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 Holidaze

Being morose around the holidays goes beyond being acceptable; it is a righteous and just disposition. Facing the ritualistic façade that still governs my immediate family is dreadful. Acting the loyal house-slave to empty traditions with forgotten meaning, struggling to find a common conversation point beyond the family pets, and straining every muscle of emotional discipline not to lash out at the intrinsic phoniness of the whole exercise is all very tiring. Yet, the hierarchy of loyalties and obligations that govern WASPdom demand that we willingly walk into a good old-fashioned nightmare and play our parts with every shroud of dignity and decency that can be mustered. For all of the pain felt in other places, executing my duty with samurai like precision almost negates the massive emotional downside. Almost. Years ago, I grew disillusioned with the pomp and circumstance of the holidays when all of the aforementioned became clear. While the myth of “happy holidays” was shattered like crowbar striking cheap china, I will acknowledge all of the hard work that certain adults put into place shielding younglings from the obvious void. As I grow older, the days become a “daze,” and I look forward to searching for a shroud of optimism that the next year will usher in a revelation that could potentially liberate me from the tired and drained holiday routine that came with adult life. Perhaps the werewolf is just channeling something that Scrooge knew only too well. Bah-Humbug!

Pop! Goes my heart

Sunday was subtle, yet rewarding. The werewolf  had the privilege of watching this week's Tennessee Titans game from the sky-box of a good friend. While the Titans themselves made pee-wee footballers look like pros, it was an excellent way to share a professional sporting event with dear friends, consume multiple Budweiser red-coats mid-day, and briefly pretend to an avid NFL fan. Immediately post-game, the werewolf stumbled to a friend's house to help with miscellaneous chores and try and make himself useful. After demolishing a case of Bud Lite Lime - don't knock it till you try it! - watching a schlocky comedy seemed in order. The movie Music and Lyrics from 2007 was marginal at best. However, this cheese-dick interpretation of chart topping 80s music, which the film hinges on, has been in the frontal lob of this lobo for the last 24 hours. I caught myself humming it at the office today. Not unlike Bud Lite Lime, it gets better with each viewing. I promise!

Musings, high-beams, and bushy eyebrows.

Today was one of those days that went by quickly with no good reason. It wasn't too busy, it wasn't too slow. What one would assume to be an near ideal pace, methinks. Where morning arrival, lunch, afternoon tea (yes, the werewolf makes himself a Lipton's black tea around 3pm; it's rude to mock what you don't understand), and quitting time were all reasonably spaced and the lull in between never asserted itself in an ugly way.  

Although, he works in a building that is directly across the street for the Capitol South metro stop, on the House-side of the Hill, the werewolf is loathe to ride the metro out of his way when he can walk. He normally uses the Union Station metro stop, which is on the Senate-side of Capitol Hill as his preferred stop on the metro. This means he is guaranteed a nice walk across Capitol, with full vistas of the Supreme Court, the Capitol Building, Library of Congress, and House and Senate office buildings. It is a walk that never gets old. The people watching is a regular spectacle unto itself to boot. Staffers with inflated egos, some with style, others hopelessly drab specimens of humanity. Young interns, old functionaries and party hacks, throngs of tourists,students, all make for added accents.

Today, there was an added distraction to the regular fray. An athletic looking female, about the same height as the werewolf, 5'9, red-headed, with a body toned to near-perfection - not overly muscular, although her stomach was as flat as the deck of an aircraft carrier, with marginal, if any flab elsewhere- was out for a late afternoon jog. True to her athletic disposition, she wore only a sleek black racer-back sports bra, running shorts, shoes, and a sweat band. Here's where things got interesting. Her breasts, smallish, yet perfectly formed C-cups, were bouncing with a rhythmic purpose that matched her cadence in the most seductive of ways. As she closed in on the werewolf and the distance allowed for details to be determined, he noticed she had very pronounced high-beams set on near blinding brightness. (For those of you that do not speak "man-talk," high-beams refer to a woman's erect nipple that is visible through her clothing.) Like two beacons begging for attention, the werewolf's radar locked on these two targets like heat-seeking missile onto the exhaust of a jet-engine. As she crested it past him, his head shamelessly turned his head and he strained his neck muscles to admire this passing siren, and then THWACK! The werewolf, being a total asshole and buffoon, knocked the wind out of himself by walking directly into a parking meter. He missed nailing his jewels narrowly.  As the werewolf yelped and colorfully cursed at the parking meter, a fellow pedestrian rightfully chuckled at the werewolf's expense. After rescanning the area, the ginger-siren had drifted off screen. That sort of sums up how good things have been ending for the werewolf for the past few years.

While at the gym, the werewolf encountered an oddity of a new order. A rotund, pear-shaped older man - who liked like a dorky, civil-servant cross between the uber-dweeb introvert Milton Wadams from Office Space, and Thufir Hawit from Dune - had finished his workout and was grooming himself. Although balding, the man had the bushiest most pronounced eyebrows the werewolf had ever seen on a human. They looked almost like little flattened squirrel tails or something. They were so absurdly bushy and pronounced that the man was actually blow-drying his eyebrows. He had a little comb to brush the moisture out while he was blow-drying them. It was unreal and the strangest thing the werewolf has seen in several weeks. The werewolf was paralyzed by this scene unfolding in-front of him for about 3 seconds, do to the level of bizarreness it encapsulated. 

Exile still sucks, but today had some cosmic humor injected into it.

Bond, Fan Art, and Natural Talent

The rather nifty illustration of Connery era Bond imagery featured above is the handy work of an artist named Lloyd Peek. It was posted on this blog with permission from Mr. Peek and he can be contacted at lloydpeek@hotmail.com if you have any inquiries about other Bond illustrations. The werewolf has never meet Mr. Peek and knows very little about him, other than he and the werewolf share a deep interest and affection for virtually all things Bond. Peek contacted he werewolf via this blog's stated interest in Bond over several different posts. The piece itself does a wonderful job giving a truncated illustration of the Connery Bond era from Dr. No (1962) through Diamonds are Forever (1971). (The werewolf has excised all recollection of Never Say Never Again, as it was produced and distributed on account of cosmic villainy) In the bottom right hand corner we have the first real Bond babe Honey Ryder emerging from the surf of the Caribbean with a conch shell in hand not unlike the mythical live goddess Venus emerging on from the Mediterranean on seashells. In the top left, we have the ironically mysterious and timeless image of Bond arch-nemesis, Erst Stravro Blofeld, sitting in the beige Mandarin-style suit with his sinister white lap cat.  In between, we have the timeless Austin Martin DB5 (arguably the coolest car ever), the lethal-mute butler Odd Job, Willard White's "White House" Vegas Hotel, amongst others images. Although it's not the werewolf's preferred artwork, it's certainly cool and catchy, especially if you're a Bond fan.

This brings the werewolf to a second point about talent. The werewolf has always been impressed with those who have a talent that manifests itself obviously and are able to harness that talent to effective end. Some people are athletes, others artists, musicians, writers, social networking, handymen, or cooks to name a few avenues that talent can be realized. The curtains are drawing to a close on the werewolf's third decade, and he has yet to figure out his talent/niche. Perhaps, there is a talent in being talentless. Having a talent or skill that the werewolf is truly exceptional at still eludes him. It's not that he is looking hard, he isn't. Nor does he need validation. He has made it this far and is very comfortable in his own skin. It's just he wonders if he missing out on anything life offers considering the absence of any obvious talents to bring to the table. His darkly Darwinian side wonders if his lack of a talent is the source of his preference for solitude and speaks to his primordial instinct to be wary and skeptical of commitment(on the flip-side he places an extraordinarily high premium on things he is committed to because he knows and values his word and the notion of commitment unlike most others in society). The werewolf is a lone wolf at heart. As he watches so many contemporaries shackle themselves in the bonds of marriage for all the wrong reason, such as fear of being alone, societal validation or some other imagined social pressure, perhaps finding solace in solitude is a talent unto itself.

A week in review

The werewolf apologies for being a truant blogger. So much has happened this past week. The transition from having an abundance of free-time to managing a scarcity of it has adversely impacted his blogging. Much to his eternal dismay. It's about half past eleven on a Friday night, and the werewolf finally has enough time to try and pound out an overdue post.

The weekend looks to be as chaotic as this past week was. Tomorrow morning, in true Kosavarian refugee style, the werewolf packs up his meager possessions into the Saab-story, and moves from downtown DC, to a small, but tranquil neighborhood in a northern pocket of DC. He's renting a furnished room in a rather nice, if not slightly cluttered house, from this strange older lady with bohemian inclinations, who has two cats for the next few months. (The werewolf believes that dogs are man's great ally in this struggle called life, and has absolutely no utility for cats. Plus, he is inherently skeptical of women with cats.)

As much as he loves crashing on his dear friends' couch, with all of the gourmet food, regular consumption of alcohol, the inclination toward tomfoolery, good company, and great location; being the third wheel attached to happily married couple in a small, but charming, urban loft isn't conducive to healthy long-term outcomes of one the most cherished relationships a werewolf can have. The move will get interesting because tomorrow is the Washington, DC marathon, and all easy routes from point A to point B are obstructed.

However, there is an additional hiccup to the weekend. The werewolf has been asked to work eight-hour shifts on both Saturday and Sunday. This doesn't bother the werewolf in the slightest, as he is prepared to work his paws off and the work being done is on the front line of the trenches of the upcoming health care vote in the House of Representatives. (It's grim looking folks, the dastardly dems are within inches of marshalling the needed votes to ensure we are on a road to serfdom.)  Since arriving in DC, the werewolf hasn't really had a chance to catch his breath properly. It looks like it will have to wait until next weekend. That being said, the shift from stale idleness of unemployed exile to frenetic overwork is embraced with the alacrity and joy of being reunited with your favorite lover.

The job is interesting. The werewolf works as a staff member for the political communications arm of one of the Republican congressional campaign outfits. The hours are long, 8am to 7pm, on a good day. But the days have yet to drag. They actually fly by much quicker then the werewolf's old days in the insurance brokerage or as vassal in the tobacco castle. There isn't a moment that has gone by this week with out the screaming chorus of buzzing phones, floods of emails, pressing deadlines, and such. Oh, the joys of a political press operation. While exhausting, it's good place for him at the moment. Plus, it's quite the cast of characters with whom he works. Expect some forthcoming posts about the girl whose laugh sounds like a warthog being gassed, the Kardashian wannnabe, the congresswoman who won't stay on script, and the mysterious soup filled crock pot that pops up in the oddest places.

That's all at the moment. Please bear with me as I get my ducks lined-up. In the meantime, have a great weekend.

John Carpenter's Vampires Soundtrack - Cruel Highway - Looking Back

A song's ability to transport one back to a specific time and place can be be remarkable. Pictures can occasionally do the trick, but they can trigger different reactions as well. "Look at how thin she was back in the day," "wow, who knew you has such a thick head of hair," "those are the goofiest glasses," or "that's not you in the flannel shirt, is it?" Sometimes the right song unleashes a torrent of recall that transcends the imagery we occasionally get hung up on and recreates the atmosphere and emotions of a time. Bypassing nostalgic bullshit helps paint a more honest picture of from whence we came.

This most random song selection from John Carpenter's Vampires (a B-movie enjoyed by the werewolf) yanks the werewolf back to the winter of 2000 in New Hampshire. The maverick McCain had just captured the primary in that small state from GOP heir apparent George W. Bush. An inch or two of dirty snow on the ground defined the daily walk to class. The blistery winter wind had edge to it that the werewolf's inner-Californian never truly accepted. Uncertainty loomed. What college would he be bound for in a few months, was he really in love for the first time, what the hell was waiting ahead?

Specifically, this song brings him back to Christine Robinson's senior English seminar in a musty basement classroom in Phillips Hall. Exeter was famous for old buildings with worn down and scuffed stair cases and that constantly served as a reminder of the legions of students who had proceeded us. Exposed pipes, old bricks, no windows, and an ancient chalk board were all defined accents of that room. The crusty old lesbian ran a thoughtful classroom. Even if she didn't shave her armpits, she knew how to get you to think about what you read and tried her damnedest to make better writers of us all. No easy task when it came to the obstinate werewolf.

Specifically, he recalls an involved discussion about Quentin Compton's suicide in Faulkner's haunting novel The Sound and the Fury. It was one of the grimmest, darkest, and oddly thought-provoking classroom discussions the werewolf ever participated in. Later, a veteran and friend from the werewolf's time in Richard Morante's infamous Latin class, who was also an active participant in the aforementioned discussion, took his own life. The werewolf has been unable to pick up The Sound and The Fury since that dark day.

Being an open, liberated lesbian, Robinson would occasionally get a tad preachy and talk about famous gays to make her feel like some sort of important social change agent or whatever. Being a Los Angeleno, the werewolf recalls an odd conversation where she brought up gays in Hollywood. She asked the class to name famous gays and lesbians. Being a fan of older films and film history; Rock Hudson, Roddy McDowell, and Raymond Burr all came to the werewolf's mind and he blurted them out. She then added "did you know Errol Flynn was gay?" The werewolf said something to effect that he didn't care to know who was gay as long as John Wayne, Lee Marvin, Steve McQueen, Sean Connery, Cary Grant, and Charleton Heston continued to be Hollywood bad-asses and weren't going to be subjected to some-sort of revisionist rewrite of history that would diminish their respective legacies. Talk about a conversation killer.

Lastly, the werewolf recalls reading Othello in that classroom and actually snapping at a female classmate who kept referring to Othello as an African-American. It wasn't the first time he saw the pernicious impact of political correctness corrupt a talented mind's ability to judge history, but it was one of the more memorable instances.

The werewolf interviews

One of the things the werewolf intended to write about when this blog was quickening, was the style and haberdashery of the modern man. (It's unoriginal, I know, but they say write about the things you like and know about.) To be charitable, the werewolf can be described as a rabid clothes hound with an insatiable appetite for classic tailored clothes and styles. He fancies himself a bizarre blend of trad, preppy, and country gentlemen when he is at his best.

The attempted look was the understated financial services professional seeking to blend in, yet knows how to dress. The suit is an two-buttoned, medium shoulder padded, single pleated, made-to-measure charcoal gray Adrian Jules from the now defunct Michael Christopher in Atlanta; the shirt is a light blue herringbone with french cuffs and a spread collar from Robert Talbott, the tie is standard navy and red Hermes; the cuff-links are hunting hounds from England; and the shoes are black Johnston & Murphy cap-toes that the werewolf acquired during his first internship on Capital Hill in 2001(They are faithful servants on their second sole).  During the end of business school and throughout exile, I have lost a little weight causing some billowing in the shirt, yet somehow, I look like a chubby-fuck in those pictures. I would love any input on the look, as I am constantly trying to improve and I fear exile has dulled my sartorial senses.

Anyhow, last Thursday, the werewolf was in Washington, DC, interviewing for a management consulting position. For the record and despite being an Vanderbilt MBA, the werewolf wants it to be known that he harbors a healthy skepticism for lawyers, investment bankers, and management consultants. (The werewolf recognizes and embraces the value that the aforementioned trades bring, but the consensus of their alleged collective greatness stokes his contrarian flames on multiple levels, plus consulting promotes the wearing of black suits, a hell-bound and unforgivable style sin in the werewolf's book) He'll think of something pithy to have engraved on his headstone that captures the aforementioned sentence and his strong emotions on the subject.

Back to the interview, for whatever reason, something about the interview had the werewolf profoundly nervous and agitated the few days prior. It was some sort of uncharacteristic lapse in confidence that was a first for him. Perhaps it was the fact that the quiet desperation of exile has him considering career options he vowed never to pursue and that breaking his own internal code of honor for all the wrong reasons just causes indigestion. He conquered his internal defects and rallied to put his best effort forward. In retrospect, The werewolf gives himself a B for his interview performance. He didn't royally fuck-up, yet, yet he didn't knock the truck window out. Quick overview, the werewolf had two interviews with senior managers in the firm, both lasting about an hour. The first interview was with the chief of research officer, a nice and smart guy, who had the attitude of a failed academic. It was lively discussion; there was were a few small case questions bandied about, however, the interviewer fixated at the werewolf's three years as an insurance broker, and was obsessed with trying to get the werewolf to confess that there is no longer a value-add in that important financial service. Rest assured, the werewolf didn't buckle. The second interview was the head of new product development. The guy was nice enough, but had a sever head cold, and was doped up on some sort of cocktail of DayQuil/NyQuil because he asked the werewolf the same question three different times throughout the interview and kept being intrigued by the same answer. Plus, his runny nose and glassy eyes were distracting. That's the quick wrap on it all.

The company itself was a tad sterile and stodgy. However, they must have had an unwritten policy that dictates recruiting tall attractive women from the volleyball teams of elite universities. While waiting in the reception area, three exceedingly lust-worthy women who exceeded 6ft in height, floated down the marble floored hallway with the sound of their clacking heels heralding their approach. They all had that bitchy and entitled "I know I am hot, asshole" look about them bred exclusively in elite universities. The werewolf was proud to be caught by the second one in one of those head-turning scope the chick's best features as she walks by moves. Sometimes, discretion is overrated.

Bad Blogger

The werewolf is guilty of being a bad blogger this week. It's abnormally busy on this end. He's been actively engaged in a tight GOP primary in Texas, trying to sort his personal life out(ongoing project), and still looking for a real job. Those excuses are weak and some of them part of his daily routine, but explain why he has been truant from his blog. Apologies.

He promises to post about the idiot of the week award, give an update on the latest pending interviews, talk about his pair of Texas boots, the fine culinary experiences in Paris,Texas, share some takeaways from the campaign trail, and of course bloviate about something random soon. Thanks for your patience and stay tuned.

The Business School Experience: CPR or UPS?

This clip sums up the werewolf's business school experience. Well, not really, but close.

It was shortly after business school started, during one of those intense study sessions where nothing makes sense, while realizing the scope of the pending disaster that was Corporate Finance, that the werewolf's good friend, and partner-in-crime, the Saint Bernard, fired up this video. It immediately alleviated the asphyxiating pain of weighted average cost of capital calculations and gave the werewolf the gift of hope for the first time in a couple of weeks. Sayings like "knocking the truck window out," "givin' the man UPS," and "that's the way it was" became a coded vernacular for gauging how a particular class, day, event, was going at b-school.

The werewolf doesn't believe that having an emotional circle jerk with an over-educated therapist or binging on pre-packaged pharmaceutical wonder pills is a solution to any credible problem we face as humans. However, staring the cosmic joke that is life in the face, laughing, and moving on to the next challenge is. However, this video was a great secondary coping mechanism.

Someone very smart aptly described the b-school experience as drinking from fire-hose. Anonymity precludes the werewolf from giving credit where it is due, but rest assured, that quote is understated in its accuracy. It really only applies to the first year, and more accurately the first-half of the first year, but boy, does that quote hit the nail on the head.

The werewolf was always more of a "dreamer with an attitude" than the "master of the universe" that traditionally pursues an MBA. He certainly fits the bill as an atypical MBA searching for a career. B-school changed the werewolf in several ways, mostly for the better. In hindsight, it was a grueling, but worthwhile experience that he is thrilled he undertook. It has given him, coupled with exile a unique perspective on life. At the moment, the werewolf feels "like the man was dead" but is eagerly searching for "some UPS." Please bear with him as he tries to reflect, make sense of, and place value on his b-school education.