A Night Out: Part I

By Frank Thompson

The sun was hanging low in the sky and expectations tingled with possibilities as The Girl and I arrived at the first stop on our big evening out. Having opted for what I have dubbed the “Cricket/Thicket Hoop-De-Doo”, we were to enjoy cocktails at one of Soda City’s finest emporiums of sundries and refreshments, followed by dinner at the shrine to all that’s southern, fried, and artery-clogging good…


Upon arrival at the L’il Cricket, one is immediately taken in by the delightful kitsch and pluckiness of the whole thing. The jaunty little chap in the cocked top hat, antennae raised as if in a cheery hello…the saucy non-contraction “L’il”, which always puts me in mind of a cockney newsboy or minor character in a Little Rascals short… (I must tell you all sometime about L’il Douglas, a person a couple of my friends thought they had accidentally killed under a mountain of dirt as children, only to see him emerge unscathed, still pretending to be a dog. Another story, another time).

Where was I? Oh yes, the L’il Cricket. It greets one with a promise of riches untold, assuming one’s idea of riches is a Snickers, some beef jerky, a pack of Marlboro Lights, two lottery tickets, this month’s AutoTrader, a pickled egg, a couple of fuzzy blue dice air fresheners and a Yoo-Hoo. If I just described your last year’s Christmas stocking, no offense intended.

Before feasting on the cornucopia of delights inside the Cricket, you will certainly wish to stroll the patio area, stopping to greet the locals who frequently congregate near the entrance, discussing issues of the day. Don’t let the fact that these issues often involve spare change, recently-found items of clothing and peeing in a milk jug deter you from having a listen. Many interesting things are to be learned here.

This is street theatre at its finest. Raw, unhinged at times, and generally improv-oriented, the plots are sometimes exciting, yet frequently similar. I have, myself, been told on at least six consecutive visits by a chap I call “Squeaky” (due to his low grumbling voice) that he needs only “a few more dollars” for bus fare to get to his wife and six children, who remained with the car when it broke down.


The wife and children in reference have now been waiting for over a year, through cold and heat and wind, presumably without food or water. (Given my twisted sense of humor, I always envision one large skeleton and six small ones sitting roadside, with a “Have A Nice Day” bumper sticker on the car.) Having seen Squeaky in other places around town, I am tempted to have a “Broke Down Car Tour” t-shirt printed for him, listing all the locales he’s played…L’il Cricket, BP on Gervais, Richland Mall Shell Station…he’s been on the road with this show all season.

Another favorite is Old Annie, who, for better or worse, will go religious on you in a hurry. A dollar bill gets prayers and blessings showered upon the giver, but God help (pun intended) the poor shmuck who shrugs and says “sorry”. Curses and Biblical plagues going back to Moses and beyond are invoked, along with the suggestion that hell eternal awaits those who spent money on M&Ms Peanut candies and a Bud Light Lime instead of sharing with the less fortunate.



Pale and wild-eyed, Old Annie is always in motion, swinging her stick at trees, those who dare to get in her way, passing squirrels, or sometimes just at nothing. She speaks in a bizarre dialect that sounds not unlike Gullah by way of New Jersey, mostly mumbled and peppered throughout with profanity. Her gnarled grasp is a firm one, especially when loudly thanking Jesus for the $1.19 you just handed her, and her voice is loud if not particularly soothing.

“Oh s#it! Gawdblessooo chile. De lord done sent BLESSINGS unto me, dat the truth. Dere is some good damn peoples in the WORLD, not all like that muddahfuggah what STOLE MY RAZOR!!!”

I can, of course, think of very few people over three years old and not having a seizure less qualified to own a razor, but when Old Annie told me this tale of woe, I simply nodded with grave concern and understanding.

The interior of the Cricket is intimate and cozy, with a definite sense of mood established by the overhead fluorescent lighting. Those among the patrons who recently found themselves released from prison will feel quite at home among the many security cameras and the no-nonsense demeanor of the counter clerk as well as the quality of hot food on offer.  I had to gasp and reflect for a moment on seeing Benji, Star Wars, and Raiders Of The Lost Ark in their original theatrical runs when I caught sight of the squeaky rotating hot dog carousel that I thought only existed in the movie theatres of the 70s and 80s.

Ancient dust-covered boxes of Ramen noodles share shelf space with bags of potato chips and Cheetos that barely have time to settle before being snatched up by ravenous kids or stoners with the munchies.


The occasional bruised apple, pair of bananas or random mango can be found resting on the countertop, next to the cash register. What the hell is up with that, I cannot say.  Did the clerk decide to bring the contents of his crisper drawer to work in hopes of making a couple of bucks? Is there a slightly-dinged fruit market of which I am unaware? How does the supplier make any money when so few items are kept in stock? Did he find the fruit outside and just add it to the inventory? The world may never know. (Oh, and for the Gen-Xers who got the reference, yes, they have Tootsie Pops.)

At last the cocktail hour was upon us, and The Girl and I took a few minutes to peruse the offerings from the bar. Well, it was actually more like a mid-sized walk-in cooler, but there you are.) Wines of recent vintage (Yum! April!) were to be found, alongside the standard Bud/Miller/Coors and even an import or two. Granted, they were priced at convenience store rates, which means roughly twice the grocery store price, but no matter…we had drinking to do, and this was clearly a place that could accommodate us.



Of special interest was the prominently-displayed row of “Forties”, those indelicate yet oh-so-satisfying beerlike bottles of torpedo juice that go so well with Funyuns, domestic disturbances, lost weekends in Topeka, and tattoos of indeterminate origin. I selected from among these worthies an insouciant little Olde English 800, complete with a semi-dampened brown paper bag as an accessory, while my lovely companion opted for a playful Boone’s Farm Colline des Fraises purchased in tandem with a “Little Red Solo Cup” not unlike the one of song- lyric fame.


If one is in need of pornographic videos, there are several from which to choose on a rotating rack near the back of the Cricket. While these titles appear to be somewhat beyond the mainstream, even for the nekkid movie industry, one must applaud the entrepreneurial spirit clearly embodied by the producers. While I would never suggest that Amateur Booty #14 and Here Comes The Mailman, Part 19 were shot simultaneously, with the same actors and set, such does seem to be the case. While I wish only the best for the careers of Edmund “Tripod” Jones and Dakota Juggs, they may want to sign with a more discriminating studio if they seek the kind of widespread distribution (pun most definitely intended) enjoyed by the bigger stars whose movies actually make it to the internet.


Having paid up and made our farewells, The Girl and I briefly considered investing in either a pine tree air freshener or Yosemite Sam mudflaps for future gift-giving occasions, but decided time was getting away from us, and repaired to the car for our aperitifs. Both were rather heady, but manageable when handled with care. The Olde English definitely put one in mind of something William The Normand would have swilled from an earthen grog chalice, while the Boone’s took us back to high school with all its upchucking-in-the-bushes-no-mom-I-swear-I-haven’t-been-drinking nostalgia. Tossing Old Annie a buck and a crisp salute as we drove away, we were showered with the love of the deity by way of His profane, croaking prophet of the convenience store parking lot. Next stop, dinner…

To be continued…

A Soulfully Sweet Week in Soda City

By Trinessa Dubas

Are you ready this week Columbia? Want to get out and explore, but have no ideas?  Memorial day coming up and your budget is, well, you know…tight?  Sugar, have no fear. Let me whisper a few budget friendly thoughts into your ear. The atmosphere in Columbia this week will be soulfully sweet and fantastically full of art with several events to ease your mind as you unwind. All while keeping your budget in check!  As I’ve gone about town some pretty good folks that I know have shared with me some of their upcoming performances and reminded me of a few I have yet to see (gasp).

 Wed May 21st plan to socialize and network with some of Columbia’s finest. This week Klean Kut Entertainment is hosting CUFFLINKS AND COCKTAILS at Sakitumi Grill and Sushi Bar. 807 Gervais St. Starting at 6p. Come out, network and get to know your future business associates. Won’t hurt to order a cocktail and mingle. This event is FREE


 Also Wed through Saturday (May 21st-24thof this week you still have time to catch the highly raved about performances from the wonderful casts of Young Frankenstein at Workshop theatre 1136 Bull St and Shrek the Musical at Town Theatre 1012 Sumter St. Both of these shows are highly entertaining and not to be missed. Tickets are $25, so hurry they are going fast!

 On Friday May 23rd let the self-taught sounds of The Dubber soothe your ears as you wind down your week. The Dubber , a great local talent will be performing a little bit of rock, jazz and funk at River Rat Brewery. 1231 Shop rd. The performance starts at 5p. It’s FREE


Keep Rocking Arts and Music Festival is happening this Saturday May 24th at Jakes on Devine, 2112 Devine St. There will be music and live art being created by one of my favorites Cedric Umoja. It’s family friendly and tickets are $10. You can’t beat that!


Finally, take it easy on Sunday May 25th and come out to hear the smooth sounds of Terence Young at Wet Willies on 800 Gervais St. This brother and his band are one of the best in Columbia. Terence is a local artist with national reach. His music is classic rhythm and blues. The show starts at 10p(I know that’s late for some folk) but you have memorial day off, so go out and enjoy. Tickets are $10. Sweet!


 Hell, yeah. This is a great week to be in Columbia!  Grab a friend and enjoy the warm days and cooler nights. I’m not going to let you have a reason to say “Columbia is boring” or “there ain’t nothing to do”. It doesn’t matter the side of town you live on. These are ideas of how to get to know your city and the artists or talents in it . And if you see me out doing what I do, Speak or Wave.

Honey, I’ll see ya!

Going Off the Sauce II: People who don’t drink make me nervous.

By Jillian Owens

“We could never be in a relationship.  You’re 14 years older than me, and the life expectancy for a man is already shorter than for a woman.  You’d pre-decease me,” I said, taking a long drag of my cigarette and looking the other direction…running nail-bitten fingers through my stiff spiky hair.

“Really, Jillian?  Given your lifestyle choices, I think I stand a fairly decent chance at outliving you,” was my wannabe suitor’s snarky response.

“You should drink,” I said after a sip of wine.  “I hate it when you just sit there and watch me drink.  People who don’t drink make me nervous.”

He just looked at me through heavily-lidded eyes over his cup of Earl Grey and said, “I don’t want to feel like shit tomorrow like you’re going to.”

This was met with an over-the-top eye roll.

This was years and years ago, but this conversation sticks out in my mind.  It captures an era in my life when the choices I was making were questionable at best, and terrifying at worst.  I smoked, partied, and drank heavily.  My diet consisted primarily of twizzlers and Diet Mountain Dew.  My coffee shop manager started automatically scheduling me as a closer, as he knew I’d be too hungover to function in the mornings.   I was bored, unmotivated, and volatile.

...but with cool hair.
…but with cool hair.

I’m still friends with this guy, which is surprising.  Very few of the friends I have now knew me then, and I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have cared much for me.

Somehow I managed to get my shit together.  After having dropped out from USC, I went back and finished my degree.  I cut ties with the people and things that were aiding me in my path of self-sabotage.  I quit smoking and biting my nails.  I stopped drinking so much.  I got a job in the arts, became more involved in my community, and finally wasn’t a f*ckup anymore.

This background information is important, because to understand why I’m doing this, you need to understand where I’m coming from and what I don’t want to go back to.

When I told my friends about my two weeks off alcohol, they they thought I was being silly.

“Jillian, you don’t have a problem.  I just don’t get why you’re doing this,” is the general consensus.

I get where they’re coming from.  Right now I’m fine.  I don’t have a problem.  But I started noticing a pattern over the last year, when several emotionally-taxing things happened.   I started drinking to shut down and not feel things.  No, I didn’t binge-drink like I used to a decade ago, but the motivation behind what I was doing was the same as back then.

Those of you who are close to me know I’ve been through a lot in the last couple of years.  But they’ve also been the most successful years of my life, and I’m not willing to let that momentum die.   I’ve worked too hard.

The next couple of weeks are going to help me get back to where I was before last year.  I believe behavior guides emotion.  If I can deal with stress, anxiety, and generally negative stuff without a cocktail in my hand, I’ll know I’m okay.