Last night after Julie and I mistakenly decided to walk to Castways where we found Sammy Hagar (aka ‘The Red Rocker’) holding court. If you’re assuming from the photograph above that Sammy only talks to the ladies you would be correct. As most of you know I’m a huge Van Halen fan so this was the light at the end of the tunnel for me. After missing most of the band at the Hall of Fame Induction in New York, last night has to be considered a huge success.
After the Piscioneri wedding we headed down to Columbus for the rest of the weekend which included a night at Char Bar. There was a great turnout considering it was probably the busiest day in Downtown Columbus history (NHL Draft, Gay Pride Parade and ComFest).
Afterwards we headed out and I just so happened to find a placard that read ‘No War But Class War’, as you would assume I had to take it with us. JJ, Nick, Julie and myself proceeded to march down High Street back to Myles’ house while carrying the banner for all to see. One way or another I managed to use the sign to swat a beer bottle to the ground and as soon as the bottle hit everyone within a two block radius hears the distinct sound of a police bullhorn:
Police Officer from inside his cruiser with a light shining on me while carrying this giant sign:
“Unless you want to go to jail, you better pick up that bottle”
I of course pick up the bottle, throw it away and we continue on our march. JJ starts singing in Sinatra like tones: There’s No War/But Class War. Nick and I follow suit the whole way back to Myles’ house where JJ and I decide it’s a good idea to plant the sign in Myles’ front yard. No dice. We ended up just leaving it against his front door.
All the Photographs on Flickr.
Today a great man of sausage passed away: Bob Evans of Bob Evans Farms. I’m a devoted fan of Mr. Evans’ Sausage even after his lame restuarant inflicted second degree burns to the side of my face courteous of a flaming hot coffee pot. I’m not one to hold a grudge when it comes to sausage. Besides, Mr Evan’s seemed like my kind of man:
Evans complained that he could not get good sausage for the restaurant he started after World War II in Gallipolis in southeast Ohio.
Starting with $1,000, a couple of hogs, 40 pounds of black pepper, 50 pounds of sage and other secret ingredients, he opted to make his own, relying on the hog’s best parts as opposed to the scraps commonly used in sausage. He began selling it at the restaurant and mom-and-pop stores, and peddled tubs of it out of the back of his pickup truck.
The state of sausage had to be at an all time low if a guy from Southern Ohio could sell a better link out of the back of his (one is to assume non-airconditioned) pickup truck.
Here’s to you, Man of Sausage.