It's a coffee shop on the corner, sort of like Starbucks meets the Peach Pit After
Dark.
It's pouring outside, as it has been for a week in Jersey. The rain suits the mood. Inside the coffeehouse, a college couple sips coffee at 8:30 p.m., and the Ol' Man orders a bottled water, showing his age a tad. Caffeine after six makes him, well, more ornery than usual.
The Ol' Man pays his five bucks to enter and get a stamp reminiscent of the earlier years, when it would stay on his hand for days because he drank every night, especially during the week. He makes small talk with the artsy money taker, who just started working there and awkwardly doesn't answer questions when she does.
The place normally hosts more than 20 aspiring singers for open mic night. It starts at 7:30 and goes to 11:30 on Wednesdays. On nights it's not pouring, the place packs it in. This night, it's quiet, except for the high-pitched tortured artist on stage, belting out John Legend's "Ordinary People" acoustic-like, and a li'l out of tune.
The Ol' Man takes his stamped-hand and bottled water into the lounge and sits stage left. Not-John-Legend wraps up his three-song set and starts babbling into the microphone about wanting to play more.
The host, a cross between Jeff Spicolli and Mark
Goodman, takes the mic and introduces the next act, another tortured youngster that looks like a cross between a clean-cut Ryan Adams and Ben Gibbard from Death Cab.
Goodman shuffles his feet on the red Moroccan rug, tells an off-color joke about oral, and returns to the lounge. Ryan Gibbard proceeds to brood in each of his three songs, stopping short every time, just as he starts getting good.
"I suck," he said. "I'm really sh*tty tonight. Sorry."
The first time, Ol' Man's heart goes out to him. See, there's something about seeing one's self in the mirror, albeit much younger and much more pretentious, that may trigger heartbreak for the li'l lad.
But after the final song, when Ben Adams signs off with another "I suck," the Ol' Man realizes this is the guy's move (pot-kettle-black). He says he sucks, he waits for the audience to blow him, then he smiles and knows he'll be better next time.
The epiphany is both enlightening and revolting in the same breath.
Throughout each act, OMS is astounded that the audience, the majority lost high school souls who look like they skipped their lunch period to play groupie, talks, loudly, over the singers. At one point, one of the acts grabs a stuffed monkey from a 15-year-old Angela
Chase, causing her to shreik/giggle/cry/combust all in one fell swoop.
It's only quiet when the performers stop. Angela in particular is only quiet when given a bigger stuffed animal to play with.
Next up is Morrissey meets Dave Matthews, a model-looking fella who sings quietly, but with oomph, if this is how oomph is spelled. When he sings, the rain outside moves inside the coffeehouse, yet somehow everyone stays dry.
After the last song, the Ol' Man grabs his soggy suitcoat, turns away from the red room filled with hope and despair, high school and doubt, and strolls to the bar next door.
When he gets home, he plays a set. It's still raining outside and in his head.
It's quiet.
Look closely at this picture. See, there's Laura on the left. Her brother, Philip, in the middle. Mom Martha's on the far right. 
Nothing says Halloween like spending a Saturday night in watching The Shining. He's not asposed to stay in, he knows. But man, what a good flick. Too bad ol' Jack looks how the Ol' Man feels.
When did it become uncool to admit you're a fan of this man and his band? When did it become cool just to hate on them for hating on them's sake? 
"I'm fly as a falcon soarin' through the sky and I'm high 'til I dizzeye rizzide."
Do people actually use the words "ideological" and "purity" in the same sentence? Ever? These people are allowed to use words when they speak?
First off, check Jackie Greene out. He opened for Susan Tedeschi tonight. He's insane.
If you have the HBO and you're home tomorrow 'round midnight or so, watch this beefy t*tted bastard on the One Night Stand. He's serious LOL funny, and not in the way he and others, especially the 'Ol Man, use the term as a goof. You will lose your sh*t. Trust us.
This makes us sad, really. Poor, poor Britney. It's as if she didn't know this was going to happen. And that's the tragedy. If that's the word, and it's not. Credit Spencer at goldenfiddle.com for this, this tear-rendering, heart-wrenching news. Oh how we weep for her.
We know. Don't joke about the terror. 
So the Mayor says a lot of people will lose their jobs because of that thing that happened last month -- you know, the thing that led to lots of telethons and a ton more heartache.
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