Nightmare on Price HIll: The Real Story of Price Hill Chili

Nightmare on Price Hill: The Real Story of Price Hill Chili

by: Moose Gronholm

In the cold grey fog of this particular Saturday

William Henry Riley woke himself from a most delightful dream.

Firm in his stance and cold in his eyes

He knew that this tasty surprise

Would bring him desire and money from far and wide.

From his living room bay window on Elberon and West Eighth

He would watch the ladies of pleasure stroll about in a most demoralizing state.

They would stroll on his Hill calling for their Johns

The slamming of car doors when they were done would only egg poor William Riley on.

With his restaurant set to open in a few days time

There was one item left that would only cost a dime.

His Price Hill Chili was the name that was penned,

The secret ingredient is where we shall begin.

Through his living room bay window he watched her catch her thrill

The first of many more to come was young Annie McGill.

She was not nearly twenty with her brown hair and curls,

William Herman Riley was ripe with excitement  to hear her deathly shrill.

He sat and watched her for three long days,

Keeping notes in a ledger and filling it page by page.

All the while his disdain for her boiling within

As he peered out the bay window his disdain set off a most cold and evil grin.

He closed his ledger and readied her nightmare

For within his building lay a concrete room to which he would stare.

He readied the torture that befall poor young Annie McGill

And with his grin and plan he became calm and still.

Upon the third day he grabbed his hat and scarf

Recognizing the chill in the air was still pretty sharp.

The dark of the evening had steadily crept in,

And there was young Annie standing on the corner with her back to the wind.

William Riley fixed his cold eyes on young Annie McGill

Like a lion preparing for his next kill.

With patience and methodical precision he watched her every move

To bid his time instead of pouncing to soon.

He stood and watched while leaning on the lamp post

While young Annie caught every John with a toast and a boast.

For pleasure and fun were her two traits,

And William H. Riley could not wait to hear her scream and watch her shake.

She caught her last ride for the evening,

Gave a wink as the steam arose from the sewer cap beneath

William Riley began his walk towards her as the car sped off

Mumbling to himself: there is only one way out Miss Annie and that you will see in a moment's time.

Annie began her walk to her flat

Her feet were tired and she only wanted to relax.

As she walked she could feel someone behind her

But when she turned around the street was bare and she began to stir.

For the black of the evening gave her a frightful chill

She picked up her pace as to not stay still

William Riley was ahead of her peering around the corner

As Annie drew near William dabbed a rag with chloroform.

Within one step, two steps, and on the third the chloroformed rag went over her mouth

With little more than yelp and nor more than a shout.

He draped her over his arm carrying her to his home

William took her around back where the entrance to the basement was set about.

He tied her to the chair that was placed in the middle of the room

Slapped her around to wake her so she could watch her impending doom.

He let her struggle and writhe for he needed to tenderize for his delectable treat.

For two days and nights he held vigil over her seemingly lifeless body.

Annie exhausted from screaming  and struggling.

On the third day and that third day's night

He began to quench his thirst and make a bloody sight.

He tied her hands together then tied her feet

Pulled a chord and she flew from her seat.

Now hanging upside down like a piece of meat,

William Riley made a cut to drain her blood methodically and neat.

As her blood went down the drain

William Riley prepped the other ingredients with no disdain.

As the water came to a boil a cold dark washed over his face,

As he watched her hanging from his basement ceiling leaving not a trace.

William Riley made other preparations as well

He sent out invitations to friends and family from in and around the Hill.

A soft opening was what he was planning for these friends and family,

But mainly to gaze upon their faces as the took that first bite of his tasty chili.

With Annie McGill's blood all drained William Riley began dressing her like a deer,

Removing her innards and separating meat from bone with a delightful cheer.

The next afternoon as his chili began to come together

His friends and family gathered for drinks on a chilly November.

They took a seat in the dining hall of Price Hill Chili

They waited patiently as William served his meals

Then one by one they each were served a bowl of his chili

Then one by one they each smiled delightfully and pleasantly,

And one by one each person commenting quickly

"William Riley you have out done yourself for this is amazing and superbly tasty chili."

And with that he sat back and reveled,

As the questions of what was in it he could not reveal

But he would say with the most eerie of grins

"If I were to tell you, I would have to kill you."

And with that little quip came a roar of laughter from those friends and family

William Herman Riley would become infamously famous.

Nightmares are getting served at the PHC

The CEO is going on murder spree

I heard it was he

Who chopped up a nice family of three

Planted bits and pieces of them in his chili recipe

This was a rhyme he would say to himself as he did his deed.

These are the tasty and delectable treats said he

As he slowly concocted his chili recipe

Pursing his lips salivating and sweating

As that sweet chili slowly was simmering.

Customer followed in as their heads began to spin

From the smell of his chili and so tasty they would be let in.

Line formed around the block to which he saw a ticking of a clock.

He had to run for his newest victim was almost done.

His victim was almost ready for his most tasteful batch of chili

The smell was permeating Glenway

And there were no more customers for the day.

He walked the streets for his next victim

And for his customers to eat

He sat on a bench in a park

While the sun set and it began to get dark.

In the moon lit night

A figure in the distance was out of sight

But as it drew near

He felt that chill that he loved so dear

He took some cover behind a tree

As the figure drew near William Riley strangled her,

One, two, three

The next victim for his most delectable chili

"Price Hill will never see the likes of me"

He so proudly boasted

As he grinned and fired up his broaster....

Justin Payne: The Northwest Ohio Vagabond

Justin Payne: The Northwest Ohio Vagabond

My Favorite Color is Black

My Favorite Color is Black

By: Moose Gronholm

My favorite color is black

Not for the darkness that resides in it

But for the people that bare its color. 

For the jazz that swings when I write

For the speeches by their leaders that move me to tears

For the songs and poetry that reside within it’s body. 

My favorite color is black

For us both bleed the same color red

For us both struggle with our day to day

The only difference is I’m white. 

The only difference is my struggle fails in comparison. 

I can walk to the corner store

I can bike wherever I would like

I can drive with driver side headlight out

I can do all of this without the worry of the “boys in blue.”

My favorite color is black

For how much they give and humbly reside.

For how much they care and their passion within. 

For how much they put up with, and still move forward. 

My favorite color is black

Because my heart and my eyes can no longer take these swells, 

Because my heart lays heavy within my chest when more senseless violence occurs, 

Because my eyes drain their salty liquid that streams down my cheeks and into my beard. 

Because I, 

I cannot begin to understand their day to day. 

As much as it may be like mine;

Wake up 

Go to work

And do it all over again, 

There is still that chance today. 

There is still that chance that somebody will say or do something. 

We are all far from perfect

We are all going to make mistakes, 

But the least we can do is show a shred of compassion. 

The least we can do is apologize for stepping on a toe, 

The least we can do is think before we speak

The least we can do is treat each other as equals. 

My favorite color is black

For no other reason than it just is.

Because your souls beautiful

Because just there are some bad apples

But we aren’t all bad. 

Because your women Nubian goddesses

Inside and out;

Because the passion that resides within you is infectious

Because I am inspired by you.

My favorite color is black 

When everyone else has either blue, green, or purple

But me

Black is bold. 

Black is strong. 

Black is passionate

Black is caring 

Black is sensitive

Black and me while different 

Have similarities too.

Strangest of Things Unseen

 the strangest of things unseen
 blend with the newness that spring brings
And i tap to bottomless beats
Where my sisters and brothers walk streets
The strangest of things take refuge on broken television screens
The strangest of things unseen reside in broke down trash can alleys
May the weak
The meek
The poor
The fat
The skinny
The broke down
Run down rags rise and be seen
Scream with voices unheard and unseen
Where once solitude reigned as king
Bellowing the battle of cry of freedom has captured solitude in a coup de tat.
The strangest of things unseen take hold in words yet read
They fight the things unseen
The strangest unseen things fire off in universes far beyond the way of the Milky
Where wars rage for peace
Where utopian ideals are preached
Where destinies are written in pages by tormenting Gods
Ah the things unseen
Like a Shakespearian comedy you plague our hearts so
Where the knife in the back is as lovely as the kiss on the cheek
For the weak and disbanded gather in mass
For their rightful return to take back what was lost centuries ago
Yes, the things unseen remain to the maybe
That maybe being an eventual return to light
To sound their voice
The strangest of things unseen
Blend with the newness that spring brings
And that is where doors open or close
And that is where the muse rests her tired bones

Juliet & Death

Juliet don't hang your head so low
Where Romeo's flown you soon shall know
The moon's shine is blinding on this night
And try as you might why else shall you fight?
Don't flail in the wind
And don't bellow to the skies
For Romeo's flight has sailed away
Juliet let slip your hands to the end
For where else shall you go now that family disgrace has come to bare?
Juliet, i sit here beside your Romeo
We converse about the love in your hearts
We converse about the fire that resides inside you both
That, upon your tongues you can still taste each other
Upon your skin you can still feel the hairs on his arm
And where shall you go from this place?
Where shall you go in this world of torment and doom?
Your love awaits you
Your Romeo sits beside me basking in the glory that is your fate
Oh Juliet, for your own eyes can see the way
Oh Juliet, take refuge within your heart of hearts
And where your Romeo persists
We shall see you in a moments time
As the wind sighs from the east
You shall be beside your Romeo
For eternal peace

Katie Garringer: A Little Soul Medicine

Katie Garringer: A Little Soul Medicine

By: Moose Gronholm

​Katie Garringer is a songstress who resides in Muncie, IN and comes down to our Queen City to play shows every so often, and is currently getting ready for a big move to the Big Apple. Before the move however she would like to share her latest recordings with us. Six songs worthy of what my ears thought were a sheer pleasure to listen too. She has a voice that can shake and chill you to the bone, and her playing is equally as chilling. Dave Manship from Beltauer Studios in Daleville, IN was the one who recorded the songs and captured the chill and the shake. There are a few pleasantries we must take care of first however before we delve into the songs. 

​Katie started playing music at a young age growing up with a piano in the house and parents that were constantly singing she couldn’t escape it. So at 5 years old she decided to give this whole thing a whirl, but her mom made her wait until she was seven to start lessons. The main reason for making the decision on wanting to play was not for fame or fortune, but for a reason more simple a reason more humble. At family gatherings her grandparent’s, on her mother’s side, would both take turns at playing the piano and the entire family would sing along. Mostly gospel hymns, and Katie wanted to be a part of that, and not just in the singing but to be the one who plays the piano at the family gatherings. As time progressed it was only natural that Katie’s biggest supporters would be become and remain her parents. Her influences run across a broad spectrum as most musicians have them being; Dolly Parton, Ingrid Michaelson, Josh Ritter, and Brandi Carlisle. Her creative influences are: Maya Angelou, Madeleine L’Engle, and Bob Dylan. Through most of the songs whether it be the playing, a lyric, or the way her voice hangs on you can hear these influences melded into a blender and out with them came Ms. Garringer. 

​As mentioned before there are six songs on this ep and each wrap around a feeling whether literal or figurative about love. Two in particular “Bonnie and Clyde” and “Who Do You Think You Are,” are about in her words “I was madly in ‘like’ with someone new” that being “Bonnie and Clyde” and “Who Do You Think You Are” is about the same person post break up. She has always again in her words “loved, ‘love’” but her intention was to write about everything but love, and over the course of a year and half roughly of writing these songs she realized early on that this might not be possible. Again Katie “While all the songs I write are not about love, the majority of the ones on the EP definitely are.” You write what you know, and you write what you feel at the time. Which makes this EP an honest reflection of a life being lived, and where the road has gone and where it may be leading to, and only she knows. Her story however, begins with this EP and she is kicking it off in great fashion. 

​With the EP done she will be returning to the studio to record a second in New York City with a friend of hers that plays cello. She said that a full album will come after EP 2 is finished. With a move to the Big Apple happening over the spring, a Midwest tour, and the EP release party happening in her hometown of Muncie, Indiana a full album has been put on the back burner. She said all of this with exclamations points and the excitement was palpable, even if through email. 

​The last question I asked Katie was what I always like to ask musicians that I talk to and that was why music? Of all things to do why this and her response was pretty damn good so I will let her close this out. Here is her answer: That’s a doozy of a question (with) so many emotions. I’ve always known that the way I communicate best is through writing, and playing music, rather than speaking. I feel like I am the best version of myself when I play music, and the connection that occurs with the folks that listen is palpable, and powerful. I believe that everyone is struggling with something in life, and that music can be an effective remedy, or at least a distraction from what is ailing them. My main motivation in playing music is to positively affect those who are listening and to give them a little soul medicine. While I love to play music for others, I also play and write for myself. I’ve overcome some pretty serious trial in my life by writing about what’s going on, and I can’t imagine being the person I am today if it weren’t for the healing power of music. I can’t imagine doing anything else with my life.

The Crow's Nest

The Crow’s Nest: If You Think It’s Dead in Here Look Across the Street

By: Moose Gronholm

​It was the fall or spring; I cannot remember which one as this period of time is a jumbled mess, of 2006 when I first walked into The Crow’s Nest. Up until this point I had been to many a bar in Chicago, my hometown, but my younger brother had made the move to Cincinnati and found a place with our cousin on Nebraska and Roth courtesy of the west side. Conveniently enough, at the end of the street and on the corner was this bar called The Crow’s Nest. I was in for the weekend visiting, and I know we went up there later in the evening and I am sure there was probably somebody playing some music. But what I remember most and what has stuck with me after these ten years is the vibe it gave off. 

​Maybe there is something in the water out on the west side that makes this place feel like home? Maybe it is because the west side is like a small town where everyone knows everyone and that can be both good and bad at times. Maybe it is just the sheer fact that these people, these friends, that have been coming to The Nest far longer than me mind you, are some damn good people. I was not obviously alive in 1896 when it opened, but I am going to take an artistic liberty and assume that nothing much has changed in the vein of it being a neighborhood bar; the road out front and the scenery inside have probably undergone the most change. But, The Nest for me at least has always seemed to have this neighborhood vibe to it. Everyone knows each other in some form or another, and that has carried on and I would venture a guess and say probably since it has opened as well. 

​The Crow’s Nest opened up in 1896 and was owned and operated by John Crowe. In 1921 though things changed even the name which from 1896 to 1921 it was called John Crowe’s Roadhouse, and after the change of ownership The Crow’s Nest (which is a naval term for where the lookout would sit. It was kind of like a wood basket that was connected to the main mast of the ship. The lookout would sit there and holler out instructions, obstacles, or land ahead) was changed to and has held onto that name ever since. There have been changes of ownership over The Nest’s long life, but the building has remained and since 1921 so has the name. The name suits the place when you think of the literal definition of a “crow’s nest.” The building sits on the corner of West 8th and Nebraska, and seemingly keeps watch on the west siders coming home or going to work or school. Along with that it also keeps watch over the dead. Yes, you fair reader read that right that was not a typo. See across the street sits St Joseph Cemetery, and when I say across the street that is exactly what I mean. 

​One could say The Nest looks over the dead, and you would not be wrong as the building again is right across the street from the cemetery. But sometimes those lines blur, and the dead make their way into the bar. There is an array of differentstories from the staff pertaining to these occurrences. Things placed where they shouldn’t be while a cooler door closes, and I’ve heard bartenders speak of a strange vibe when going into the basement. I personally have stayed late with one of the bartenders because the night per the “spirit” had just been too strange to bear for this bartender. There is even a sign that is sort of a joke about the bar that reads: If you think it’s dead in here look across the street. 

​While across the street may lay the un-living inside of this building the energy is palpable and intensely alive. The Crow’s Nest has become a place where music thrives and all levels of talent are welcomed, and I personally have witnessed bands form, and bands get their start here. Everyone from Ben Knight to The Tillers. Due to the fact that currently every Tuesday night the Open Mic hosted by Sean Geil of those Tillers, has brought out some amazing musician’s the caliber of talent that graces the open mic nights has been impressive at best. The open mic dates back to at least 2006, when a fella by the name of Captain Mike used to run it. Even then, the caliber was still amazing. Possibly due to the fact of who was bartending Adam O’Neil and Matthew Wabnitz started bringing up their friends. From that moment onward it has changed. These are just my opinions, because this is what I remember as I have been coming up here since 2006. In all honesty, nothing much has changed. Other than friends getting married, friends having kids, or both, and friends moving on but remains is The Crow’s Nest, the beacon of the west side. 

The building has become a second home for me. I have met and made friends with some amazing people all due to the music and The Crow’s Nest. I am in the band that I am in because of The Crow’s Nest. I have ten year friendships with two of the bartenders because of The Crow’s Nest, and 7, 6,5, or 4 year friendships because of The Nest, and why? Strictly because of the music that has passed through the doors, and the water that resides on the west side. 

The Crow’s Nest sits at 4544 West 8th Street, Cincinnati, OH 45238. It is the tallest building on the street, and like any Irish bar is welcoming to anyone that simply would like to have a good time with some good people. There are no grand words to close this out. No big ideas or overly dramatic sentences to describe The Crow’s Nest, no, you fair reader simply need to come out and experience it for yourself. And when you do, if you think it’s dead in there, well, look across the street