The Simpsons is definitely ingrained in American popular culture. Once an edgy, almost salacious TV show, Homer & fam are pretty mild in comparison to television’s modern-day exports — animated or otherwise. So it’s no surprise that Universal Studios announced a Simpson’s theme park to open this summer at its Orlando, Fla., resort with a full replica of the fictional town of Springfield. There’s a Krusty Burger, Kwik-E-Mart, Duff Brewery (yes, an actual brewery with beer created exclusively for the park) and, of course, Springfield would not be complete without Moe’s Tavern. Go here to check out photos and video from the newly-opened park.
Twitter Chitter: This week, everyone’s RTing Feminist Taylor Swift
(real name: Kristian Nairn), gentle giant and Bran Stark’s personal Segway on Game of Thrones, is actually a real 21st century person and DJ. Check him out!
If Hodor’s a DJ, Winterfell's a dance floor
Veneers, dwarf darts and chest beating — that’s what you can really look forward to going into The Wolf of Wall Street, Martin Scorsese’s new film based on the story of ‘90s stock market criminal type, Jordan Belfort. OK, that and Leonardo DiCaprio, Jonah Hill(‘s freaking veneers) and Matthew McConaughey.
Can Leo’s dance move at 1:34 be the new Harlem Shake?
The song playing in the background is off Kanye West’s new album, Yeezus, which came out Tuesday. Kanye, who apparently is a father now (apparently, because since Kim hasn’t produced so much as a bowel movement in the past decade without an accompanying press release, no one can really be too sure about this baby thing), promoted the new album with an American Psycho-inspired commercial — I am not calling this a short film — starring Scott Disick, Kourtney Kardashian’s baby daddy, and Jonathan Cheban, Kim K’s main butt buddy/occasional frienemy. Behold:
Before American Psycho fans
call blasphemy, author Bret Easton Ellis has come out saying he actually wrote
the spoof himself.
Mad Men’s penultimate season — arguably its darkest yet — wraps up this Sunday. Now that the merged agencies have agreed on a name and logo, they’re ready to go public! Check out this awesome press release (via Mad Men’s Facebook page) SC&P letter:
Founder and Cincinnati resident Ashley Volbrecht hopes to offer consumers a different shopping perspective. “Creating a pop-up shop in my mind just represented a new way to get people to think about shopping,” Volbrecht said in a press release. “We’re here today, gone tomorrow. I want shoppers to forget they are inside of a truck when they enter.”
The truck itself is a former bread delivery truck that has been reconstructed to reflect the trendy vibe of the shop’s clothing. Former tin walls are now pink and white shelves boasting a variety of dresses and tops. A dingy floor has been converted into a pristine black and white striped pathway leading shoppers through racks of clothing and accessories. The former white exterior now stands out with bright colors and an elegant store name that lets consumers know this isn’t your run-of-the-mill mobile vendor.
Most shoppers know that entering a boutique usually entails a bit of sticker shock, but Truckshop is changing that assumption for its customers. Truckshop sells dresses, tops, jewelry and accessories, all for $65 or less. “Price point is one of the most important parts,” Volbrecht explained. “I love finding pieces I’m obsessed with and I love finding a bargain. I tried to use this same approach when choosing pieces for the boutique.”
Truckshop, opened this past Saturday, is leading the way for mobile boutiques in the Midwest. Truckshop will be at various festivals this summer including City Flea and Second Sundays on Main. And now everyone can feel like a celebrity with a store that comes to you: Truckshop is available for private parties of six or more people. Customers can also shop online through Facebook and Instagram pages.
The launch party is tonight from 6-9 p.m. at the Columbia Center, 3500 Columbia Pkwy. For more information about Truckshop, visit www.facebook.com/shopthetruck or follow Truckshop on Twitter @shopthetruck.
I¹ve been celebrating Father's Day for well over 50 years now. In its earliest incarnations, I'm sure gifts and cards were bought on my behalf, but eventually it was time to take the reins and handle the responsibility myself.
For a long stretch, my go-to present for my father was the lastest Bill Cosby record, partly because he truly enjoyed Cosby's work, but mostly because I wanted to hear it, too. Some might look at that as a selfish act, but I prefer to look at it this way; it was something that we were able to bond over, and at least it wasn't an ugly tie he¹d pretend to like and never wear.
My relationship with my father has always been complicated. I'm sure he loved me, although it was many years before he actually voiced the sentiment. The problem was that my mother, who likely would have been the perfect bridge between us, died when I was not quite 4 years old. My father's grief and depression were all-consuming and because he was afraid his emotional state would degrade my own, he left me with my grandparents (my recently deceased mother's parents, which, considering their own overwhelming grief, was an interesting paradigm of its own) and moved 30 miles north, removing himself from everything that would remind him of her.
Thus began our 12-year routine. He would arrive on Saturday afternoon, pick me up, take me back up to his apartment for the night, then we'd hang out until Sunday evening, when he would return me to my grandparents. It never really mattered what we did, I just enjoyed being in his company. He had a sense of humor that ranged from cuttingly dry to wildly inappropriate, largely dependent on the amount of scotch in his system, but he was always good for a laugh. Until he wasn't, of course, but that's another story.
The defining characteristic of our relationship was its short term nature. He was my actual, hands-on father less than two days a week; sometimes our weekend consisted of going to his friends' parties and me hanging out with his friends' kids all night, then watching TV for a good part of Sunday while he nursed the next in a series of monolithic hangovers. But there were lots of movies and restaurants and plays and a couple of girlfriends and a couple of stepmothers and extended families.
Sundays in summer were mostly spent on golf courses as he tried to teach me the game. Sundays in winter were for watching football, sometimes skiing or ice skating. Fun is where you find it and we found it everywhere. My grandparents were of sturdy Methodist stock and involved me in church as much as possible, while my father was a card-carrying hedonist.
When I was 5 or 6, after we'd been doing the weekend trip for some time, my grandmother was concerned that I wasn't attending church on Sundays and asked Dad if he could find a church and start taking me. My father took a long drag on his unfiltered Camel, exhaled slowly and said, "Molly, if he can't find Jesus in five days with you, he's not going to find him in two days with me." That unassailable logic ended the church discussion.
I was maybe 12 or 13 before my father really talked about my mother to me. To this day, he finds it generally impossible. I've asked if I could tape him telling stories about her so that I'll have some concrete memories to draw on, as I don't remember a single thing about her, but it is beyond his capacity to bring it all out. Occasionally, he'll get expansive and let things go, but at this point I only see him twice a year so the information comes in fits and starts.
As long distance relationships go, my father and I had a pretty good one. And as it turned out, it was something of a blueprint for my relationship with my own son. Just before his second birthday, my troubled marriage finally crumbled and my wife informed me one night when she got home from work that she was moving and I was not. She moved into her new apartment with our son, and I moved back in with my grandparents for three weeks before I made the decision to move to Cincinnati to look for work. The relative stupidity of moving from Michigan, the state with the highest unemployment rate, to Ohio, which had the second highest unemployment rate, was not lost on me, but I didn't want to be impossibly far from my son. I wanted to be a presence in his life.
I found work within a couple of months and went home for my son's second birthday in April. I hadn't seen him since January, but I talked to him constantly, at least as much as you can communicate with a toddler on the phone. He was asleep at my grandparents' house when I rolled into town, and I wound up going out with friends that night, coming home at maybe 3 a.m.
When Josh woke up the next morning, my grandmother went to get him while I waited in the living room. She brought him downstairs and sat across the room with him on her lap. He rubbed his eyes and clung to her, looking at me like I was a stranger. She kept saying, "That's your daddy, that's your daddy," and he kept hiding his face in her neck.
I've never been shot in the chest, but I'm fairly certain I know how it feels.
After the longest four minutes of my life, his face slowly lit with recognition, his eyes brightened, he shouted, "Daddy!" and then climbed off my grandmother's lap and launched himself at me. I can still feel that endless, exuberant hug to this day.
The distance between us was 10 times greater than the 30 miles that separated my me and my father, so my trips were once a month, rather than once a week, but they were regular, and we both came to depend on them. I was determined to remain a father figure, not the once a month sugar daddy who shows up for an anything-goes weekend, and that was clearly the right strategy, given our excellent relationship both then and now.
We had a few bumpy patches along the way, including a stretch when he was 8 where he got a bit bored with the weekend trips; although my feelings were slightly bruised, I cut back to every other month for a couple of months until he realized how much he missed our regular time together. We maintained the monthly schedule until he was a teenager, when he started having an actual life with parties and school events and things he needed to work around. By then, I had my own issues; a full time design job, part time writing gigs and my first shot at being an honest-to-God full-time father with the arrival of my daughter, Isabelle.
Josh was absolutely ecstatic about his new sister (he actually snapped at his mother when she correctly but thoughtlessly used the term "half-sister"), and although their time together was fleeting, he was a doting big brother.
In 1998, Josh left to attend Reed College in Portland, Ore.; given his tenuous relationship with his mother, my favorite joke at the time was that he had gotten as far from her as he could without swimming. We talked by phone quite a lot those first few weeks and kept up a regular email exchange as well. It was one of those messages that forced me to question the state of our own relationship.
It was about two months into his first semester. Josh had emailed me with a rather non-descript account of his days — classes, roommates, school environment — but as I scrolled to the bottom of his message, there was this brief sign-off: "Oh, and there's this guy in one of my classes that I¹m interested in, and I think I might be bi."
It wasn't a complete surprise; Josh had two girlfriends in high school, but both were damaged in fairly significant ways (OK, one was batshit crazy), and I had wondered if maybe he was having trouble with his relationship radar. Turns out he was picking from the wrong gender pool, so it made sense.
The timing of his announcement was odd, though; a good friend had just died unexpectedly at the horrifyingly young age of 36, my boss had informed me that I was in danger of losing my position and my wife had mentioned casually that she wasn't sure if she wanted to be married anymore.
Josh's coming out was the best news I'd had all week.
My problem was with the way he chose to tell me. Not in a phone call where we could talk about what he was going through, and not in an email with an appropriately portentious subject line like, "I have something serious to discuss with you." His rather life-altering news was tacked onto a laundry list of activities like a pork barrel project attached to an unrelated bill.
I was a bit skinned that he had resorted to this kind of subterfuge to enlighten me about his sexuality. And then there was the issue of tentatively identifying himself as "bi." I was sure he had used that terminology in an effort to cushion any potential shock with a switch hitter gambit, giving him a fallback position in case I reacted badly. It reminded me of the episode of Friends when Phoebe lost her singing gig at the coffeeshop and wound up playing to kids at a local library. She started off trying to sing children's songs but she ran out of material quickly and started making up songs about life in general, and in typical Phoebe fashion, the songs were brutally honest, relatively inappropriate and, of course, exactly what kids should probably hear.
The one song that I remembered from that episode had some relevance in this situation: "Sometimes men love women. Sometimes men love men, And then there are bisexuals. Though some just say they're kidding themselves."
I didn't respond to Josh's email, partly because I was slightly hurt and partly because I was busy. The weekend after his message, he called and we talked about fairly innocuous subjects for an inordinate amount of time. I waited for him to broach the subject, because I felt as though he should, but he never brought it up.
He finally noted with a sigh that it was getting late and I knew he was ready to wrap up the call without addressing his news, so I decided it was up to me. Being my father's son, I chose the inappropriately direct method (my particular genetic curse is that I rarely require alcohol to be inappropriately direct and lack a distinct filter to avoid it).
"Oh, by the way," I said casually, "I understand you're sucking cock."
There was an extremely long pause and finally Josh said, "So you did get the message."
I gave him a loving earful about our close relationship and the trust and love and responsibility that came with that bond, and gently upbraided him for the rather cloaked method he had chosen to come out to me.
He stammered in complete agreement, saying, "I was afraid of how you would take it."
"Joshua, there are plenty of things in the world to be afraid of and I am not one of them," I said. "I may not agree with the things you do, but I will always love the boy doing them. In this case, this is who you are. It's not a choice you've made, it's a discovery. It's bloody hard to find love in this world, and you've taken a first step toward finding it for yourself. That's fantastic. My only advice to you is the same, straight or gay; be careful. Sex these days can kill you. Wherever you poke it, wrap it up.
"I just had to bury a friend," I continued. "If you make me bury a son, I swear to God I'll dig you up and kill you again."
He laughed a most relieved laugh and that was that. He was out. He pursued a couple of different relationships with guys at Reed which didn't pan out. After two and a half years, he returned to Michigan to enroll in the forensic psychology program at Michigan State, where he met Sean. They've been together for over 10 years now. We love him like a son-in-law because, even though they can't make it official, that is what he is to us.
These memories and God knows how many more come around each Father's Day, a good many including my grandfather, who was as much, if not more, of a father than my own father. I'll get a wonderfully skewed card from my sons and dinner and a card and something sweet from my wife and daughter. I'll send a funny card and a golf-related book to my dad and call him on Sunday, just before I get a call myself.
Life may be complicated sometimes, and God knows the complexities of family relationships can be like putting together a jigsaw puzzle of the White Album cover, and yet there's a fairly basic — and rewarding and maddening and beautiful — simplicity in being a father and having a father.
Father’s Day is June 16, so make sure you get out there and show Dad (or the Dad-like guy in your life) a good time this weekend. There’s lots going on the next few days: stuff to do with Pops, and plenty to check out on your own once Dad starts talking about how wrecked the government is and how tough he had it when he was a kid (sorry, Dad, but it gets old).
Newport’s Italianfest runs Friday-Sunday on the Levee. Food is obviously a highlight at this annual fest; expect plenty of pizza, pasta, cannoli and gelato from area restaurants. There will also be live music, cooking and eating contests, rides and games and a photo exhibit of Italians that settled in Newport generations ago. Admission is free; go here for hours and more info.
Cincinnati Opera’s summer season kicks off with Mozart’s comic drama, Don Giovanni. The opener’s second showing is Saturday. Read our full Opera season preview here.
Jungle Jim’s is known for being the go-to grocery store for exotic types of meats, fancy cheeses, rare candy and produce from around the world, but it also has an extensive beer selection. Friday and Saturday, Jim’s hosts an International Beer Fest featuring 350 beers from 100 breweries across the globe. Tickets are $40 for Friday, $45 for Saturday, $15 for designated drivers and can be purchased at the store’s beer and wine department while they last (online sales have ended).
The City Flea takes over Washington Park Saturday. Browse furniture, clothing, housewares, accessories and other vintage, antique, local and handmade goodies, plus food from local vendors and food trucks from 10 a.m.- 4 p.m.
Does your father love pork? Of course he does, this is America! Bring Dad to Covington for MainStrasse Village’s “Original” Goettafest Friday-Sunday. Find ample versions of the sausagey Cincinnati stable along with plenty of beer, music, shopping and other festival favorites. Go here for details.
More to look forward to: Peep our Summer Guide, tucked into this week's issue, for all sorts of seasonal goodness to keep you busy all summer long. And be sure to get tickets to next Wednesday's Margarita Madness celebration at Newport on the Levee. Admission is $20 in advance ($25 at the Levee, if there are still tickets available) and includes ample tequila and margarita samples, summery bites from area restaurants and live music and DJs, all from 5:30-9 p.m. June 19. Get tickets and more info here.
Christian Moerlein now boasts a variety of beers and lagers including Moerlein OTR Ale, Moerlein Lager House, Moerlein Barbarossa Double Dark, Moerlein Northern Liberties IPA, Moerlein Seven Hefeweizen, and Moerlein Seasonal Selections. Moerlein beers and lagers are available on tap at a number of local pubs and restaurants and in bottles at retail stores.
The brewery will be open every Friday through Sunday for tours. Tours will begin at the following times: Fridays at 5 and 7 p.m.; Saturdays at 1, 3, 5 and 7 p.m.; Sundays at 1, 3 and 5 p.m. The Christian Moerlein Craft Brewery, Tap Room and Tour Center is located in the Kaufman Pre-Prohibition Brewery Complex, 1621 Moore Street. Ample parking is available in adjacent lots. For more information, visit christianmoerlein.com.
Hopefully, you've heard about CityBeat's first Answers Issue by now, and hopefully, by now you've submitted plentiful golden, glowing and totally insightful questions you want us to answer.
If you haven't, however, there's still time to rack your brain for the most stump-worthy questions about life in Cincinnati so we, CityBeat's faithful editorial staff, can do some sleuthing, drink some Red Bull, make
some calls, read some files, spend a few hours on Google, hit up the
library, talk to some fortune-tellers — whatever we can to get your
Ask us questions about
life in the Queen City you want
answered — that means anything on city politics, arts and culture, food, sports,
neighborhoods, E. coli in the Ohio River, bird law, what an inmate eats for breakfast at the Hamilton County Justice Center, etc. Whatever's on your mind.
You submit your question (check out the Answers Issue page here),
and our dutiful reporting team will pick the ones we like best, divide
them up and bring you back the answers in an issue sourced directly from
you guys. Your questions will be anonymous when we print them.
We could use a lot more questions, you inquiring minds. Here's the question submissions form.
Remember The Greatest Event in Television History, the 15-minute special on Adult Swim in which Jon Hamm and Adam Scott remade the intro to ‘80s detective series Simon & Simon, shot-by-shot? If not, watch the clip here, and stick around after the credits for the original theme song to truly appreciate the attention to detail.
Well, as you’ll hear from impeccable host Jeff Probst in the clip below, he lied to us last year. It wasn’t the greatest event in television history. THIS IS:
That's right, Adam Scott and Amy Poehler (with help from Horatio Sans) recreated the beginning credits to Hart to Hart, another ‘80s detective drama. Here’s the original:
If your significant other suddenly begins behaving differently — working late hours, cancelling plans, hanging out with new people you’ve never met, being secretive — there’s a possibility he or she may be cheating on you. You have two options: confront your loved one with honesty and concern and try to repair your relationship or call Cheaters.
Now in its 13th season, Cheaters really is one of those bottom-of-the-barrel shows.First of all, Spoiler Alert: Yes, they’re cheating on you. No one’s paying a camera crew to document some anticlimactic shit. Secondly, people (myself included) actually watch these public, messy splits as entertainment! Who would sign up for this?
For those classier than I who’ve never seen the show, here’s the gist: Cheaters sends a surveillance crew to investigate a suspicious complaintant’s partner. After a few days of “detective work,” the show’s host brings the evidence to the complaintant and offers them the chance to confront the cheater (generally in a very public and/or embarrassing situation). Of course, they do. Madness ensues.
Cheaters’ longtime host Joey Greco rose to iconic status
when, during the confrontation of a woman’s cheating boyfriend, he was stabbed
in the gut by the fleeing boyfriend. Later evidence suggests the stabbing might
have been staged, but Greco will forever go down in reality TV infamy as the man who would take
a knife to reunite a woman with the man who cheated on her…or something. Sadly,
Greco stepped down as host in 2012, a fact I was not aware of until this
weekend when I caught the show during some late-night channel surfing. It turns
out Grecs has been replaced by a younger host with a certain
junkie dead-eyed je ne sais quoi.