Category: Art (page 1 of 2)

October 29, 2020

Monster Mashup

Originally published in COLUMBUS ALIVE

Ask any band what frightens them most at the moment and it’s probably the prospect of empty stages with no end in sight. It even scares the members of Mummula, whose spooky shtick should be selling out gigs right now instead of lingering in the shadows.

“With all the uncertainty with the virus, it became a question beyond whether venues were going to be open and more about if they would be safe for the people we care about,” confessed Eric von Goosebump. “We don’t want to have our fans, friends, and family come see us and then get sick. I think we collectively decided let’s just play it safe and kind of tap out for a while.”

With all the grit of a garage band, the members of Mummula perform horror-inspired hits and credible covers dressed in matching black capes and bandaged heads. Loyal fans are already in on the gag, but the uninitiated are often left wondering whether these four guys are for real or just a ghoulish gimmick intended to hide a bunch of retro rock wannabes.

“People are genuinely surprised when they listen to us because we do a really nice punk show, but we have some garage rock elements in there as well as the surf instrumentals which really resonate when it all comes together,” explained Mark Hovthevampyre. “It’s like a full-package, variety, Scooby-Doo kind of show singing about monsters and aliens.”

Mummula is very real, and any doubts are settled as soon as they take the stage, hitting predictable power chords at a break-neck beat with catchy tunes like “My Baby’s Turnin’ into a Wolfman” and “Ed Wouldn’t”. Every song is unexpected, with members trading traditional instruments and vocals, and the occasional cameo from a keytar or kazoo. They even have their own fan club cleverly called The Wrap, keeping their growing legion of followers hip to their happenings throughout the Midwest, even as the pandemic persists.

From traditional club gigs to tiny charity performances, Mummula defies description or easy categorization. They’re surf meets snark, punk meets parody — as if Dick Dale founded Devo, or Joey Ramone and Weird Al conspired to create the genetic lovechild of Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi.

Sadly, several annual events were cancelled or delayed indefinitely this year, like the local Fraternal Order of Moai’s Hula Hop and Point Pleasant, West Virginia’s Mothman Festival. In fact, Mummula’s last show before everything wound down was the Horror Prom at Spacebar, a Valentine’s Day “paranormal formal” for ghoulishly attired couples. It was an unintentionally ominous milestone just as the thin line between dark fantasy and harsh reality was about to blur.

As if their signature swag and pseudonyms don’t give it away, there’s obviously some deft design and branding expertise among the members, more than a subtle hint to their day gigs. Like most bands, moving music and merchandise online instead of at shows has become the standard, but they’re also spreading some goodwill as the chill of fall settles over Ohio. The band launched Mummula face masks earlier this year with all proceeds going to the United Way Worldwide’s COVID-19 Community Response and Recovery Fund, and an upcoming release to benefit the Movember Foundation next month builds on a prior EP to raise funds for the men’s health initiative.

“One gig that stands out for me was when we played HorrorHound Weekend several years ago. The crowd was huge. That was probably our biggest show so far, so it was kind of terrifying,” recalled El Santos. “But we were in our element, connecting with a bunch of horror fans, and we got to end the day with a lot of bigger bands in the horror punk scene.”

There is indeed a “horror punk scene”, but hardly obscure or recent. Though Mummula’s origin technically grew out a running monster mashup gag among the founding members during a road trip to a horror convention, the story actually goes back to the late 80s. The Canadian band Forbidden Dimension so captured their imagination, when Mummula eventually released their debut album in 2016, they asked the lead singer (and fellow graphic designer) to create the cover. The relationship came full circle when both groups shared the same stage in Nashville, illustrating the unique genre’s ability to connect fans and bands despite the distance and decades between them.

“Mummula hits all of these different communities — people who love surf, people who love punk, people who love monsters,” noted Kevbot 2. “I think that’s the thing I miss most, when you go to a show and you play for someone who hasn’t seen Mummula and they dig it, they’re surprised, and it completely makes their night.” ▩

For more on Mummula, visit them on Facebook and Bandcamp.

October 21, 2020

Hammer Time

Originally published in COLUMBUS ALIVE

Whether mending a hem or making your own pizza, the pandemic has pushed many to hone practical skills at home, often at an accelerated pace. Remember how quickly folks went from baking sourdough to brewing their own beer?

But there are still some skills you can’t learn on Youtube, those that require a steady hand that only comes with experience, especially with arts quickly fading away amid advancing technology. So if blacksmithing is on your bucket list, Adlai Stein is your mentor for all things metal.

“I used to go to the Met in New York with my grandfather and look at the arms and armor. I loved history, but was also fascinated by Tolkien and tales of King Arthur,” Stein recalled. “That sense of adventure was always in my head, and I joined a medieval reenactment group called the Society for Creative Anachronism. That’s what got me started in blacksmithing, and I’ve been doing it ever since.”

The artistry of ancient weapons that captivated him as a child inspired the hobby that eventually overtook his occupation as a paralegal. Despite taking off his tie for the last time and picking up a hammer, it still took Stein years beforehand to master the tools and techniques to become a full-time blacksmith.

Classes at the Idea Foundry in Franklinton soon outgrew the space, so Stein relocated his studio, Macabee Metals, to a larger shop off of Central Avenue and started the Central Ohio School of Metalwork. In addition to private lessons, workshops have opened to door to those whose interest may be tempered by apprehension. From sand casting to railroad spike knives, everyone leaves with skills and an individual experience you won’t find elsewhere — and a finished memento forged with their own hands.

“The maker movement has really changed the perception of products that are made by hand, and the people who make them,” he noted. “Things that used to be viewed as inferior unless they were mass-produced are now in demand. People want to know how things are made, and who makes them.”

Blacksmithing was already enjoying a bit of renaissance even before the COVID crisis. The History Channel series Forged in Fire has emerged from cable television curiosity to become a top-rated show entering its eighth season. Stein competed himself in the third season, and later helped prepare another local contestant for the unforeseen challenges of the competition. He’s also been a featured speaker at TEDxColumbus, sharing his journey from artist to educator.

“Blacksmiths are such a tight-knit community of people, we’ll really don’t compete against one another. We’re all doing our own thing,” Stein explained. “You may go to a knife show where you know everyone there making handmade knives, but they’re all unique. It’s kind of like going to the Arnold [Sports Festival]. You don’t get mad because someone enjoys the same thing you do. It’s a chance to learn from one another.”

When you’re swinging a hammer and moving hot metal from a forge to an anvil, social distancing is second nature instead of an afterthought. Slowly shaping an abstract slab of steel into a purposeful profile, quenching the blade, then grinding and polishing it to a refined finish takes about four hours. But much like Forged in Fire, it’s time that goes by faster than you think. Beneath the controlled chaos there’s a sense of Zen to the entire process, equal parts art and science. What may have started as a one-time indulgence might just become your new favorite past-time.

Though Stein admits the perception of blacksmithing, somewhat perpetuated by the show, is “40-year-old white guys with beards”, interest doesn’t fit a predictable mold any more than two knives turn out exactly the same. Exhibitions at events like Summer Jam West cast a wide net, and his students for private and group classes have leaned decidedly younger and more diverse over time, some of whom are considering becoming blacksmiths themselves someday.

“I have 16-year-old girls who come in and kick ass, and 40-year-old men who get tired and walk out. Some people think it’s all about strength, when it’s really about accuracy and patience,” revealed Stein. “It takes someone who is fearless to be able to look at 1800 degrees of metal to say, ‘I going to move this with a hammer.’ It’s a different kind of strength, the strength of character.” ▩

For more on the Central Ohio School of Metalwork, including upcoming workshops, visit cosommetalwork.com

January 1, 2020

Boneville and Beyond

Originally published in the January 2020 issue of (614) Magazine

Being at the right place at the right time is rare in any industry. Jeff Smith is the exception several times over.

An affable ambassador and native son of Columbus, Smith’s infatuation with illustration and storytelling emerged early and in equal measure, creating his first characters when he was five which evolved into complete comics by the time he was 10. The Columbus College of Art & Design helped hone his craft, and the prototype for his acclaimed series BONE appeared in Ohio State’s student newspaper The Lantern at length. Just as independent comics were breaking into the mainstream, the self-published creator became both a folk hero and a rock star of the emerging scene, inspiring artists and earning industry accolades, including ten Eisners, essentially the comic world’s equivalent of the Academy Awards.

But there were also some setbacks just now being set right. A failed Nickelodeon effort to adapt BONE for television in the ‘90s, followed by a similarly stalled big-screen project by Warner Brothers, ironically paralleled the saga of Smith’s cartoon characters navigating a foreign landscape in an unforgiving world. But Smith took all of it in stride, and bided his time. This past October, Netflix announced the long-awaited animated series fans new and old had been long-denied, a project that just as easily may not have happened. Much like Smith’s history of impeccable timing, he seems to have arrived again at just the right moment in popular culture.

“I made a deal with Warner Brothers a decade ago, and they hadn’t done anything with it. They optioned it for two years, but I wasn’t particularly happy with the direction it was taking and didn’t want to renew. Then they purchased it outright and told me to sit on the sidelines,” Smith recalled. “But it was in the contract that if they didn’t make a movie within ten years, then the rights reverted back to me. So I had to wait. It was such an unpleasant experience, I decided I didn’t want to sell it again. But word got out and I started getting calls from streaming services and Netflix was the best match. That’s how it happened.”

Motion picture and television rights are esoteric legal devices that often give studios and networks the “option” to turn a story into a film or series within a given span of time. They come with lots of conditions and fine print typically serving those purchasing them, but occasionally those selling them. It’s a way to buy time, but also ensure projects don’t stay idle indefinitely.

“BONE was really an early mashup, before that term existed, of comedy and swords and sorcery. It was Bugs Bunny meets Lord of the Rings. I think it’s got to be the comedy and the combination of characters that made it popular,” Smith said, speculating on the mystery behind the series’ somewhat unexpected success, even internationally. “BONE is published all over the world. It’s still weird to pick up one of my stories and see the characters speaking French. If I knew the secret, I’d do it again.”

A decade ago, Netflix was mostly dropping DVDs in the mail and was producing zero original content. A year later marked the premiere of AMC’s The Walking Dead, a television adaptation that was so dicey at the time, they only gave the first season six episodes. Now Netflix accounts for more than half of all internet traffic in the U.S. on Sunday night, and The Walking Dead draws more viewers than all Sunday NFL games combined.

“The real problem we had with Warner Brothers was making a 1,500-page book into an hour and a half movie. It couldn’t be done, so it didn’t get done,” he said. “But a streaming animated show was perfect; it’s just like the comic book. It’s serialized and can progress chapter by chapter. It was the right time, and the right company.”

Netflix isn’t the only streaming service clamouring for content, and it’s easy to forget House of Cards, their first original series, only premiered in 2013. With Amazon Prime and Hulu well-established, and Disney and Apple both investing heavily in production for their own freshly-minted subscription services, Smith again seemed to capture the right moment to reach the right audience, all while maintaining the artistic integrity of BONE.

“We’re still looking for showrunners. If everything goes well, we’re hoping to have shows in the fall of 2022. I’ll be a creator on the show and an executive producer, but it’s really just one more project,” Smith noted. “I still want to draw comics. I don’t need to be out there the whole time. Once the show is up and running, I can work here.”

As if BONE alone weren’t a sufficient source of inspiration for veteran and aspiring comic artists, Smith is also a founder and the artistic director of Cartoon Crossroads Columbus (CXC), an annual, and increasingly international, celebration of the city’s commitment to illustrated storytellers across every genre and format. But even before CXC, Columbus was arguably already a comic town. From esteemed exhibitions at the Columbus Museum of Art and the Wexner Center to nationally renowned institutions like the Billy Ireland Cartoon Library & Museum and Thurber House, our city has always recognized comics as art worth appreciating as much as any medium of creative expression.

“The idea behind CXC was that it would be more like a European show and not be all in one room at a convention center or hotel. It would be at different venues throughout the city. But it would also be a show that was more collegial, that would nurture comic creators and encourage connections,” he explained. “When I grew up here, there were neighborhoods in Columbus where you wouldn’t go at night. Now we’re a chef-driven town with galleries everywhere. We’re a cultural crossroads. It’s why we wanted to have events all over town, to showcase the city. And it’s working. People will go to an exhibit at the Columbus Museum of Art, then go to an event at OSU and stop in the Short North along the way, grab a bite to eat and talk about comics.”

Even as he prepares for the production of BONE the streaming series and the sixth year of CXC, Smith sees the similarities in both projects and the role he plays—getting the right balance of characters working toward the same goal and creating a story that compels audiences to return.
“You have to start each with a recap, so everyone knows the story so far. Tell your new episode, then end it with a cliffhanger,” Smith explained. “That’s the secret to any serial, whether it’s a comic, a television show, or a convention. You have to give people a reason to come back for more.”

To learn more about BONE and Smith’s other work, visit boneville.com b

September 1, 2019

Renovation Meets Preservation

Originally published in the September 2019 issue of (614) Magazine

Neighborhoods are defined by more than just houses and their history. But aging architecture often creates community as homeowners share struggles and success, collectively trying to preserve the past and embrace the future.

Few Columbus enclaves are as eclectic or iconic as the Short North. Flanking an ever-evolving commercial corridor and heart of the local arts scene for decades are two distinct neighbors that seek the perfect balance between renovation and innovation —Victorian Village and Italian Village. Celebrating this convergence is the Short North Tour of Homes & Gardens, an annual affair now marking its 45th year. Most tours of this type tend to favor early summer to beat the heat and ensure everything is in full bloom. But the neighborhood that’s never afraid to start a new trend showcases their homes in early fall instead, offering a slightly different lens on faithful restoration that combines classic and contemporary.

Décor is a reflection of personality, but design often requires additional instincts and insights. Architecture isn’t for amateurs. That’s when Steven Hurtt gets involved. The principle partner of Urban Order happens to have had a hand in half of the homes on this year’s tour.

“The first step in the process is to ask clients what they’re looking for—like a larger kitchen or a mud room—amenities that don’t exist in these older homes,” Hurtt explained. “We live differently now than when many of these homes were built.”

Much of American history and popular cultural is chronicled through hints found in home design. From ordinary to ornate, simple to sophisticated, the bones of any house offer clues to changing dynamics and demographics. Living spaces were formal or informal with little overlap. The average family size increased and decreased over time. Kitchens were for cooking, not eating. Hardly anyone had a closet, much less one you could walk in.

“Our clients want the charm of an older home, but they also want a larger bathroom or a master suite,” he noted. “How do you reconfigure existing space or add on to accommodate more modern living?”

Consistency is frequently the demarcation from one neighborhood to the next. Even empty lots that are occupied decades after adjacent homes were built tend adhere to the architectural elements of the era. But the Short North has always blurred the line of old and new, and the Tour of Homes & Gardens attempts to capture that range of styles found in the streets that surrounding it. The mix of homes on this year’s tour is no exception, a snapshot of the Short North itself.

“One of the homes on the tour, by adding just a little one-story piece, we were able to create a back porch, a powder room, and a rear entrance with a mud room,” Hurtt explained. “That gets all of those things out of space of the existing house so we could make a bigger kitchen.”

A living level laundry hardly seem like a luxury request, but running power and plumbing to an unused alcove isn’t always uneventful. Renovations may require removing layers of earlier modifications that lacked necessary foresight just to get down to a clean slate. Some early architectural elements seem like anachronisms, but may still serve a more modern purpose. Hurtt conceded eliminating a butler’s pantry is often the best option to expand an existing kitchen into a more spacious entertaining area. But he has also introduced them into new kitchens as prep or clean up space for those who prefer to reserve the kitchen proper for guests without the obvious mess.

Additional homes on the tour Urban Order helped to improve include a warehouse conversion to an open floor plan, two extensive interior reconfigurations within the existing footprint, and a new build for a couple who has lived in the neighborhood for years and loved it so much they couldn’t imagine moving to start construction anywhere else.

“Reconfiguring existing space only goes so far,” he admitted. “We do a lot of additions, and work with the Victorian Village Commission and the Italian Village Commission to maintain the integrity of the existing architecture. Any alterations need to be sensitive to that.”

Preservation isn’t just practical; it has to be integral. Not all neighborhoods have such restrictions, but those that do tend to hold their value. Even if it adds to the cost or complexity, these efforts to preserve what would otherwise be easily lost pay off when homes sell, or in hindsight as homeowners appreciate the extra effort once the project is complete. The dramatic contrast between Queen Anne and quaint cottage also highlights the extremes found within just a few blocks and perhaps offsets the less tempered pace of change along High Street, a retail upheaval many long-time residents fear is increasingly pushing local businesses out.

“We’ve been doing this for so long, we can anticipate the kind of response we’re likely to get from the architectural review. It might not make sense to move every wall,” Hurtt revealed. “We have clients who come to us with ideas that may prove problematic, but we can offer options they may not have considered to achieve the same goals while still respecting the charm of their homes and the character of the neighborhood.” ▩

The Short North Tour of Homes & Gardens is September 15. For details, visit shortnorthcivic.org/home-tour

August 1, 2019

Inside the Moai

Originally published in the August 2019 issue of (614) Magazine

The unexpected closing of the Grass Skirt Tiki Room later this month isn’t the first time local tiki fans have been broken-hearted.

When the Kahiki sadly shuttered its doors nearly two decades ago, it wasn’t just the end of an era in Columbus. It was the largest restaurant of its kind in the country, and nothing matching its quirky architectural grandeur has been seen since.

Faithful fans still seek coveted collectables, scouring thrift stores and flea markets for rare finds. But there’s also a secret sect of tiki enthusiasts hiding in plain sight, quietly curating vintage kitsch while anonymously funding worthy causes from coast to coast. They call themselves the Fraternal Order of Moai and even their members remain a mystery.

“When the Kahiki finally closed, many of us were in shock that it was actually gone. But for me, something kind of snapped,” confessed Matt “Kuku Ahu” Thatcher, one of the founders of the obscure order who prefers to go by his Moai moniker. “People wanted to hold onto a piece of the Kahiki by building their own basement tiki bars. But there were three of us who were less interested in finding the artifacts than the people who shared this same strange obsession.”

Nostalgia often comes at a premium price. One of those old Kahiki menus on eBay will set you back more than any entrée did back in the day, and a matchbook might cost you more than a carton of smokes. Even a ceramic tiki tumbler is more expensive than any drink it ever held. For committed collectors, these aren’t just treasures and trinkets. They’re art from a bygone age.

“We thought there might be a dozen of us, enough to get together for backyard luaus,” he chided. “I joked that maybe we should make it a real club with fezzes, like the Shriners. It sounded crazy, but the idea stuck.”

Before Facebook, there wasn’t a turnkey solution to easily locate a group of like-minded strangers. It was an internet scavenger hunt for people who didn’t know they were lost. So Ahu created an online forum and invited a few fellow fanatics, hoping to pull together enough folks to preserve the past before it faded away.

“We didn’t expect so many to immediately gravitate to the group. We set out to create something local, but we started getting interest from Dayton — then Wisconsin,” Ahu recalled. “There were already several online tiki forums. But we weren’t trying to become another group of experts, though we are a bunch of hardcore tiki aficionados. Our goal was always to build an order.”

The Fraternal Order of Moai is organized much like independent islands scattered across the vast Pacific, each with unique customs and rituals rooted in a common ancient culture. Individual groups each choose a cause or charity at the local level, but the Moai still operate as a self-described “pirate democracy” with elections and major decisions all coming down to a vote among the entire membership.

What seemed silly at the time has become something of a movement with ten chapters nationwide and at-large members worldwide. Some chapters were started by folks with Columbus ties. Others emerged independently, inspired by the capital city’s quiet tiki revival.

“Our group is secretive and selective, but our events are open to everyone,” Ahu explained. “People who come regularly, regardless of whether they’re members or not, become family we look forward to seeing just as much as we do each other.”

Their enigmatic membership is more than a secret handshake. “Tourist” is the tongue-in-cheek terminology for active attendees who are still outside the order. Those who think they’re worthy must earn the support of existing Moai and pass a series of challenges, which are also secret. Akin to the Shriners, the Moose Lodge, and similar animal orders, questions of character are answered through a process outlined on their website, coyly branded the “Port of the Initiate”.

The most obvious evidence of the Moai’s influence is also hiding in plain sight, surrounding unsuspecting guests at the Grass Skirt Tiki Room. When Columbus Food League decided downtown was overdue for a tiny tropical oasis, the Moai were early and eager to offer their insights and assistance. Members carved and cast much of the bar’s décor themselves, nearly every mask and lamp that makes the contemporary tiki bar feel older and more authentic than its seven-year history otherwise suggests. Ahu even admits he may have had a hand in developing the cocktail menu. (He’s a modest Moai.)

“Tiki bars that survive and succeed stick to certain archetypes and avoid mixing metaphors. Those that don’t tend to go under,” Ahu explained. “There are still a few classic supper clubs for the purists and Chinese restaurants that subsequently became tiki bars, so-called ‘fortune cookie tiki’. But the Southern California, flotsam and jetsam, tiki bars with layers of personality and lots of locals tend to stay around.”

The most iconic contribution to the Grass Skirt is undeniably the giant concrete monkey fountain named George, which used to grace the entrance of the Kahiki. With support from the Moai, and literally a last minute commitment of additional funds from the bar, George was saved from the same demise as fellow monuments from the fabled restaurant.

“We knew if we didn’t get him, he’d either end up in a private collection instead of the public eye, or rotting in a field,” he noted. Point of fact, the enormous Easter Island statues ended up essentially abandoned, while a short search on YouTube reveals the fate of the famous fireplace still sitting outdoors under a tarp. “After the auction, we went to pick him up at Kahiki frozen foods and realized they’d actually constructed the building around him. They offered to cut him into four pieces to remove him, but the auction said pickup was outside. You wouldn’t let someone cut a Corvette into four pieces if you were told you could pick it up in the parking lot?”

Somehow George ended up outside for pickup as promised. The Moai don’t know how he got there or if walls or windows were removed to do it. It seems even George has his secrets.

Aside from “Tiki Tuesdays”, the only time local members really surface publicly is once a year in August for the annual Hula Hop, a charity event that raises money for Cure CMD, an organization that funds efforts to treat congenital muscular dystrophy, and serves as an annual call to prospective members, some of whom aren’t even old enough to remember the authentic longhouse that used to be off East Broad Street.

“We didn’t think we could pull off an all-day tiki event in Columbus when we started, so it was a ‘Hot Rod Hula Hop’, with classic cars and we brought in all of the decorations to turn a regular bar into a tiki bar,” Ahu explained. “But now with the Grass Skirt, it’s become just the ‘Hula Hop’ with five live bands, vendors, and food trucks. Instead of selling tickets or charging a cover, folks come for free, buy drinks and make donations directly. People know where their money goes.”

The Fraternal Order of Moai, whose exact ranks remain unknown, has funded several studies and drug trials through Cure CMD. But recognition and notoriety were never the goal.

“It was a cockamamie idea that started out as performance art, but it turned into something more,” Ahu admitted. “Now we’re a registered nonprofit and pretty darned legit. Tiki bars are popping up across the country, even in Europe. But in Columbus, even after the Kahiki closed, they never really went away.” ▩

The 2019 Hula Hop is August 10 at the Grass Skirt Tiki Room, 105 N Grant Avenue.

For details on the event and the Fraternal Order of Moai, visit fraternalorderofmoai.org

February 4, 2019

Willing to Say Anything

Originally published in the February 2019 issue of (614) Magazine

If actors are fortunate, they’re remembered for one film that epitomizes the angst, anxiety, and aspirations of a generation. John Cusack has a career full of them. From cult to iconic, acclaimed to obscure, it’s perhaps impossible to overstate his influence or put him in a box.

Indelible ensemble performances in Sixteen Candles and Stand by Me, along with leading roles in The Sure Thing and Better Off Dead, earned Cusack an early reputation as a relatable and reliable talent just as the prospects for many of his teen comedy contemporaries were flaming out after puberty.

Then came Say Anything, which remains the anthem for every misfit who’s punched above his weight, and every girl who’s fallen for the one guy her friends and parents dismissed.

Cusack could have quit at the end of the credits and we’d still be talking about Lloyd Dobler and his boombox 30 years later. But instead of subpar sequels, he offered a second act we rarely see — one built on personal passion, purposeful projects, and the crisis of conscience that closely parallels the teen rite of passage.

“I had the luxury to work in film when it was a little less corporate. People who ran the studios were individuals. They would have a portfolio they’d take to shareholders and say, ‘Here are our tent-pole films’,” Cusack explained. “But they had six or seven movies a year they would give to artists they liked. I got to make Grosse Pointe Blank and High Fidelity, Spike Lee got to make Summer of Sam, and Wes Anderson got to make Rushmore. It was because of the tastes of a guy named Joe Roth who ran Fox, and ran Disney. We never had to beg for money, and we never had to protect the cuts.”

Even if not for Roth’s old school style and reluctance to treat test market screenings as more than just another metric, Cusack also wrote and coproduced Grosse Pointe Blank and High Fidelity. Wearing multiple hats in Hollywood doesn’t always mean you get your way. But at the time, Cusack’s artistic vision and authority on both films were nearly absolute.

“I sort of bridged the gap between the 60s and 70s filmmaking culture and from about 2000 on when the film companies became a very, very, small fraction of these multinational corporations,” he recalled. “All I had to do for those movies was tell Joe, ‘We’re going to shoot this in 48 days.’ I wasn’t going to go a day over schedule or waste any of his money. We didn’t have to deal with financiers or studio interference. I never felt like any film I made with Joe was compromised artistically. It was a different era.”

Cusack has an impressive history of prophetic films that seemed to predict everything from the rise of mixed martial arts to the renaissance of vinyl records. And even though politics can be polarizing, his films never shy away from them.

The vilification of the gun lobby in Runaway Jury and his clever critique of military contracting in War, Inc. were both well ahead of the curve. Even Cusack’s cameos and contributing roles are often scene stealing, and frequent collaborations with friend and colleague Tim Robbins tend to be among the most subtle and subversive. With each passing day, Bob Roberts seems less like a satire and more like a documentary from the future.

Have his outspoken opinions closed some doors, or opened others? If so, he hasn’t noticed, and doubts any such differences or decisions run that deep. Much like his earlier characters, Cusack still isn’t worried about winning a high school popularity contest or becoming prom king.

“Hollywood financiers have become far more shallow and the ethics are so transactional, I don’t think people pay attention long enough to consider politics as much as what’s hot right now,” he opined. “But I’ve always been pretty consistent about needing to say what you feel and the need to put provocative stuff, dangerous stuff into art.”

Cusack’s characters are often an everyman at odds with the status quo, though he can still pull off the affable anti-hero — as a serial grifter, a contract killer, and a political assassin. But Cusack is also an underrated chameleon, having transformed into a surprising range of real-life characters, from Nelson Rockefeller in Cradle Will Rock and Edgar Allen Poe in The Raven to Richard Nixon in Lee Daniels’ The Butler and Brian Wilson in Love & Mercy. Inhabiting someone else’s skin is a challenge and responsibility he doesn’t take lightly.

“If a person is alive like Brian, I just hung out with him and his wife as much as I could. That part of his life wasn’t as public as the first part of the life. He was basically a Beatle. He was on tour, they were making videos, he was recording nonstop, and then he went into the abyss for a while. People didn’t know him when he came out of it in his 40s, or that part of his life,” Cusack revealed. “You immerse yourself in a character. Obviously Edgar Allen Poe and Richard Nixon aren’t going to give you any notes. But I hope the real-life characters I’ve played represent the essence of them, the spirit of them. You don’t want to do a literal imitation, but you hope you capture some part of them that’s eternal.”

With the advent of streaming services and digital downloads, Cusack’s earlier work is connecting with new fans, often the children of those who came of age in the 80s and 90s. And though some actors may cringe at the prospect of their earlier endeavors becoming easier to find and effectively lasting forever, the timelessness of Cusack’s films, old and new, still rings true.

“There’s a great story about one of my favorite films, Sweet Smell of Success. It came out and got savage reviews. People can’t see new art when it comes out. So it sat on a shelf until someone at WGN said, ‘We have this Burt Lancaster/Tony Curtis movie. Why don’t we start playing it?” It got a cult following being screened at 10 o’clock or midnight on,” Cusack explained. “Then Barry Levinson had one of the characters in Diner quoting from the movie all the time. It finally started to get looked at again, and it’s a classic. It’s easily considered Lancaster and Curtis’ best work, but it was gone for 30 years. Now, you can’t kill a film. No matter what you do to a film, it’s going to find its audience sooner or later.” ▩

CAPA will be presenting a live Q&A with John Cusack following a screening of High Fidelity at the Palace Theatre on February 15.

Visit www.capa.com for details and ticket information.

October 4, 2018

Dare to Scare

Originally published in the October 2018 issue of (614) Magazine

Keith Newsom, aka Snappy the Clown, has been performing at local haunts for years
Photo by Brian Kaiser

No one plans months in advance what to wear to a Christmas party. That’s why Halloween has quickly become the favorite holiday for those tired of turkey and averse to eggnog. The trend is more than seasonal—it’s cultural.

Horror movies are hotter than ever, and Netflix and Amazon are clamoring to greenlight projects that once would have withered. Originally an outlier, AMC’s The Walking Dead routinely draws more viewers than all NFL games combined. Even Jo-Ann starts stocking shelves in July with spiders and skulls long before the last of the fireworks fade.

Despite your costume cred, stitch witchery, and amateur pumpkin craft, haunted house operators are way ahead of you. For a few weeks a year, their long lines and theatrical thrills pack them in. But what goes on behind the scenes has largely remained an industry mystery—until now.

The indie documentary SCARE rips the mask off “haunted attractions,” the technical term for live performance venues that defy your sense of reality, and occasionally control of your bladder. Columbus filmmaker Don Patterson “shot and chopped” the project over more than a decade, culminating with the final season of a local landmark of terror, the ScareAtorium.

“There’s so much more to this than just building a haunted house. You’ve got actor training, and make-up artists, and scene decorators,” explained Kelly Collins. He and his wife Neena founded the Midwest Haunters Convention, the country’s largest gathering for operators and enthusiasts, bringing standards and insight to the industry. “There’s more to a haunted house than handing someone a mask and saying, ‘Here, go scream at people.’”

For those who still tremble from memories of Terror Park at the old Cooper Stadium, Frightmore Manor in Dublin, and The Northland Asylum and RIP’s 3D Funhouse—now better known collectively as the ScareAtorium—you can thank Kelly and Neena, whose fitting 13-year run is practically unprecedented.

“When Kelly and I first got together, I had no idea there was such a thing as the haunted attraction industry,” she confessed. “Don has footage in the documentary going all the way back to Terror Park. He’s been capturing it since the very beginning.”

Ask any performer whether screen or stage acting is more challenging and rewarding, and most would agree on latter. And there’s definitely evidence of that in the ranks of haunted attractions. From the high school goths who maybe never fit in to theater folk looking for a novel outlet for select skills, there’s a tribe here that starts to resemble more of a family from one year to the next.

“I got my start as the general manager of a campground, and every Saturday at noon I’d get on the tractor, take everyone up into the woods, circle this big tree and come back,” he recalled. “One day a bunch of kids hid behind the tree and jumped out and scared everyone.”

Instead of scolding them, Kelly recruited them—keeping the standard hayride by day, but creating a spooky hayride at night that proved wildly popular. That’s when he was approached by the local Jaycees to turn it into something more. They’d recently lost the lease on their haunted house and partnered with Kelly to create a haunted hayride. He was hooked.

“The Jaycees are credited with creating the haunted house industry,” he explained. “Many of the oldest haunts in the country were started or still operated by the Jaycees.”

Short for “Junior Chamber,” the Jaycees, like many long-standing service organizations, have struggled in recent years to attract younger members. But for decades, they operated haunted houses as both a fundraiser and a recruiting effort. Even I didn’t know the Jaycees created the concept of the haunted house, and I used to volunteer throughout high school at one they operated in my hometown in the storage barn of a creepy old train depot.

Ohio actually leads the nation in the number of haunted attractions. Lower lease and land costs are part of it, but so is the Midwestern work ethic and entrepreneurial spirit. But it’s still a business.

“Even though we’re only open in October, Neena ran the business year-round. A lot of people who make the jump from home haunt to a professional haunt don’t last long,” he revealed. “Whether they decorated the backyard, garage, or basement, you can’t go to a bank to borrow that kind of money for a seasonal business that’s only open 20 days a year.”

That was the impetus for the Midwest Haunters Convention. Unlike private trade shows that mostly showcase cheap eeks and pricey props, the couple started a public convention to bridge the transition from passion project to profitability, offering classes on the business and art of haunted attractions.

“People sometimes get into it thinking they’re going to make money, but it typically takes three years to break even. They often fail for lack of knowledge, like not understanding fire codes,” Kelly noted, sharing the story of a haunt in an old school building that had to put $150,000 upfront into a sprinkler system before they could even open.

“Code standards are higher for haunted houses than they are for schools,” chided Neena. “People often ask us what it takes to run a million-dollar haunt and I tell them about $3 million.”

Neighbors can also be a nightmare if you don’t know what you’re doing. Germain Amphitheater closed for lots of reasons. Competition, controversy, and crowd control killed it long before an invasion of Scandinavian furniture. But noise and traffic complaints from nearby homeowners were probably the final nail in the coffin.

“Having a haunted house in a former funeral home sounds great, until you consider the parking problem. There just aren’t enough spaces,” he explained. “We had three great locations, but with 10,000 people coming through a year, even we had to keep moving.”

Upping the adrenaline also requires keeping things fresh, which for the Collins required replacing roughly a third of the attraction each year, with construction on new rooms starting as early as March.

Fortunately, their rate of staff return provided the continuity many haunts lack and envy. They fostered talent with an audition process and informal mentoring from actors and artisans who quickly became more than just part-time employees.

“When we’d break for meals, I’d make everyone put their phones away. I was a dad like that to everyone,” Kelly confessed. “Of the 150 or so staff, we had about 85 percent return year after year. It really became more of a family. We cherished it,” Neena noted.

The Collins recently sold their creepy creation to Thirteenth Floor, the nation’s premiere haunted house operator. Though the two are technically retired, and their haunt lives on under new management and through the documentary, it may not be the last we see of them.

“Kelly will still be consulting with the Midwest Haunters Convention and he may be doing some work with Shadowbox Live in Columbus,” Neena revealed. “Even in retirement, he’s busier than ever.” ▩

13th Floor Haunted House, still Columbus’s largest haunted attraction, is located at 2605 Northland Plaza. For open dates, tickets, and group rates, visit 13thfloorcolumbus.com.

To view a trailer for SCARE, visit youtu.be/teo0UHkCldY.

September 1, 2018

Cartoon Crossroads Columbus

Originally published in the September 2018 issue of (614) Magazine

As a geographic midpoint, Columbus has never quite matched the marketing moniker of Midwest. We’re too far east of the prairie pedigree of Omaha, yet still too far west to quite compete with the urban grit of Pittsburgh, or even our rust belt cousins in Cleveland.

But as an approachable nexus where ideas and innovation cross paths comfortably, free from the egos of the coasts, you’d be hard pressed to find a better place to launch something new. That’s why Cartoon Crossroads Columbus, or CXC, makes so much sense for a city never afraid to invest in the next creative frontier.

“Comics aren’t only about superheroes. They’re about everything. I think most folks will be surprised by the depth and variety,” explained Jeff Smith, acclaimed creator of BONE, ambassador of comic street cred, and president of CXC. “These things go back to the beginning of the last century, and include silent animations, game-changing editorial cartoons, and the birth of some of our most iconic characters.”

Point of fact, it actually was a couple of guys from Ohio who created Superman. But cult legends R. Crumb and Harvey Pekar also forged their distinctive styles here. Maybe we aren’t exactly the middle of the country. But Ohio’s impact on the art form is undeniable, and perhaps Columbus deserves to become its unofficial center?

The four-day festival started with the ambitious agenda of becoming the South by Southwest of illustrated storytelling. Now four years in with events throughout Columbus connecting historic context and cutting edge content, CXC continues to evolve by honoring industry veterans and celebrating emerging artists often outside the mainstream.

“Most of the institutions involved were already bringing in world-class cartoonists in multiple disciplines, like graphic novels, comic strips, and animation,” Smith noted. “When you visit some of our exhibits and venues, you will meet cartoonists who animate feature films and indie films. You’ll meet established artists and the best of the new.”

Event locations fall into two enclaves, with downtown activities at the Columbus Museum of Art, Columbus College of Art & Design, and the main branch of the Columbus Metropolitan Library, as well as those at Ohio State, including the Wexner Center for the Arts, the Billy Ireland Cartoon Library & Museum, and Hale Hall, which hosts SÕL-CON, an expo featuring Latino and African-American artists expanding the genre.

One of those new voices is Ohio native Travis Horseman, whose acting background and stage experience aren’t the traditional résumé of a graphic novelist.

“Until I started about five years ago, I was largely unaware of the vibrant comic creator community in Columbus,” admitted Horseman, a first time exhibitor joining more than a hundred fellow artists also invited to share their work at CXC. “Luckily, there were people willing to show me the ropes. That how I first learned about Cartoon Crossroads.”

His first project, Amiculus: A Secret History, is set during the fall of the Roman Empire and garnered critical comparisons to Game of Thrones for its sophisticated plotlines and complex characters. The trilogy was funded through Kickstarter, an increasingly popular platform for first-time comic artists. But the project actually grew out of Horseman’s alter ego as an actor.

“I tried several different formats before settling on a graphic novel. I’m a very visual storyteller and the medium just seemed to work better for my ideas,” he noted. “I see the images that bring my characters to life as I write.”

Graphic novels share the same cinematic style as film and television, but aren’t limited by cumbersome and costly digital and practical effects. Shot blocking and storyboards are akin to comic book panels, and the right artist with the right tools can create content every bit as stunning as a big budget feature.

“Amiculus started out as a short play, then a short story. I’d always been a fan of comics and decided thinking about it as one might help with some of my writers block,” he recalled. “My 32-page short story quickly grew to 240 pages. But by then, it wasn’t just a novel. It was a story that deserved to be a graphic novel.”

Already connected to the local theater scene, he knew the expertise he needed was probably hiding in plain sight amongst the local comic community. Horseman admits he was essentially starting from scratch. But he was fortunate to find guides to put him on the right path, eventually leading to a spot at CXC.

“It’s a tough ticket to get. There are always more applicants than tables for exhibitors,” he revealed. “I’ve been part of other creative communities, but I don’t think I’ve ever been part of a more supportive one. There isn’t a mix of artists and creators anywhere in the country quite like it.”

His current project is also crowd funded, with a campaign cleverly scheduled to run concurrently with CXC. This new saga still has an unlikely setting, but with a contemporary timeline about a forgotten chapter of American history much closer to home.

“Sugar Creek is unfamiliar territory as our first horror book,” he explained. With the true story of a post-colonial conflict in 1791 that wiped out a quarter of the nation’s new army in a single battle as the backdrop, the bloody footnote takes an even darker turn. “I’ve been describing it as our Ohio project because it’s not just set in Ohio. Everyone working on it is from Ohio.”

More than a tradeshow or fan experience, CXC was initially modeled after Smith’s own travels as an artist to American and international comic conventions that focus on creating connections as well. But fostering that local spirit of collaboration extends beyond the individual artists and permeates the entire event and the city that surroundings it.

“People enjoy working together here,” explained Smith. “The ease with which private and public institutions work together is exactly why a celebration like Cartoon Crossroads Columbus can take place.”

For details on Cartoon Crossroads Columbus, visit cartooncrossroadscolumbus.com

August 31, 2018

Why Art Thou?

Originally published in the September 2018 issue of (614) Magazine

Cars are commodities mass-produced by the millions. But once they roll off the showroom floor, they take on a life of their own. Each ding or dent tells a story, from original owner to everyone who eventually sits behind the wheel.

But for some, those tales get much more detailed, blurring the line between eclectic transportation and traveling exhibition. They’re called “art cars”, and those who create them are part of a growing movement that is increasingly impossible to ignore.

“All around the world and throughout time, there have been decorated vehicles—from gypsy wagons, or the decorated trucks of Pakistan, to the buses of Haiti,” explained Greg Phelps, who is currently driving his third art car. “But they really didn’t take off in the US until the ’70s when people first started to glue on their cars, turning them into more than just a metal canvas.”

Phelps got his start in 1997 with a Mazda Miata featuring a two-dimensional design, but it wasn’t until a couple years later after a conversation with another local artist that he took his design to the next level.

“Ramona Moon had been gluing on her cars out in San Francisco before moving back to her hometown of Columbus,” he recalled. “That’s when I first realized you could effectively attach elements to your car, and I haven’t stopped since.”

Silicone is the adhesive of choice for many art car creators—flexible enough for daily driving, yet durable enough for regular washing. Phelps plays it safe with an ordinary sprayer for occasional cleaning, but admits it takes a lot longer than you’d think to get the soap out of all of the “nooks and crannies.”

“I have a whole host of things on it, like a mohawk of Barbie legs as a tribute to the synchronized swim team at Ohio State,” he explained. “The mirrors on the rims have survived five years of Ohio winters.”

Creativity is often contagious, and just as Phelps was inspired decades ago, he too continues to recruit, working with local high school and college students to create their own incarnations. You’ll find a few artfully adorned golf carts zipping around the campus of Ft. Hayes. Collaboration with an OSU sculpture class even led one student to do her Masters thesis on the cultural phenomenon.

“I often tell parents to encourage their new teenage drivers to create one,” he said. “It lets them be rebellious, but remain conspicuous. You can’t drive aggressively or cut people off in an art car.”

Road rage is a foreign concept for those rolling around in vehicles covered in colorful plastic doodads. Smiles are expected at a parade, but even police can’t contain their grins as he putters past. So long as he’s not speeding and nothing falls off, law enforcement pays him no mind.

“I honk and wave whenever I see police officers,” he said. “It’s not like I could get away with robbing a bank in it.”

The quirky creations aren’t just child’s play, though a love of toys and a stash of little pieces and parts doesn’t hurt. Phelps can still spot an easy mark, like Jason Williams, owner of Big Fun, the Short North shop notorious for nostalgia. His unmistakable Volkswagen Vanagon turned Star Trek shuttle craft is as meticulous and mesmerizing as his store.

“I gave him that first tube of glue and a caulking gun as a challenge,” he quipped. “Now his entire roof is this epic history of politics and conflict told through plastic figures.”

Phelps’ own car is more autobiographical, including subtle nods to fellow art cars he admires. The exterior accessories are too difficult to transplant from one car to the next, but his “Deities of the Dash” representing the world’s major and lesser-known religions does migrate from one project vehicle to its successor.

There are often lingering misconceptions about the movement, like the idea that owners are simply attention seekers.

“It’s actually the opposite. I want to give people attention,” Phelps noted. “There are few things that can draw strangers together into a shared conversation faster than standing around an art car.”

Though many have high miles, they aren’t all “beaters” someone decided to repurpose after years of neglect. Most start as reliable models that are easy to maintain, to avoid all of that effort meeting an early end. But even the best cars never last forever.

“I donated my first car to the Kentucky Museum of Art and Craft in Louisville, which has a collection of art cars,” he revealed. “The second, I donated to Open Heart Creatures. It had nearly 200k miles on it.”

Given his ideal afterlife, Phelps said he wouldn’t mind his current car becoming part of the collection of local art on display at the Greater Columbus Convention Center—preferably suspended from the wall or ceiling—joining “As We Are”, the giant selfie LED head, as one of the city’s most photographed art installations.

Until then, art cars are already attracting plenty of attention at Hot Times, the annual community arts and music festival in Olde Towne East. The dozen or so local creations are joined by almost as many from surrounding states, enough to earn some international interest as well—most notably Haider Ali, renown Pakistani truck artist.

“He created a truck for the Smithsonian’s Silk Road exhibit in 2002. I saw it when I was in DC and it blew me away. I looked him up on Facebook a few years ago and we became friends,” Phelps recalled. “Last year, he came to Columbus and painted a vehicle for the CRC [Clintonville–Beechwold Community Resources Center] which they use to transport senior citizens to their doctors appointments. He loved it so much, he returned this year and painted a passenger van they use to take seniors to the grocery store and social gatherings.”

You’d think Phelps would be overly protective of his autodidactic art exhibition, but he’ll still let valets park it, and does so often. He’s found it’s the easiest way to get a prime parking space for curious onlookers and as a popular backdrop for photographers and impromptu portraits.

“Valets always treat it with great care, as if it were an exotic sports car,” he chided. “I get the best spot and people will walk past a Lamborghini to check out my Nissan. I call it ‘carma.’” ▩

For details on the Hot Times Arts & Music Festival, visit hottimesfestival.com.

July 1, 2018

Change is in the Wind

Originally published in the July 2018 issue of (614) Magazine

Pop Quiz: What does the City of Columbus flag look like?

If you don’t know, you’re not alone. And even if you do, you probably aren’t too excited about it. But maybe that can change, and should change. At least that’s the opinion of an army of armchair vexillologists (flag geeks), who think many of our obscure symbols of civic pride nationwide are overdue for an upgrade.

Citizens from Sioux Falls to Milwaukee are organizing campaigns and committees to rethink the most obvious, yet often inconspicuous, incarnation of their cities. As an emerging epicenter of arts and innovation, perhaps we should join them.

“I didn’t even realize what our city flag looked like. I’m sure I’d seen it before, but never really paid much attention to it,” confessed Paul Nini, OSU design professor, and creator of The People’s Flag of Columbus. “This situation of a city flag like we have is pretty common because they’re generally created by governments, not designers. They just have the official seal and whatever else they throw on there.”

Nini was inspired by Roman Mars, Newark native and host of the prolific design-focused podcast 99% Invisible. Mars also happened to be the keynote speaker at an industry conference Nini attended in 2015 and the idea stuck.

“I tried to follow the basic rules of what makes a great flag. The design should be simple and memorable and have meaning behind the forms,” he explained. “It has negative white spaces that come through the center representing Broad and High, with the star as a symbol that we’re the state capital. The fields of blue and green with a semicircle represent the Scioto River and the Franklinton peninsula, the heart of the city, the original area of downtown. Anything more complicated gets tricky.”

For those who may not know, the current city flag is only the latest incarnation, with several since its inception. Over time, it’s come to incorporate images of the statehouse, Buckeye leaves, and the Santa Maria, along with the typical eagle, stars, and other stuff shared by nearly every flag of the era. But it’s all so cluttered and compressed, you have to squint to even make any of it out.

In contrast, Ohio’s swallowtail burgee is the rock star of state flags, cited by historians and designers alike as a prime example of following the rules, but still breaking them. For more than a century, Ohio didn’t even have an official flag. But Cleveland architect John Eisenmann’s design and the symbolism behind it still feel modern, unlike the Columbus flag, despite being about the same age.

“The original proposal tried to use the original colors, to get the city interested in it,” Nini recalled. “This was before Ginther was elected mayor and was still City Council president. I talked to his chief of staff who essentially said, ‘This is nice, but it isn’t really on our radar.’”

Reluctance is pretty typical as well. The current design was created by a CPD officer, denoted by the shield. That and the contemporary controversy over the city’s namesake are where sentiment and sensitivity collide. Even if our flag wasn’t what critics call a “badge on a bed sheet,” changing it won’t be easy.

“That’s very different than a city like Chicago with its four six-pointed stars embraced by everyone, from city government to its citizens,” noted Nini. “They love it. They use it everywhere. It’s a symbol of pride for the city.”

Nini was raised in Clintonville and still calls it home, but a recent grad school reunion in Chicago only reinforced his resolve that Columbus is a city that is changing, and our flag should reflect that.

“I was at my alma mater and friends and faculty were saying, ‘We keep hearing how cool Columbus is now,’” he said. “That’s what’s happening, and our flag should be a symbol of the city and where we are going. Whether or not everyone is going to get behind it, I have no idea.”

Nini isn’t the only one vexed by our city flag, though his design does seem to have the most traction. There’s an alternate concept that maintains the current color scheme and features a compass rose, a more iconic reference to Christopher Columbus. There’s even a “Bad Flags” blog based in Columbus with the snarky suggestion of a giant ice cream cone as a more accurate and less divisive symbol for the city.

“I decided not to worry about the government and rebrand it ‘The People’s Flag’ and promote it that way — a path of least resistance,” he chided. “Having been involved in lots of things over the years — as a musician, I’ve been in bands — I’ve learned it’s always best to keep your expectations low, because then you don’t get too disappointed.”

All great ideas get pushback. But we live in a branded city in a branded age. Former Mayor Coleman had the foresight to enlist local agency Ologie to help define and design the city’s visual identity. The flag wasn’t included in that effort, perhaps a hint of how truly invisible municipal flags have become.

“Last summer, I finally found a place that would do on-demand printing and fabrication of flags. Everywhere else I found before would make the flags, but I’d have to buy like a hundred of them and handle all of the sales and shipping myself,” he said. “Now you can buy just one, for anyone who wants to fly it. There are also t-shirts, buttons, decals. If you don’t want to buy a flag, you can still show your support.”

Those supporters have swelled beyond his students and the creative community, and literally letting folks put his idea into the wind has been a winning strategy in other cities where initial proposals to update their flags also fell flat. It’s a battle of attrition, but not a bitter one.

“Having grown up here in the ’60s and ’70s, the city has grown up too. People love the city now and appreciate it for what it’s become,” Nini said, hoping that organic adoption and a few influential brand champions can find the inroads that have thus far remained elusive. “If I drive by homes and local businesses that are flying the flag with pride, that’s the point. A flag should be something people can rally around, a brand that brings communities together. Even if the city doesn’t see it yet, hopefully they will. ▩

For more on The People’s Flag of Columbus, visit columbuspeoplesflag.com