Welcome to the Hotel Cincinnati

Many years ago when I was busy partying my way out of law school, I tended bar in a really cool music venue called “Bogart’s” in a really cool neighborhood just off the University of Cincinnati campus. I met many good friends there and had many fun and scandalous adventures in the process. Some of those friends I cherish to this day; one of those friends was my Best Man.

When I first met Best Man he was a top seed amateur barfly (I think he considered going professional for a while) who frequented a small dive across Vine Street from Bogart’s. Another bartender who worked part time at Bogart’s and part time at the dive (I’ll call him Bear) introduced me to Best Man, who in turn immediately invited both of us to a party at The Hotel.

The Hotel was really nothing more than a quiet townhouse on a dead end street in the Western Hills neighborhood of Cincinnati. On the outside it was an unassuming clapboard house, but on the inside it was party central. Best Man has a talent for construction and he had converted the home by tearing out part of the floor of the attic and created a loft master bed room with a balcony overflowing with hanging vines and overlooking the second floor living/party room with a vaulted ceiling. Just below the balcony was a built in glass cabinet with a state of the art sound system and home theater system. Opposite the entertainment cabinet a wicker chair swung from a chain suspended from the ceiling next to which a squatting stone gargoyle stood guard (Best Man was kind enough to give me the gargoyle when the Hotel finally closed; it’s nearly three feet tall). Two narrow passages on either side of the entertainment cabinet led to a saloon room featuring a wet bar and built in refrigerated beer tap. Above the bar a neon sign announced, “Live Music Nightly”. Situated in a corner opposite of the bar was an antique barber’s chair (which in time became a Hotel legend in its own right). To the right of the living room was a set of French doors which opened into a music studio equipped with several electric and acoustic guitars, a drum set, keyboard, tambourines, microphones, and speakers, everything needed for an impromptu musical performance. Best Man had even converted an adjacent closet into a sound booth with a multi-channel sound board and recording equipment.

But wait, there’s more. Across the hall from the door to the music studio a wooden door with a stained glass window featuring a beach scene (complete with palm tree) led out to a second floor covered deck with its own marble top bar. All the rooms were amply decorated with tasteful art and curious knick-knacks to stimulate the amusement and conversation of guests.

The Hotel reflected two of Best Man’s most compelling interests: live music and living sociably. Over the years I spent many a night listening to an impromptu concert or celebrating late into the night and into the next day (or maybe even the day after that). I have more Hotel stories than I could possibly relate in a single blog. Our little group of friends gathered at the Hotel before concerts; to watch football games and election results; to get married (I served as Best Man’s Best Man in an outdoor wedding in the garden below the deck), and once or twice even for a wake. We partied at the Hotel before, and after the notorious Riverfest year after year after year; and the night I got engaged my new fiancé and I celebrated New Years at the Hotel.

Which brings me to the point of this particular story; the special annual traditional New Year’s Eve party at the Hotel. Each year guests would assemble at the Hotel for a live concert and social lubrication. As a former sailor in the United States Navy, Best Man considered it a patriotic duty to celebrate the New Year as it arrived at each time zone across the continental United States, so these parties always lasted until well past dawn. On this particular year, Best Man decided to enhance the celebration by making it a pajama party. Everyone arrived wearing their customary nightclothes with the exception of one guest. Triumph John was a motorcycle enthusiast with a quiet demeanor and dry sense of humor. Triumph John was not the type to arrive at a party on the back of the expensive Triumph motorcycle he rebuilt wearing anything less than a full set of leathers. But on this occasion, in addition to the really cool bike he brought an interesting piece of equipment for the entertainment of the other guests: a homemade carbide cannon.

Calcium carbide is a chemical that appears much like the grey limestone gravel one sees paving driveways and country roads; except that this gravel gives off acetylene gas whenever water is added to it (acetylene is used to fire up cutting torches). In bygone days miners once used this technology for their headlamps, but John had devised a means to use it to power a small artillery piece. The cannon consisted of a galvanized steel plumbing pipe about three feet long with an interior diameter about the size of a tennis ball. The base consisted of a steel cap large enough so that the pipe would fit snugly inside. On the side of the pipe John had welded a flint and steel striker from a Zippo lighter next to a port in the side of the pipe. Firing the cannon involved filling the base cap with a cup or so of water, and inserting a tennis ball into the bore of the pipe. A few calcium carbide pellets were dropped into the water, and then the pipe set inside the base thus sealing in the accumulating acetylene gas. After a few moments, the pipe was lifted above the rim of the cup just enough to allow a fresh supply of oxygen into the tube, then the pipe is reset and the Zippo striker struck. The resulting explosion is channeled by the steel pipe and propels the tennis ball into a suborbital apogee. Nothing says party like a thunderous bang and a flash of fire.

Now remember how Best Man had a fondness for celebrating the New Year at the top of each hour until 4:00 in the morning? As the midnight hour approached in the Eastern Time Zone all the party guests poured out of the stain glass door and assembled (in their pajamas) on the deck and in the yard while Triumph John quietly and calmly prepared the cannon for firing. I stationed myself by the bar and admired a lady nearby wearing a baby doll nightie. She was Bear’s girlfriend and our job was to retrieve the tennis ball upon reentry (if there was anything left of it). The countdown commenced amid a terrific din of hysterical laughter and shouts; FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE!...then nothing. The gun misfired. John patiently manipulated his equipment briefly and produced a disposable lighter then BOOM! Fire shot out three feet from the muzzle of the cannon, and all the neighbors windows shook violently and dangerously. The back yard soon filled with screaming laughing party guests scampering about in their pajamas searching for the tennis ball before firing another shot, and then another.

This scene repeated itself all night long at one hour intervals. I think we even fired a shot at sunrise just for good measure. It’s a wonder no one called the police.