The first paragraph I ever read in Columbia City Paper was a piece on Hurricane Katrina written by Corey Hutchins:

“You’ll need gas cans,” a reporter from Florida said over the telephone when we told him we were going to New Orleans. “And all communications are down, so you’ll need a satellite phone. A chainsaw too. And a .38 Special in the glove box. Loaded.”

We’re bringing everything but the chainsaw.

It was the fall of 2005, City Paper’s second issue, and the country was steeling itself for three more years of the Bush administration. Though it was four years out from 9/11 at that point, the national press still seemed anemic and stymied –at least to me. There was a literal ban on media showing images of military caskets. The press was worse in South Carolina. Though I have a soft spot for the other papers in town, about the only political commentary from the local alternative press at that time came from conservative blowhard Michael Graham. It was refreshing to me that two doofs from Columbia crammed themselves into a Nissan Sentra and drove to New Orleans to cover Katrina first hand for the second issue of a dinky 16-page alt weekly published out of a Park Circle apartment.

The rest of that issue was a rip-roaring jamboree through a typo-ridden mess of a paper that was… Click to continue By Todd Morehead

The first paragraph I ever read in Columbia City Paper was a piece on Hurricane Katrina written by Corey Hutchins:

“You’ll need gas cans,” a reporter from Florida said over the telephone when we told him we were going to New Orleans. “And all communications are down, so you’ll need a satellite phone. A chainsaw too. And a .38 Special in the glove box. Loaded.”

We’re bringing everything but the chainsaw.

It was the fall of 2005, City Paper’s second issue, and the country was steeling itself for three more years of the Bush administration. Though it was four years out from 9/11 at that point, the national press still seemed anemic and stymied –at least to me. There was a literal ban on media showing images of military caskets. The press was worse in South Carolina. Though I have a soft spot for the other papers in town, about the only political commentary from the local alternative press at that time came from conservative blowhard Michael Graham. It was refreshing to me that two doofs from Columbia crammed themselves into a Nissan Sentra and drove to New Orleans to cover Katrina first hand for the second issue of a dinky 16-page alt weekly published out of a Park Circle apartment.

The rest of that issue was a rip-roaring jamboree through a typo-ridden mess of a paper that was rough around the edges, but had more balls than any publication in the Southeast at the time, let alone locally. Even the hipsters didn’t know what to make of it. It was an unabashed experiment in absolute freedom of the press, the exact type of kick in the face that Columbia needed.  I put the issue down and contacted them immediately to sign on as a contributing writer. And it’s been a rip-roaring, typo-ridden mess of an adventure ever since.

City Paper’s early days involved dodging repo men, sleeping in the office, working day jobs to keep it afloat, and distracting the dock foreman at the printer so we could load papers in our cars and sneak away because we couldn’t pay the bill (sorry State printing company). We got into public beefs with high-ranking state officials and low-level business owners, alike, and have had a virtual revolving door of ad sales people. A lawsuit or two even flared up (a middle finger raised prominently to any plaintiffs who happen to be reading). But, we figured it out on the fly. Slowly we began to turn a profit. Like a bacterium, the paper has continued to evolve and devolve, grow and shrink, but the renegade spirit of it –its core, at the risk of sounding melodramatic– has remained intact. Just look at Paul Blake in the mustard yellow City Paper van, a sloshing 12-volt coffee maker duct taped to the dashboard, making deliveries on Thursday mornings and you can see that.

The following is a list of moments that pop out when I look back over five years. Maybe a story we broke or a particularly soul crushing bit of backlash from the community. Some of these events nudged the paper in a particular direction; others simply still give me a chuckle. To fans of the paper: we’ve got the spite and grit to keep this beast around for another five. We won’t be buying retirement homes on Lake Murray anytime soon, but we’ve got everything we need. …Well, everything except a chainsaw.

The Starr Report

In October, 2005 Paul Blake and Corey Hutchins reported on a sexual discrimination lawsuit against Harvey Starr, a department head in the USC Political Science department. The case, which alleged that female professors were paid less than equally qualified males, was settled out of court. Starr maintains his innocence and called the separate allegations of sexual harassment “all crap.” The university reportedly paid public money to the plaintiffs to settle the case. The “Harvey Starr Report” put City Paper on the map, for good or ill, as a new source for investigative journalism.

Three Rivers Throwdown

Some people in town still blame City Paper for the demise of the Three Rivers Music Festival. It all started with a March, 2006 editorial by Paul Blake entitled “Three Rivers Music Fest – The Sound of Sucking.” Blake questioned why a taxpayer-funded festival that continued to lose money could consistently retain monetary backing from city council. The answer, he asserted: Three Rivers festival director, Virginia Bedford, raised around $30,000 for councilwoman Tamieka Isaac Devine’s campaign.

A string of records requests and nasty emails followed. We published one internal letter from Bedford to a festival organizer in a subsequent piece, entitled “Virginia Bedford, Annotated” in which she speculated about City Paper staffers: “Perhaps they were abused as children,” she wrote. Classic.

The festival funding wasn’t renewed the following year.

Howie Rich

City Paper was one of the first local print publications to report on New York-based political puppet master Howard Rich. In January 2006, Hutchins wrote a great piece revealing Rich’s various LLCs and their contribution amounts to local campaigns, including Gov. Sanford’s. Unfortunately, he was unable to get a personal audience with Rich, even after he travelled to the mogul’s office in New York and banged on the door.

The Fire

In January 2006 an arsonist broke into Hutchins’ house and set it ablaze. From what the FBI and other investigators could tell, it was in reaction to the paper. The national press picked up the story, decrying it as an effort to smother free speech in the Deep South. Which it apparently was. But, the event marked a turning point for CCP, even though the paper was only a few months old. Corey temporarily resigned which shook up the editorial structure. We collectively put our guard up, armed ourselves, and were paranoid for months afterward. Definitely a low point and a learning experience about the full-contact nature of journalism in Columbia.

Zesto’s Deep Fried Fiasco

Speaking of publicity stunts, we got caught at the ass end of a collaboration between Zesto and WLTX in 2007. Expanding our distribution further into the wilds of West Columbia, we dropped an issue at the Zesto on 12th Street. The issue featured a risqué Perry Bible Fellowship comic and a rowdy ad for Five Points Tattoo. That’s when, according to WLTX, the owner of Zesto “took a stand” for decency and called a TV news network instead of simply tossing the papers or asking us to distribute elsewhere. The news report painted us like Hustler, featured a little girl eating ice cream at Zesto (a shot filmed like an advertisement, in my opinion), and actually had an American flag waving in the background of a shot at the restaurant. We’d always thought of TV newscasters as subhuman counterparts, but that hatchet job took the cake. Another important learning experience.

The Scarborough Affair

Though we’ve designed cover art with blown-apart suicide bombers, a crucified Santa Clause, and naked blood covered strippers in Obama and McCain masks, the 2006 image of two Playskool toys engaged in a sex act to depict the illicit affair between a pair of state legislators created a distribution nightmare of epic proportions. The paper was banned from dozens of locations following that cover. But, censoring ourselves was a lesson we didn’t learn. Instead of skimping on cover art, we simply added new locations.

Where the Heck is DHEC?

I first put DHEC in my sights starting in 2006 with a story on storm water runoff. Richland County had no storm water management system in place at that time and a USC student threatened to file suit against both DHEC and Richland County, citing negligence. The storm water issue came up again when DHEC awarded Wal-Mart storm water runoff permits for a questionable site in Ballentine and again in Florence. Once air quality permits were issued to the proposed Santee Cooper coal fired power plant, the battle was on. Two years after we started our ongoing DHEC reports, the State newspaper won various journalism awards for plowing much of the same ground. …But we’re not bitter.

The “Five Points Mafia”

City Paper’s ongoing investigation of the various dealings of the Five Points Association has spilled into city hall, the pages of other newspapers in town, and the annals of Five Points infamy. It has driven some to tears, others to blind rage. Paul and I have actually been physically thrown out of two separate bars following our report on the FPA’s use of hospitality tax funds for the St. Patrick’s Day Festival and the thousands of dollars in “commission” payouts to FPA members for the event.

The result of our reporting: City Paper racks were banned from FPA board member establishments and board members, at the time of publication, called our advertisers encouraging them to pull out. “No chairs have been thrown at City Paper staffers yet,” we wrote, “though [Duncan] McCrae did tell publisher, Paul Blake, to ‘buzz off’ at a recent meeting when Blake asked financial questions regarding the Five Points After Five concert series before another board member, Debbie McDaniel, told an attending police officer to ‘get him [Blake] out of here!’”

Points for creativity go to McDaniel, who later wrapped a copy of City Paper around a toilet paper roll and displayed it in her shop window. That reminds me, FPA: don’t you have an FOIA request to tend to?

Apologies, Martha Williams-Brice

We made a spectacle of the press box in your fine stadium. Though USC made some noise about revoking our press passes after a couple of incidents, we ultimately opted to cover football from the regular seats, in lieu of the bus station lobby feel of the press box. Hutchins’ first visit found him tanked and accidentally wandering into Sanford’s suite; Blake’s behavior warranted a phone call from media relations to see if I had loaned my credentials to a homeless man; and the last time I covered a game up there with former “Wanna Bet” columnist, Pat Jablonski, he went overboard at the press buffet and clogged the toilet.

Tempted to apply for baseball credentials just to see what would happen…

Lott v. Phelps

We actually cleaned our apartments in anticipation of a police raid after Paul’s editorial on Sheriff Leon Lott. The sheriff had threatened to arrest Olympic medalist, Michael Phelps, when photos of the swimmer smoking pot at a USC party surfaced online. Multiple people were arrested in connection. When several college students’ careers were being jeopardized for what Paul believed was the sheriff’s politicking, he grabbed a USC bong snapped a photo of himself with it and started typing one of the more savage editorial beat downs I’d read in a while. In the age of the blogosphere, contact journalism was still a hit even in South Carolina. And, thankfully, Paul stayed out of jail on that one.

The Running Man

For decades, independent political candidates like Joe Azar and Gary Myers have been ignored or marginalized by the mainstream local press. Last year, two candidates running for city council and mayor, respectively, were almost ignored completely. Our outside the box election coverage helped, I like to think, get them in front of constituents who not have heard about them at all otherwise. Grant Robertson actually won just under 42 percent of the vote in his bid for city council.

Carrie Allen McCray’s last interview

City Paper had the honor of conducting, if I’m not mistaken, the last interview local author Carrie Allen McCray ever gave. McCray invited me and photographer, Sean Rayford, to her house for lunch to discuss the release of her biographical (actually semi-autobiographical) work on Ota Benga, a pygmy man who actually displayed alongside monkeys in a cage at the zoo back in 1906. McCray, then in her nineties, kept us transfixed with stories about how Ota Benga lived with her family when she was a child, before he ultimately committed suicide. One of the more fascinating lunches and interviews I’ve had the pleasure to conduct.

I have to admit, the publisher balked at the idea of me revisiting some of our older stories. “It just looks like,” he said, “the middle aged frat boy that is still wearing a pink polo blathering on about his glory days and frat stunts at Snowden, while his beer gut protrudes and he sucks down frozen drinks at Dr. Roccos.”

But, I disagree. I think it’s nice to reflect on our early years. Especially since we’re hitting sort of growth spurt and moving forward as an independent voice in the region.

“Yeah,” he finally consented. “I guess it’s better to reflect once every five years on dozens of great stories, verses writing one story every five years and then yammering on about how awesome our dumb newspaper is.”   Thanks for giving me this one, Paul. See the rest of you in 2015!

talkback@columbiacitypaper.com

Dear automated data tracking software,

According to this pie chart, roughly 30 percent of all Letters to the Reader are crude tributes to bodily functions, while 40 percent make poorly masked references to alcoholism and other vices. It says here that 5 percent of LTRs display a penchant for celebrating anti-social and neurotic behavior in the workplace; 10 percent are half bright socio-political rants; with the remaining 10 percent dedicated to “pompous, self-masturbatory stream of consciousness inanities.” …That’s what it actually says on the chart. Who designed this software? We know numbers don’t lie but somehow I just don’t buy this data.

Columbia City Paper

Dear hot Publix cashier,

OK, I’ll level with you. I don’t really need all this stuff. In truth, most of it is just a smokescreen to hide my primary purchase: this roll of Angel Soft double ply. But, it would be weird if I just came in and bought that, like maybe I was having a major intestinal emergency and raced down here in desperation. Huh? Oh no, I can hold it. If it were a real emergency, I’d just grab some used fast food napkins out of the trash at home.

So, now that we’ve cleared that up, what are you doing for dinner?

Columbia City Paper

Dear self help book,

I recognize that you have… Click to continue Dear automated data tracking software,

According to this pie chart, roughly 30 percent of all Letters to the Reader are crude tributes to bodily functions, while 40 percent make poorly masked references to alcoholism and other vices. It says here that 5 percent of LTRs display a penchant for celebrating anti-social and neurotic behavior in the workplace; 10 percent are half bright socio-political rants; with the remaining 10 percent dedicated to “pompous, self-masturbatory stream of consciousness inanities.” …That’s what it actually says on the chart. Who designed this software? We know numbers don’t lie but somehow I just don’t buy this data.

Columbia City Paper

Dear hot Publix cashier,

OK, I’ll level with you. I don’t really need all this stuff. In truth, most of it is just a smokescreen to hide my primary purchase: this roll of Angel Soft double ply. But, it would be weird if I just came in and bought that, like maybe I was having a major intestinal emergency and raced down here in desperation. Huh? Oh no, I can hold it. If it were a real emergency, I’d just grab some used fast food napkins out of the trash at home.

So, now that we’ve cleared that up, what are you doing for dinner?

Columbia City Paper

Dear self help book,

I recognize that you have a basic need to disseminate helpful information and I own my responsibility to that. However, after using the Self Checklist on page 42, I don’t believe it will puncture our Friend Bubble if I use you to prop up this wobbly computer table so I don’t spill my Scotch while I watch Russian porn online and quietly weep.

Columbia City Paper

Dear new office guard dog,

Since we moved the City Paper offices from our humble Five Points roots to a more swanky locale downtown, you and the high-powered alarm system are our only line of defense against crackheads looking to score a Mac or scorned nut jobs seeking to burn us at the stake. But, that still doesn’t give you license to run amok when we’re not in the office, boy. While odd smells and the occasional errant turd could easily be attributed to the news staff in the old office, all fingers point to you in this new space. Also there will be no audible lapping out of the toilet during sales meetings. Otherwise, help yourself to all the treats we can spare and feel free to ogle the neighbor’s hot female Collie. (And, hey, whatever happens between you and the publisher’s neck pillow is your business).

Columbia City Paper

Dear South Carolina legislators,

As the newspaper of record for the more degenerate and vice-oriented of your constituency, City Paper would like to congratulate you on your recent spate of fair and balanced lawmaking, both on state and municipal levels. Sure, folks can no longer smoke in public, but we can now buy beer on Sundays. We can’t play video poker but at least you kept the hallowed institution of the lap dance intact. Taking advantage of this give-and-take atmosphere while we can, we’d like to propose another trade off. Let’s see… we’ll give you a motorcycle helmet law, more stringent penalties for public drunkenness and you can have common law marriage back, all for marijuana decriminalization. We’re just throwing it out there.

Columbia City Paper

Dear deep thought in the checkout line at Bi-Lo,

You know, maybe the Weekly World News is onto something. Maybe the human brain is the true organism. The rest of the body was grown in its service, to do it’s bidding. It is not an organ in service of the body; the body was grown as a shell to encase it. To see for it and to feed it and to protect it from predators. After all, how can a mere organ be aware of itself? The brain knows what it looks like. With a mirror, anesthesia, and proper training, a brain could actually perform surgery on itself. Sadly, the brains developed an understanding of death millions of years ago and they have dragged that knowledge, as if shackled to a heavy stone, across the plains of time since the predawn of history. They envy other creatures for their seeming ignorance of that ultimate truth. The brain has enlightened itself but, in doing so, has also damned itself.

Eventually the brain grew tired of bumbling around in its never-ending search for sustenance and copulation, so it invented farming and prostitution. It could then spend more time inventing gods and watching sports and starting wars. Later it invented the car and this supermarket and plastic so it could acquire food by expending even less energy. All along the way, it developed art and theater and music and literature. It invented fart jokes and comic books and medicines and hair care products. Later still, it invented reality television. …Huh, oh sorry. Yeah, I have my bonus card.

Columbia City Paper

One point is indisputable: the campaign deserves a gigantic E for Effort. And as I set myself down with Droid in hand, one of the architects of said Effort is about to reap the benefits of over a year of faithful service to the Benjamin Campaign.

He is getting a job as a temp with the City of Columbia.

The man to which I am referring was the entity on the other end of Benjamin’s frantic Blackberry Messenger conversations throughout the forums and debates of the Mayoral campaign. He was the hot shot wunderkind who brought modern, streamlined, national-level concepts of branding and electioneering to our humble civic campaign. And I have a sneaking suspicion that he came up with the wonderfully tacky “Benjamins for Benjamin” fundraising campaign.

If you’ve never heard of Michael Wukela, that’s because he’s a behind-the-scenes kind of guy — a classic Evil Vasir in the tradition of Jafar and Rosco P. Coltraine. He is the Grima Wormtongue to Benjamin’s Theomir, King of Rohan, a specimen of… Click to continue Steve Benjamin’s “One Columbia” campaign is a synthesis of the slogan-centric and logo-philiac Obama presidential campaign (with none of the heart) and all the sanctimony of classic Southern Municipal Politics (with none of the brow-mopping handkerchiefs). To me, it is a grand achievement in the arena of Sounds and Furies Signifying Nothing. But on the other hand, Mayor Steve royally kicked my ass at the polls in April.

One point is indisputable: the campaign deserves a gigantic E for Effort. And as I set myself down with Droid in hand, one of the architects of said Effort is about to reap the benefits of over a year of faithful service to the Benjamin Campaign.

He is getting a job as a temp with the City of Columbia.

The man to which I am referring was the entity on the other end of Benjamin’s frantic Blackberry Messenger conversations throughout the forums and debates of the Mayoral campaign. He was the hot shot wunderkind who brought modern, streamlined, national-level concepts of branding and electioneering to our humble civic campaign. And I have a sneaking suspicion that he came up with the wonderfully tacky “Benjamins for Benjamin” fundraising campaign.

If you’ve never heard of Michael Wukela, that’s because he’s a behind-the-scenes kind of guy — a classic Evil Vasir in the tradition of Jafar and Rosco P. Coltraine. He is the Grima Wormtongue to Benjamin’s Theomir, King of Rohan, a specimen of that queer breed of backroom buccaneers who relish in pulling the puppet strings of greater men.

I recall a breezy evening in early spring, deep into the race for mayor, when I was summoned to one of Mikey’s cigarette breaks and invited to kiss the ring of the burgeoning power broker. He had a cool, easy manner and a brash sense of detachment. When he greeted me it was like having Luke Perry slam his arm out into a locker, blocking my path and commanding my attention.

He glibly informed me that I had no chance in the election, but that I might be able to have a real effect on the campaign by endorsing his candidate. When I told him I had intended to see my run through to the end he took a long drag from his Parliament Lite and gave me an appraising glance. He
nodded his head. “I could run you,” he said. His voice was warm honey. “You might have a chance.”

My heart fluttered. He was tempting me, I found. Extending forth a golden apple, but my dizzying climb to political power would come with certain stipulations.

It would be expensive.  I would have to shave off my facial hair. I would have to tell people what they wanted to hear.

He sensed my hesitation. He threw down the butt of his cigarette and caught me in a reptile gaze that latched on to the herbivorial half of my omnivorous psyche. Now he aimed to appeal to my youthful, rebellious nature.

“Look, man,” he continued, with animal intensity. “You think I don’t get it? I’m a hard core socialist. I have tattoos all over my body. But if you really want to change the system you gotta play by the rules. If you do everything I say and we get some party support, I could get you on a school board, maybe even make you a state senator.”

It was a miscalculation. For all the counterculture affectations of my campaign and for all my boyish looks, I am not a socialist. I’m more of a libertarian-lite with a weakness for effective human service and civic programs like public transportation and investment in the arts infrastructure. And I don’t really like tattoos.  My conscience came flooding back to me and I saw Baba Yaga for the dark conjurer she really was. Mikey had no magic. His cold stare did not
see through to higher planes; it was merely the reptile gaze of a mid-grade sociopath who had latched on to the broad silk panels of Benjamin’s coat tails. The moment was past and we walked away from one another with an enhanced understanding of the game we were playing with one another.

When I next saw Mikey, at the Homelessness Summit, he was sporting a baby beard of his own. So much for shaving. He was colder, now. He knew he had no power over me, and, more importantly, he did not see me as a threat nor an opportunity. And so he had disengaged.

I lost the game with Mike Wukela on April 6, 2010. And today he takes another stride forward toward his lofty and mysterious ambitions. Anyone who has ever worked, as I have, for Kelly Services and Manpower for a couple of years knows that destiny is a fluid thing in the fast and loose world of Temping. And a career opportunist with an unquenchable thirst for power like Michael Wukela will no doubt leverage his presently notional role in our civic hierarchy into something of far greater substance in the months and years to come. Move by move, through patience and analysis, you can bet he has the End Game in mind, like a Chess Grand Master.

And I must be content to watch and marvel, as I would observe a Tiger in the Jungle or a Shark in the Sea.

Well played, Mikey. Well played.

talkback@columbiacitypaper.com

A morning in the mall walking underground

Cafeterias have long been pre-dawn gathering spots for the elderly, a quiet refuge where folks gather to chat about yard work or term life insurance over breakfasts of grapefruit and Metamucil. But, on the second Thursday of every month, when the mall walkers make the scene, the normal chatter is replaced by an excited energy that permeates the air like Vick’s VapoRub. Decked out in the latest high-end orthopedic footwear, some stake a claim to the middle dining room of the S&S Cafeteria in the Midtown at Forest Acres Mall to discuss health and fitness while others, out near the malls information desk, get loosened up to hit the tiles before the main building opens for business at 10.

Mall walkers are a different breed than the run-of-the-mill neighborhood power walker. Both share a flare for exaggerated upper body motion and, yes, there are the tracksuits. But power walkers prefer to be out in the elements dodging traffic, angry dogs and sneering motorists. By contrast, mall walkers avoid the scenic route and all its pitfalls. And though they enjoy crisp air conditioning and soothing Musak, mall walking comes with its own set of risks in the form of potentially slippery floors and gangs of scary looking teenagers, just to name a couple.

The youngest of this group, Eileen Sullivan, has been mall walking for over ten years. She says she prefers mall walking… Click to continue A morning in the mall walking underground

Cafeterias have long been pre-dawn gathering spots for the elderly, a quiet refuge where folks gather to chat about yard work or term life insurance over breakfasts of grapefruit and Metamucil. But, on the second Thursday of every month, when the mall walkers make the scene, the normal chatter is replaced by an excited energy that permeates the air like Vick’s VapoRub. Decked out in the latest high-end orthopedic footwear, some stake a claim to the middle dining room of the S&S Cafeteria in the Midtown at Forest Acres Mall to discuss health and fitness while others, out near the malls information desk, get loosened up to hit the tiles before the main building opens for business at 10.

Mall walkers are a different breed than the run-of-the-mill neighborhood power walker. Both share a flare for exaggerated upper body motion and, yes, there are the tracksuits. But power walkers prefer to be out in the elements dodging traffic, angry dogs and sneering motorists. By contrast, mall walkers avoid the scenic route and all its pitfalls. And though they enjoy crisp air conditioning and soothing Musak, mall walking comes with its own set of risks in the form of potentially slippery floors and gangs of scary looking teenagers, just to name a couple.

The youngest of this group, Eileen Sullivan, has been mall walking for over ten years. She says she prefers mall walking to outdoor power walking because she can work up more speed indoors. “I also have a lot of allergies,” she says, “so walking outside is not usually an option for me.”

On this bright Thursday morning the walkers orbit the lower floor of the Midtown mall at varying speeds, the sun filtering in through the plate glass ceiling above, a pan flute version of “Dust in the Wind” playing lightly on the audio system. The rocking tunes cause some to push their walkers along at a peppy, false teeth rattling pace while others seem to zone out and lumber slowly along in their street clothes.

Mac Carroll, 72, and his wife, Sara, look young enough to have kids in college and easily lap walkers half their age. Carroll attributes his youthful appearance to “good genes and a good woman.” And Jack Daniels whiskey, he adds, jokingly.

At times the Carrolls have to slow their pace so that we hung over City Paper staffers can keep up. Sara concedes that mall walkers keep earlier hours than most, but she says she prefers to walk in the morning before the stores open so they don’t disturb shoppers.

As we walk, a security guard shifts weight from one foot to the other near the escalator and surveys her charge like a chain gang boss. But, the mall sanctions walkers on these mornings, so for now, at least, a shaky truce seems to be holding. The guard begins to exhibit a growing interest in the reporters in her midst, though, so we pick up the pace and try to blend in.

On one lap, we pass a mall walker slumped on a bench near the Belk and I posit to the Carrolls that other mall walkers in the area might charge that walkers have it easier in Forest Acres, that Midtown walkers couldn’t hack it over at Dutch Square, a longer mall with more inclines.

Mac bristles at the thought. “Well, I’d say they’re full of—”

Sara quickly pops his arm, smiles apologetically and asks that we “don’t print that.”

“Hey,” Mac says, slapping my shoulder, “you’ve got to tell it like it is.”

And with that the Carrolls say their polite goodbyes, ratchet up their speed and leave the rest of us the dust. Bring it on, Dutch Square.

-Todd Morehead

Originally published in 2006

Jimmy’s Stats

Age: Late 50s

Name: Jimmy

Where Loitering: Maxcy Gregg Park

Time & Date: 9:45 p.m. – July 31, 2006

Quote: “Nobody fucks with me.”

Drug of Choice: Booze

“I need some goddamn pussy over here!”

That’s what the old white guy with the dirty-gray Santa-Clause-looking beard and mesh trucker’s cap pulled low over his face said after City Paper woke him up from a sacked-out slumber on a swinging park bench in Maxcy Gregg Park the night of July 31.

As thunderclouds rolled overhead and heat lighting lit up his weathered face, the man calling himself “Jimmy” sat upright and opened his bleary blue eyes wide.

“I’m drunk, OK,” he said, picking up a battered blue and white backpack and rummaging around through it. “Booze,” he said.

Jimmy said he did not smoke crack or do any other drugs.

“I just do booze,” he said, his speech slurred and sometimes incomprehensible as he pawed through his bag. “I’m trying to find some right now.”

Unfortunately for Jimmy, City Paper caught him on a Sunday and could not help him out.

Nor could he be entertained with the other request he shouted out repeatedly throughout the interview.

“Need… Click to continue Written by Corey Hutchins

Originally published in 2006

Jimmy’s Stats

Age: Late 50s

Name: Jimmy

Where Loitering: Maxcy Gregg Park

Time & Date: 9:45 p.m. – July 31, 2006

Quote: “Nobody fucks with me.”

Drug of Choice: Booze

“I need some goddamn pussy over here!”

That’s what the old white guy with the dirty-gray Santa-Clause-looking beard and mesh trucker’s cap pulled low over his face said after City Paper woke him up from a sacked-out slumber on a swinging park bench in Maxcy Gregg Park the night of July 31.

As thunderclouds rolled overhead and heat lighting lit up his weathered face, the man calling himself “Jimmy” sat upright and opened his bleary blue eyes wide.

“I’m drunk, OK,” he said, picking up a battered blue and white backpack and rummaging around through it. “Booze,” he said.

Jimmy said he did not smoke crack or do any other drugs.

“I just do booze,” he said, his speech slurred and sometimes incomprehensible as he pawed through his bag. “I’m trying to find some right now.”

Unfortunately for Jimmy, City Paper caught him on a Sunday and could not help him out.

Nor could he be entertained with the other request he shouted out repeatedly throughout the interview.

“Need some pussy over here!” he yelled toward Blossom Street as cars passed, his head rolling back against the back support of the bench. “Goddamn it! Need some pussy right over hee-yuh!”

A man on another bench nearby warned him about screaming such things, saying the previous night Jimmy had been yelling that same refrain throughout the Five Points area while people were still out walking around.

“Shit, y’all should have seen him yesterday… he wouldn’t shut the fuck up,” he said. “You better shut that shit or you gonna get everybody locked up.”

Portions of Harden Street, Devine Street and Santee Street were hopeless for the homeless that evening.

So were the darkened areas between the Shell station and Food Lion.

When asked if Jimmy was drunk, his friend said, “you could call it that,” before shaking his head and walking away.

“Hey Jimmy,” he said over his shoulder before departing. “Come on before it start to fuckin’ goddamn rain like a bitch out here.”

Martin Luther King, Jr. Park was also vacant of vagrants, as was the Five Points area. In the alleyway between Wachovia and the Salty Nut Cafe, there were also no hobos to be found.

A Columbia Police Dept. patrol car positioned on Lauren Street created slim pickings for any train track transients near Durkins and Mr. Friendly’s.

As the thunder grew louder, and others around him got up to find shelter, Jimmy stayed put. “I don’t think it’s gonna rain. I’m [going to] stay right here,” he said. “Goddamn, shit. Goddamn it, yeah. Fuck the goddamn rain.”

And then:

“I need some pussy over here right now!”

When asked where he was going to get it, and what was going to do with it if he did, he replied, “We can go down to Five Points right now and get it, OK. …Need some pussy over here!”

Jimmy said he was from Columbia and had been through a lot throughout the years. He said he had seen quite a bit of the “good” and the “bad” since he’s been on the streets.

“I’ve been through a lot of things,” he said.

“I’ve seen [people] killing other [people]. Right over here,” he said, pointing to the woods beyond the park, though he didn’t seem too worried about it.

“Nobody fucks with me,” he said.

Aries

An imminent philosopher once said, “pleasure is fleeting, herpes is forever.” Sadly, you’ll have a lifetime to brood over that phrase after your upcoming trip to Myrtle Beach.

Taurus

If the shoe fits wear it. If it stinks, spray it with Lysol.

Gemini

In 2052, greedy technocrats will require that all humans wishing to participate in the global super economy must be implanted with debit ID chips. You will balk at this, vow to grow your own food and become self-sustaining. But on a blustery August day, ozone layer long gong, you will curse yourself as you scratch at your wilted crops and admit: “Dang… I wish I’d have gotten that chip.”

Cancer

Get Darla to babysit! You done been so good to Ricky that he sold his snake tank to get y’all tickets to Kenny Chesney.

Leo

Your _______ (adjective) _________ (noun) will clear up after you ______ (adverb) _______ (verb) your _______ (noun). However, your proctologist will _______ (verb) when he sees the ________ (adjective), ______ (adjective) _______ (noun) that is oozing on your ______ (noun).

Virgo

Run away from your problems and don’t look back. Or just walk backwards quickly.

Libra

In a moment of weakness you will shack up with a mousy schoolteacher who possesses the kind of maniacal laugh that’s usually followed by an ax. She would hate to… Click to continue Aries

An imminent philosopher once said, “pleasure is fleeting, herpes is forever.” Sadly, you’ll have a lifetime to brood over that phrase after your upcoming trip to Myrtle Beach.

Taurus

If the shoe fits wear it. If it stinks, spray it with Lysol.

Gemini

In 2052, greedy technocrats will require that all humans wishing to participate in the global super economy must be implanted with debit ID chips. You will balk at this, vow to grow your own food and become self-sustaining. But on a blustery August day, ozone layer long gong, you will curse yourself as you scratch at your wilted crops and admit: “Dang… I wish I’d have gotten that chip.”

Cancer

Get Darla to babysit! You done been so good to Ricky that he sold his snake tank to get y’all tickets to Kenny Chesney.

Leo

Your _______ (adjective) _________ (noun) will clear up after you ______ (adverb) _______ (verb) your _______ (noun). However, your proctologist will _______ (verb) when he sees the ________ (adjective), ______ (adjective) _______ (noun) that is oozing on your ______ (noun).

Virgo

Run away from your problems and don’t look back. Or just walk backwards quickly.

Libra

In a moment of weakness you will shack up with a mousy schoolteacher who possesses the kind of maniacal laugh that’s usually followed by an ax. She would hate to do hurtful, painful things to her pooki-wookie little maaaaaannn… SO SHUT UP AND HANG THOSE GODDAMNED CURTAINS!!!

Scorpio

It will suddenly dawn on you why every indie band gazes pensively off to the left in their promo photos: a very, very sad-looking squeaky toy.

Sagittarius

Tell women that you work at a bank. It’s a better pick-up line than “I park cars at Wachovia in Five Points after nine.”

Capricorn

Don’t let hay fever ruin your upcoming job interview. Human Resources departments are known for their compassion and will understand when you show up in goggles and a surgical mask.

Aquarius

Your class load is especially rough due to all the tests coming up. At least you got that important one completed last week. For your sake –and half of the Tri-Delt sorority—I hope the results come back negative.

Pisces

You have a primer-colored customized compact car that sounds like a weed eater. This weekend you will rev your engine at the corner of Greene and Harden as a courtship display to females and to ward off other competing bulls. But, the message you are really sending: “I have a small pee pee.”

Thursday September 9

New Brookland Tavern

Benjy Davis Project

Ingram Hill

Utopia

Open Mic w Betz Kirby

The White Mule

The Mosier Brothers (founding members of Blueground Undergrass).

Friday September 10

Cafe Strudel

Sound of Voices

New Brookland Tavern

Josh Roberts & the Hinges

The Restoration

Say Brother

Utopia

Flagship Admirals w

the forces of the street

The White Mule

Joal Rush & The Wares CD Release w/ Mike Willis

Saurday September 11

The Art Bar

To say I anticipated buxom waitresses on my first visit to Hooters would be an understatement. As far as I’m concerned, the first three letters of the alphabet have no place on any cup there. I envisioned bazookas barely contained by cotton and clasp, maybe an errant chest to accidentally spill my drink. I expected a sound like gallon jugs sloshing when she giggled and bounced over to the table with my hot wings, as every shirt seam fought to hold, headlights the size of tea saucers showing through in silent defiance. No server should have to put the ink pen behind her ear at Hooters, is all I’m saying.

A local female bookstore owner believes the restaurant chain unintentionally misleads the public with false promises.

“Hardly any of the waitresses have hooters!” she exclaimed.

The chain acknowledges that many consider “Hooters” a slang term for a portion of the female anatomy. According to the chain, “Hooters does have an owl inside its logo and uses an owl theme sufficiently to allow debate to occur over the meaning’s intent. The chain enjoys and benefits from this debate. In the end, we hope Hooters means a great place to eat.”

Right. A source close to the Harbison Dr. Hooters detailed the many deceptions waitresses will perpetrate on male customers.

“Many waitresses will pretend they have boyfriends or are engaged in order to… Click to continue Originally Published in 2007

To say I anticipated buxom waitresses on my first visit to Hooters would be an understatement. As far as I’m concerned, the first three letters of the alphabet have no place on any cup there. I envisioned bazookas barely contained by cotton and clasp, maybe an errant chest to accidentally spill my drink. I expected a sound like gallon jugs sloshing when she giggled and bounced over to the table with my hot wings, as every shirt seam fought to hold, headlights the size of tea saucers showing through in silent defiance. No server should have to put the ink pen behind her ear at Hooters, is all I’m saying.

A local female bookstore owner believes the restaurant chain unintentionally misleads the public with false promises.

“Hardly any of the waitresses have hooters!” she exclaimed.

The chain acknowledges that many consider “Hooters” a slang term for a portion of the female anatomy. According to the chain, “Hooters does have an owl inside its logo and uses an owl theme sufficiently to allow debate to occur over the meaning’s intent. The chain enjoys and benefits from this debate. In the end, we hope Hooters means a great place to eat.”

Right. A source close to the Harbison Dr. Hooters detailed the many deceptions waitresses will perpetrate on male customers.

“Many waitresses will pretend they have boyfriends or are engaged in order to deceive male customers so that they won’t bother them outside of providing a great meal,” the source revealed.

Others accuse the waitresses of taking measures as extreme as wearing fake engagement rings—called “Man Be Gone Rings” in the industry—to intentionally deceive undesirable males. As a reporter with uncompromising standards and ethics, it was important that I witness some on these allegations first hand.

When I arrived at Hooters, several beautiful young Hooters Girls greeted me.  Many may not live up to the name but it turned out that our waitress Hanna indeed puts the “H” in Hooters.

I ordered the quesadilla and was tempted by the famous wings, but was hesitant to make a mess of myself in front of the blond haired, blued eyed beauty. Hanna was sweet and intelligent and sat down with us to tell stories about growing up riding horses. She said some other stuff too, but I wasn’t really paying attention after the image of her in slo-mo on a wild stallion in her orange Hooters shorts floated softly through my head. I stared off into the distance and chewed absently as she talked, strings of cheese probably hanging from my mouth.

God, she was incredible. I had to know more about her.

Hanna then proceeded to tell me that she was engaged to be married. But the way she had asked for my drink order… there was definite chemistry. I thought I might still have a chance. She told us that her fiancé had proposed to her on the beach and I noticed a dinky ring on her finger. She deserves so much better and I imagined the rock I would have picked out for her.

We talked and laughed every time she refilled my drink or brought me more napkins. It was odd she didn’t have any of the wedding details finalized and it gave me further hope that maybe it wouldn’t work out with her fiancé. After she cleared my quesadilla basket, I excused myself to the men’s room to drop a quick deuce and work out my strategy before she took our desert order.

While I was in the bathroom, my dining companion played the classic restaurant gag and told our waitress that it was my 16th birthday. I guess maybe he also told them I had a degenerative disease to explain away the 14-year age discrepancy. All the waitresses came over to the table and forced me to a lone chair in the center of the room.  Not knowing what to do I first sat down expecting a dance of some kind, but little did I know I was to be the performer.  One waitress loudly demanded that I get up on the chair, dance and air-spell “Susan” with my gyrating behind.

I was mortified that my Hanna saw me in such a situation and could tell that she was laughing in order to help me feel better. We had a connection like that. When Hanna came back to the table with our check, she offered me a “Heart for a Dollar” with the proceeds going to the Ronald McDonald charity.  She also personally invited me to a Super Bowl party at Hooters that would feature a raffle for a big screen T.V.

She wasn’t sure if she would be on staff that night or not.

And then she did something truly special; she offered her favorite pen for me to sign my check. It was shiny, pink and covered with black spots.  On top bounced a perky ladybug nestled in a pink feather bed.  This pen, I felt, was the essence of Hanna and our brief time together.  It was more incredible than any other pen in its class.  It wrote beautifully, and the ladybug danced while the feathers tickled my wrist.

I brought the top up to my nose, and it smelled of my dear Hanna, a mix of perfume and potato skins.  Oh, what a glorious fragrance while those feathers caressed my face.  She didn’t say it, but I knew she wanted me to have this.  I slipped the pen into my pocket when her back was turned, knowing that neither of us would speak of it again.  That was the way my Hanna would want it.

It was then I realized that Hanna and the Hooters Girls give so much and ask for so little besides a 15 percent gratuity on tables of six or more.  So what if they lie to a few guys? They make them feel better while making the world a better place.

Though I guarded my pen like a wolverine around the City Paper office, I secretly debated if I should keep it. Maybe the pen was a test for me and Hanna. Perhaps she will forget that bum fiancé if I show my willingness to give back to the community like she does.

Here’s my problem: I love women. The way they look, move, and sound. But the idea of actually interacting with women absolutely fucking terrifies me. I’m a virgin at 30. I’ve never had a girlfriend. I’ve never been on a date. I’ve never even had a conversation with a woman that lasted longer than a couple of minutes.  I cannot even imagine approaching a woman and asking her out on a date. And no woman has ever even shown interest from what I could tell. Sex workers are out of the question because I don’t want to risk some asshole cop busting me. Webcam sites are pretty much the only way I interact with women. Got a piece of advice for me?

Awkward And Alone

I’ve actually got two pieces of advice for you, AAA.First piece: Get your ass to a shrink—maybe a lady shrink—who can help you with your near-crippling sexual anxiety and maybe toss some meds your way.

Second piece: Hire a fucking sex worker, AAA—just don’t fuck her. Paid companionship is not a crime—there’s nothing illegal about paying an escort to escort you places. Rent a nice woman and have a nice conversation. If you like her, make another appointment, have another conversation. Cops—asshole or otherwise—only bust men when they offer money in exchange for sex, AAA, so don’t offer money for sex, or accept her offer to have money for sex, and you won’t… Click to continue Here’s my problem: I love women. The way they look, move, and sound. But the idea of actually interacting with women absolutely fucking terrifies me. I’m a virgin at 30. I’ve never had a girlfriend. I’ve never been on a date. I’ve never even had a conversation with a woman that lasted longer than a couple of minutes.  I cannot even imagine approaching a woman and asking her out on a date. And no woman has ever even shown interest from what I could tell. Sex workers are out of the question because I don’t want to risk some asshole cop busting me. Webcam sites are pretty much the only way I interact with women. Got a piece of advice for me?

Awkward And Alone

I’ve actually got two pieces of advice for you, AAA.First piece: Get your ass to a shrink—maybe a lady shrink—who can help you with your near-crippling sexual anxiety and maybe toss some meds your way.

Second piece: Hire a fucking sex worker, AAA—just don’t fuck her. Paid companionship is not a crime—there’s nothing illegal about paying an escort to escort you places. Rent a nice woman and have a nice conversation. If you like her, make another appointment, have another conversation. Cops—asshole or otherwise—only bust men when they offer money in exchange for sex, AAA, so don’t offer money for sex, or accept her offer to have money for sex, and you won’t get busted. And cops working undercover to bust johns don’t make follow-up appointments or build ongoing relationships with clients. So if a woman sees you more than once—or twice, to be extra safe—she’s not a cop.

Is everyone in the Republican Party a closeted homosexual?

Ken Mehlman’s Out Now

Everyone except Ken Mehlman and Ben Quayle.

I am a straight and, dare I say it, vanilla woman who met a straight man who somewhat reminds me of Clark Kent. He’s mild-mannered, good-looking, an all-around great guy, just like Clark Kent—and just like Superman, he likes to wear tights. It ends up that he likes to be dominated, spanked, and buttfucked—and crossdress. Our sexual encounters are a bit different for me, to say the least, but I like spanking him, humiliating him, tying him up, and watching him try on panties (in which he looks darn good!). It’s all rather exciting!

Does this mean that I’m a dominatrix? Would I act this way with other men, or is it just him? And finally, where do I go from here?

Being Deviant Satisfies Me

A dominatrix? That’s a professional title, BDSM, and you’re not planning to pursue a career in kink. To determine if you’re genuinely and independently kinky and not just getting off on beating and binding the boyfriend because he gets off on it, you’ll just have to beat and bind someone else sometime. As for where you go from here, BDSM, if you’re in San Francisco or you can get there for a weekend, you might wanna sign up for Forte Femme, a weekend-long “sensual dominance intensive” hosted by kink superstar/supernova Midori. More info at www.fortefemme.com.

I’m a GGG 38-year-old single woman, longtime reader, first-time writer.

1. What is a cream pie?

2. Do you find it weird to be turned on by getting fondled up and aroused into sex while sleeping? I have a hard time communicating to partners that I want this! Can you give communication assistance so I don’t sound so freaky?

Freak In Phoenix

1. Google “cream pie.” The first three results are relevant; the fourth (“Banana Cream Pie: Recipe”) is not.

2. Your kink, FIP, barely moves the needle on my kink-o-meter. If you’re having a hard time communicating your interest in fondled-while-asleep sex, just memorize this: “I enjoy getting fondled up while sleeping.”

Poopnoodle. I heard this word for the first time today. I was told that a poopnoodle is what happens when you pee right after fucking someone hard in the ass. Poop gets stuck up in the dick hole and comes out in the form of a noodle when you piss. Is this something that actually happens, and if so, can you deem “poopnoodle” the official Savage Love term?

Couldn’t Think Of An Acronym That Spelled Out “Poopnoodle”

If what you describe had ever actually happened to anyone, anywhere, ever, “poopnoodle” could be the official Savage Love term for it. But the poopnoodle never actually happens.

If your middle-school friends don’t believe me, CTOAATSOP, here’s what you should do: Go get a couple tubs of premade chocolate frosting. Refrigerate until firm. Get your dicks hard. Fuck your tubs of premade frosting. Fuck them hard. Fuck them like they’ve been bad. Then go take a piss. You will not produce a chocolatefrostingnoodle. I promise you.

And think about it, CTOAATSOP: Butt-fuckers fuck butt until they come. Wouldn’t coming dislodge the poopnoodle?

Finally, some general advice for anyone out there who’s interested in anal but now, thanks to CTOAATSOP here, fears the poopnoodle: Wear a condom. A condom can protect you from the fictional poopnoodle and the actual HIV.

I am disturbd by naked pic bribing you admittd & encouraged in yr last column. It reveals yr favoritism & yr corruptd nature! You dont need critics to discredit yr “advice.” you done it yrslf. You are Mr Sanctimoney!

509

I am disturbd by yr splling.

But I cannot tell a lie: Enclosing a nude pic—good nude, bad nude, boy nude, girl nude—does get my attention. It won’t automatically get a letter into the column, however. I could run nothing but letters from readers who enclosed pics, week-in, week-out, 52 weeks a year. But the letter from the guy in his early 30s who lost his virginity that appeared in last week’s column—the dude who enclosed pics—was the first letter from a pic-encloser that I’ve used in ages. So cut me some slack.

That said, the odd pic or two—doesn’t even have to be you—brightens the day and lightens the workload. So pics are always welcome.

And if you don’t like it, 509, I suppose you could file charges with the professional body that governs my so-called profession… if there were a professional body that governed my so-called profession. But there isn’t, poopnoodle, so suck it, take pics, and send ‘em in.

mail@savagelove.net