Before I start this column, I want to extend my deepest condolences to the family and friends of Luke Morbitzer. I am not trying to lend extra emotional weight to my column by using him; rather I feel that his tragic murder has become permanently (and regretably) a part of the end of Outland’s time at 1024 Perry St. I feel that leaving it out would be dishonest and insulting to both the memories of the club and of Luke.

If this was a movie, they would have never closed Outland. Developers wouldn’t have seen the Harrison West area as a prime real estate location to build condos. The club patrons would’ve had some kind of massive fundraiser to save the club, maybe a huge concert headlined by a major industrial artist (KMFDM, anyone?).

Or, having been forced to move, the owner would have found a new place to move to immediately. An even bigger, darker, scarier warehouse building. Or an old, creepy abandoned church. After re-opening the club, they would be even more successful than they were previously.

In an ideal world there wouldn’t have been a murder near the club a week before they closed. Or if the murder had to happen, it would’ve been solved immediately, maybe at the club by one of the club-goers.

Of course, life isn’t like the movies. Outland is closing, and the owner still hasn’t found a new place to re-open the club at. Maybe he never will. Soon, if not already, the building will be knocked down and one of Columbus’ greatest cultural spots will be turned into condominiums. Police are still searching for Luke Morbitzer’s killer, and it isn’t certain when, if ever, they will be found.

I’m not really sure whether I wanted a Hollywood ending. All of me wishes that Morbitzer had never been shot or that his killer could be found immediately. Part of me wishes the club could stay in the same spot, surrounded by abandoned warehouses and the detritus of a formerly industrial zone.

Outland oozed atmosphere: It was, dark, dingy and lit much like the third floor of Denney Hall. I’d see the lights turned on and still wonder how the place could be so dark. On Fridays and Saturdays Outland filled up (especially if it was cold and the patio was closed), it was full to the brim. The dance floor would be full of bodies swaying in just about every way imaginable, some rhythmic and some not so rhythmic. And I’d be remiss in mentioning the “Happiness in Slavery” exhibit that happened on the busiest days. The event was a fetishist’s dream.

However, no place is perfect. Outland’s small size made everything from dancing to finding a table to going to the bathroom incredibly difficult. I won’t miss all the problems that caused.

I’m not sure what kind of ending I wanted, to be honest with you. I’ve only been to Outland a few times (about five to six in the last year) and my Goth imitation would only fool a Republican. Still, I always wanted to fit in, if only for a night, and my failure to totally assimilate into the culture frequently added a sour note to what was almost always an interesting, fun night.

The last night Outland was open, I was there for an hour-and-a-half for with my friend Ben and my roommate Breen. We walked through the narrow hallway to the porch, where fortune smiled on us. In the back, near one of the “Happiness” stages, there was an open table. We sat down quickly, talked about the past and uncertain future of Outland and watched the people. The beautiful, painted, mohawked, black-leather and black clothing clad people. They talked, laughed, drank beer and hugged each other fiercely when they spotted a friend in the crowd. The beauty of this, and of life, is that everybody there wrote their own ending, be it happy or sad. Sometimes, that’s all you can ask.

And when Outland finally re-opens, you can bet that I’ll drop by at least one more time.

Benjamin Nanamaker is a junior in English and journalism. He can be reached for comment at [email protected].