Holy Hell at the Holland House

“Is that a pistol?” B asked in a concerned tone as his eyes darted away from the frenetic fun banter of our trio to the front of the Holland House. With my back to the door, my head pivoted to make sense of the question. It all unfolded quickly. At the threshold silently stood a stocky black man, dressed the part of an urban hood, his face obscured by pantyhose, with a blunt looking long-barreled revolver leveled at the head of several patrons seated at the bar. The front door swung open and a second, nastier, pantyhose helmed black hoodlum, taller, leaner, and meaner than his partner, burst in wielding a cruel looking short-barreled shotgun. It was clear that he was in charge. For a fraction of a split second, I wondered if this was not some fantastic theatrical act from a 1970s vigilante film being orchestrated for the amusement of the patrons. The thugs were perfect replicas of those immortalized by Charles Bronson and Clint Eastwood films in the 70s and 80s. Only there was no Harry Callahan to dispense the much-needed swift justice with his famous .44 magnum. There merriment of our earlier discussion quickly dissolved as the gravity of a new and hostile situation quickly materialized. Was this really happening?


The taller hood worked his way around the room, waving his squat shotgun in the faces of patrons, while screaming at them to get on the floor. There was an inhumane edge in his cold ghetto voice. The expletive laced threats were no joke for this one. He was no specter from the darkest depths of my imagination. Having surrendered any shard of humanity long ago, this hoodlum represented a chaotic destructive soulless force that one hopes to never encounter. The cruelness and loads of crazy were evident. (What kind of reasonable criminals target an establishment that processes most transactions with credit/debit cards and is not a cash heavy operation, has between 30-35 patrons of unknown background –Tennessee has very favorable conceal and carry laws, plus, with an establishment that serves booze, how many heroes lurk in the crowd – there is also a bar, wait, and kitchen staff spread across three or four rooms in an oddly shaped building? Too many unknown variables in this equation as far as I am concerned for sound criminal decision making, but then again that’s not my bag.) All control and power over my destiny was briefly ceded to this sub-human criminal scum. The socially lubricating effect of the three stiff cocktails I consumed were quickly negated by the adrenaline that coursed through my system. Face down on the floor, listening the cacophony of footsteps, expletives, threats, and demands for all the money were drowned out by the violently shaking of my left-hand and the turbo thumping of my heart as it beat faster than a hummingbird flaps its wings. I could feel my jugular pulse against the collar of my shirt. As the threats became more extreme, I actually wondered if this was the end of line for me. Was my passport of life about to stamped for the last time as a blast from some remorseless hoods gun ended it all? So many ambitions to realize, hatchets to bury, scores to settle, friends to laugh with, girls to love, and challenges to conquer remained. Nascent memories from my earliest years, random life moments never before recalled in detail, to cherished events all flashed in rapid sequence like frames on a film reel across my mind. If a shot reported, was I to bolt up and hurl my highball at the nearest thug, grab a piece of silverware and do what I could? I began to calculate all outcomes as best I could.

Just as quickly as it unfolded, it all ended. These thuggish specters were gone. Frayed nerves and rattled sensibilities lingered, but no physical harm came to any patrons. My left hand still shook with an epileptic violence new to my body. We were all speechless. I had done my best to capture physical details to report to the police, but I began to question how I conducted myself and what this bizarre and unpleasant sequence meant. It sounds stupid, but you never think you are the one in the ugly situation. Those are only news stories and other people are victims, not you.

Rage, fear, and resentment on levels I did not know I possessed all surfaced. It is a crippling blend of emotion that leaves one shaken to some sort of untapped core. There is also a gratitude that you walk away drawing breath. Life is precious.

The genesis of the evening occurred at the gym earlier in the afternoon. Word of mouth reviews had raved about the Holland House as a hot new Nashville destination. Being in East Nashville (the wrong side of the tracks), the Holland House had an allure of the new and exotic to it, a bold venture to rival Nashville’s legendary artisan cocktail and drinking saloon, The Patterson House. It all started with the question posed to B, “How would you feel about an East Nashville adventure tonight?” I thought I was being funny. Words sometimes manifest in the strangest ways.

This memory is still fresh from last night. I registered just over an hour of sleep last night and my nerves are only now beginning to settle. It's good to be blogging today.

The Werewolf's Exile Has Been Struck by a Silver Bullet: Relocated to Nashville

The werewolf's silence these past few weeks has been on account of his recent relocation to Nashville to pursue an exciting career opportunity. For those few readers out there, the werewolf regrets to inform you that he hasn't really been struck dead by a silver bullet or slain by a long lost descendant of Abraham Van Helsing. However, the period of official exile from the real world has ended. In many ways, the werewolf will always be a willing exile from the mainstream and popular culture, but at least he can now manage exile on his terms. This blog is far from being silenced, yet, for the next few weeks, posting may be a tad sparse. Cheers!

The dumb desire to homogenize.

Downtown Nashville will soon become home to one of Jimmy Buffet's kitsch, but well liked Margaritaville cafes. Given the touristy vibe of lower Broadway this is a good thing. The werewolf has no problem with national restaurants chains. They succeed because they represent a consistency, familiarity, and comfort for segments of dining-out 

Nashville's daily newspaper, The Tennessean, has outdone itself in the department of stupid recommendations. Their website features a list of brain numbing chains that some twat thinks Nashville is missing. While there are a few chains that may merit consideration, the werewolf is flummoxed by the need for people to seek validations through homogenization. One of Nashville's most alluring features was how it had successfully resisted the homogenization that frequently possess other cities. Nashville is home to several decent local burger joints, Mexican restaurants, cafes, BBQ pits,  ice cream parlors, and bakeries, some of which the werewolf imagined had decent expansion and franchising potential themselves.

There is nothing wrong with wanting to diversify a local culinary scene with new editions, and having some of those new editions be chains. However, to think that the addition of the aforementioned chains is somehow validating and a source of credibility, well that is just tragically vanilla-esque and boring. Over-reliance of homogenization runs the risk of dampening the very features that make a city like Nashville such a gem. I guess it begs the question, is homogenization a sign of success and prominence? If so, where is the optimal balance achieved?

Reel Big Fish: Take On Me - EXIT/IN 1/16/2009

One of the highlights of life in Nashville was the smorgasbord of perpetual music acts always rolling through town. The werewolf had the good fortune to actually have attended the concert featured in this youtube clip. He can't believe it has been a year already. The frenetic energy and juvenile hi-jinx of Reel Big Fish make their shows an incredibly good time. Plus, what's not to love about a ska-punk cover of a goofy Norwegian 80's hit? Enjoy!

Lonnie's: The best place on earth.

Catholics have the Vatican, Muslims have Mecca, kids have Disneyland, gays have San Francisco, and the werewolf has Lonnie's Western Room in Nashville, Tennessee. When the werewolf passes from this earth, his one request may be that the memorial service be held at Lonnie's.

This clip captures a remarkable specimen of humanity that is frequently on display at Lonnie's. The dude's name is Omar and the stomach slap is epic.

For better or worse, the werewolf spent a lot time engaging in tomfoolery and his second favorite pastime of blitzed karaoke on that stage. Exile has caused the werewolf to look back on the fonder moments of his odd life, and Lonnie's is regularly on the recall register. There will be a forthcoming post about karaoke, werewolf style, along with more thoughts on the legendary nature of Lonnie's. In the meantime, the werewolf assures his readers that the 40-second clip above is well worth their time.

Rotten Apple sues Nashville Landmark. Her songs still suck.

According to The Tennessean, Fiona Apple, a musician most people have long forgotten ever existed, is suing Lonnie's Western Room, in what is likely a vain attempt to either reignite her long dead career, or get some money for last month's rent. Fuck you, Fiona!

The article seems to imply that Lonnie's will emerge from this just fine. Let's hope so. As suggested in other posts, Lonnie's was an integral part of the werewolf's business school experience in Nashville. A Friday night bouncing around Nashville's amazing honky tonks wasn't complete until you stumbled into Lonnie's for both a night cap and to belt out some songs. It's where the werewolf's ill-fated karaoke career both began and ended. Lonnie's is a truly a gem in multiple ways, and frankly, one of the werewolf's eternal favorite destinations. Lonnie himself is both a decent guy, and rather impressive entrepreneur. The werewolf crossed paths with him on several occasions while frequenting his establishment and was impressed to learn that Lonnie allegedly won his legendary karaoke bar in a poker game once upon a time.

It's funny, just today, the werewolf received a New Year's well wishes card from a dear business school friend, featuring a rather hilarious photo of that dear friend on the stage at Lonnie's. Anyhow, the werewolf wishes Lonnie all the best, and hopes that the rotten Apple contracts an awful STD and fades into oblivion. Where she belongs.

Bacon Bourbon Bon Vivant.

The werewolf has many aspirations post exile. Foremost among these include embracing a bon vivant lifestyle. The Atlantic's online food channel recently featured an excellent piece on an amazing libation, "The Bacon Old-Fashioned." Incidentally, the werewolf was first introduced to this cocktail last spring, at Nashville's very own Patterson House.

The werewolf loves both bacon and bourbon. If left to his own devices, they'd likely be cornerstones of his diet. It seemed counter-intuitive to blend a greasy meat with a refined sipping alcohol when he first ventured into the Patterson House, shortly after it opened. The werewolf always appreciates bacon on his burgers, wrapped around his home-grilled steaks, and with breakfast. Bourbon was strictly an after hours pursuit. Anyhow, beyond what the article accurately suggests on the taste of bacon bourbon style drinks, it is remarkable how these cocktails precisely capture the smell of grilled meat, and replicate the unique smell on the taste buds of the tongue in the most delicious of ways. It was a cocktail first for the werewolf, and has left an indelible impression on him. Beyond being able to piss off a vegan and teetotaler in one strategic sip, he imagines that the bacon old-fashioned would be one of the libations preferred by the famous alpha males of yore, from Winston Churchill to John Wayne. Plus, it reinforces the notion that bacon is truly a universal product that will play a vital role in solving humanity's woes.