beer Day '07

The first day of spring break, car packed, ready to roll. We head on over to Central to join the Key West caravan (two other SUV's filled with 13 world-class synchronized skaters). The smell of burning rubber followed us the few blocks from the Sands to Central Perk and the Jeep was not driving like a vehicle at the dawn of a 20 hour race for the Keys should have been. We stopped to take a look and kick the wheel once or twice and found that the driver-side brake had locked up.

It became obvious that we could not ride the brake all the way down to Key West and we had to bail on the caravan to get the car checked out. 5pm on a Friday in Oxford meant we would have to wait until the morning until someone could check the car out and hopefully get her rollin' again.

Being that we were stuck in Oxford, OH. And being that the whole town was empty. And being that it was the first night of spring break. We took it upon ourselves to find an adventure. Short on ideas we began to walk uptown and somewhere between the Sands and High street I had been convinced that I needed to have my Rook pierced.

There are two piercing places in Oxford: The one you go to, and the one you don't.

Thinking we knew which was which, we headed east up High and down the steps to a friendly looking place. Several people were hanging out and shooting the shit as a man was having a dragon tattooed in his calf. It was my first time in a tattoo parlor and for the most part it reminded me of an old barber shop: some work getting done, music playing softly in the background and a group of guys talking shit and arguing about nothing.

I told the guy I wanted my rook pierced. We picked out the jewelry, signed a paper and I was led to the back room and a table to lay on.

With a pinch and a pop I could feel the stainless steel needle guide the barbell through the thick cartilage.

"Well that's wasn't so bad..."

Right then I heard something hit the floor with a non comforting F-bomb. The bomb and the barbell, both dropped by the man entrusted to put a hole in my head, sent me into a sudden panic.

"What do you mean oh fuck?"
"Nothing I just dropped the barbell. It's all good. Just lay down."
"What do you mean you dropped the barbell?"
"It's no big deal, we'll just re-pierce it."
"Re-pierce it? We aren't re-piercing shit, you only get one shot at this and you blew that."

I stood up to leave and immediately had to lay back down. I began to sweat profusely to the point that I needed a wet washcloth over my brow. We decided to take five.

When he came back, and I was feeling better, he sat down and asked if I was ready for round two.

"What part of You only get one shot didn't you get? I am out of here."

Recognizing that he had in fact done half of the job, I threw $20 (half the agreed upon price) down, walked up the stairs out the dingy basement of the red steps and got a Lottie Burger.

There are two piercing places in Oxford: The one you go to, and the one you don't.

The next morning nothing had necessarily changed with the car, but the smell was gone and the brakes seemed fine. That being all the encouragement we needed, we packed the car back up (three trash bags full of clothes, two guitars, a wakeboard, a kite board, three ipods and three bros) and got the hell out.

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That time we got a new kitchen table: Circus Spools

22 January 2006



Today, after yet another successful Harris Brunch, we stumbled upon an abandoned spool field. We're talking about 50 or so giant wooden spools used for telephone wire and kitchen tables which had clearly been left to provide us an entire day's worth of excitement.

We ran back home to round up some SUV's and cram as many spools as would fit into their back-ends. Without room in the car for myself or my roommate Eric (aka E, Gordy, Rufio) we picked out two final spools and hitched a ride on their tops through Heritage Commons, down Central and up Main Street to The Sands.

My steed was the perfect size for a kitchen table. About the bar-height, with enough room underneath the table-top to fit about 6 barstools.

Cirque du The Sands, in the middle of Main street, lasted for about an hour after we got back to the house. Eric and I had perfected walking on top and were working on our spool-rolls and summersaults as our neighbors watched.

We came into some problems getting our new kitchen table in through the door; trying not only the front and back doors, but also the side basement door and pondering the removal of a window. Finally we realized that we would have to take the spool completely apart. The apart was easy enough. We numbered the middle planks before taking them apart so we would able to place them exactly the way they were. We removed the top, and the planks, which hadn't moved since the birth of the spool, sprang out like the petals of a daisy.

It took us a while but, with some duct tape and a couple hammers, we eventually got our new kitchen table functional. It was just as we got the table top on that our roommate J-mo had awoken from a nap.

With a stretch and an eye-rub he asked, "What the hell is a spool doing in our kitchen?"

"Dude, it's a table. Did you really sleep through all of that? How did you not hear the pounding and the wood banging against the floor?" I responded.

"Um...I am pretty sure that's a spool and it can't be in here. It's disgusting."

"Earth to J-mo, It's a kitchen table and it's sweet. It even has a place for stools." Eric chimed.

"No, its the worst effing thing I have ever seen. I can't wait until Kyle sees it. He won't want that in here either."

As soon as Jamie mentioned Kyle's name, Kyle walked in through the front door, came into the kitchen, dropped his calzone on the table and said, "Oh, this thing is perfect." Read more!