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The Ridiculously Random Motorcycle Tour has one rule. No capes! I mean, no highways!
A rule I broke blasting from Cincinnati to mid-Ohio to party with Jack Baruth (above). Do you have any idea how great a sacrifice that required?
Not only did I lose backroad bragging rights (after 8354 miles and counting), the four-hour journey was only slightly less boring than Elon Musk's tunnel construction company (2.4 miles and no longer counting).
But not as boring as…
Comedians who base their stand-up routine on the fact that they're not funny aren't funny.
Unless they're “funny peculiar” in an uncomfortably awkward Andy Kaufman "here I come to save the day" kinda way.
Aside from Ms. Przy’s unexplored need to ask Vanna White for a vowel, last night’s performance at Indianapolis’ Helium Comedy Club was standard-issue PC self-effacement.
An act that literally demanded empathy and, in this case, a $27 cover charge and two-drink minimum.
I consumed a bit more than two Casamigos in Helium's casa sin amigos.
During the Q&A part of the program, I was about to ask the “are you happier being obese than you were when you were anorexic?" Just for laughs.
And then Ms. Przy's announced her "season of saying yes" included appearing at the DNC convention. The audience cheered!
Only it sounded more than a little like an angry mob baying for blood.
Making me thankful the security guard accepted the word "keys" when he wanded my pocket-carried Ruger LCP.
Flash back to the Baruth compound in mid-Ohio...
Whether it's stand-up comedy or visiting with someone you haven't see in years, expectations frame experience.
From the moment I arrived at the Baruth estate and bear-hugged the writer, race driver, guitarist, programmer and [retired] ladies man, I expected a Hunter S. Thompson-esque bacchanalia.
Yeah, no.
The formerly hard-drinking Truth About Cars alum no longer imbibes (something to do with vertigo). The TTAC founder turned Wandering Jew arriving at his doorstep does not drink alone.
So we set up a couple of lawn chairs, lit up a couple of My Father’s cigars and schmoozed – until Jack’s phone rang.
He left his stogie in search of privacy. Leaving me to contemplate Jack’s nature and the nature of our relationship.
Mentor This!
Mr. Baruth introduced me to his son as his “mentor.” The correct word is “enabler.”
All I did back in the day: give Jack free rein to tell the truth about an industry that makes my home state’s corruption seem like high school politics. Which it pretty much is, with the notable addition of financial bribery.
I was a beneficent Salieri to Jack's Mozart. A man who happened to be at the right place at the right time to help the right writer be all that he could be (not to coin a phrase).
Jack’s a monster on the track, a killer guitarist and a paid IT manager. But I reckon his racing victories, musical talent and IT expertise will never approach the timeless excellence of his endlessly entertaining take-no-prisoners long-form prose.
Big Jack Attack
Before Jack's Judge was even half-immolated, we decamped to his monster 300C to ferry his teenage sprog to his mother's distant domicile.
The roads through mid-Ohio's fertile farmlands threw a few curves at us. None of which inspired Jack to flex his legendary lead foot. I was beginning to think my host was determined to make my visit as uneventful as possible.
Breaking bread at a local eaterie, removing an errant twist ‘em buried in my burger, I listened to Jack sing Danger Girl's praises, chronicle the genesis of his mid-Ohio idyll and eviscerate various people and organizations (who shall remain nameless).
I sensed an underlying restlessness to his sometimes ribald regaling. So I pushed Jack on the source of this underlying disquiet. Turns out we shared a “challenging” childhood..
“I deal with confrontation head-on,” he admitted.
"No shit?"
Jack’s smile lit up the room. Save the face of the tatted biker who pimp-rolled into the restaurant wearing a T-shirt advertising his willingness to engage in socially acceptable homicide (e.g., “Kill Child Molesters”).
“I could take him,” Jack half-joked.
Later that evening…
Returning from an alcohol-free visit to Outback, Danger Girl (not shown) unleashed a cataclysm of house cats from their prison cell.
As a feline tsunami washed over Jack, I watched love quieten his restless mind. I saw a side of my take-no-prisoners colleague I’d never seen before. Because I wasn’t looking for it.
When I declared my intention to retire to the icebox the Baruth clan call the guest bedroom, Jack insisted we end our visit with a wee dram (my words).
The Lord of the Manor extricated an unopened bottle of 15-year-old MacCallum, untouched for an additional ten years.
Here we go! We’ll damage the good stuff, then return to his music room to jam and laugh at the windmills at which we tilted in days gone by.
Shot glasses? Wait. What?
Jack knocked back his blended whiskey. I sipped mine for a full 15 seconds and… that was it. Save a hearty handshake and an early morning text reminding me to exit via the mud room to prevent escaping cats.
The Importance of Being Jack
My crack-of-dawn countryside ride down arrow-straight backroads to Indianapolis provided the space and time I needed to process my visit chez Baruth.
Jack may no longer wear his aggression on his sleeve or unleash it via alcohol and other controlled substances, but he's still Johnny in The Wild One. When asked what he’s rebelling against, Brando-as-Johnny replied “What you got?”
God knows there’s plenty of people strutting around inside that venal Venn diagram cruisin' for a bruisin'. But the Jack I saw in mid-Ohio had at least one foot outside that target-rich environment.
At 52, the hugely talented writer is struggling to strike a balance between ambition/aggression and stability/peace.
What 65-year-old Wandering Jew can't relate?
Meanwhile, Ms. Przy's Instagram has some advice for her 549k followers and two like-minded truth tellers.
"Taking a load off doesn't make you less valuable."
Neither does time spent with Jack Baruth. Quite the opposite.
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Glad you got to visit with Jack and great write up. Jack is looking no worse for ware in it has been three years sense our paths have crossed. Hope he gave you a tour of his shed/garage that the Amish built. We keep waiting for an all hands meeting of the ACF community at Chatau Baruth but so far it has not been scheduled.
Nice to see Jack in his native habitat. Wish I could have been there.
Sorry you had to ride the highway for four hours.
Love the allusion to Salieri. I like to tell people that my Civic (stick) may not be Mozart. But it IS Salieri to the Boxster's Mozart.
And two of my best former editors in one place.
Whether it's cats or dogs, domestic quadrupeds sooth and smooth their H. sapiens.
Not gonna lie, that Jack story was a massive letdown. It also cements the respect that I have for man. There's a balance to be struck between raging at the dying of the light, and finding satisfaction in what you have. I've really enjoyed his writing as the pull towards the latter gets stronger.