This inspires me to start my own squad¹. A squad that pillages neighborhoods, tagging our squad name on smooth potato-looking stones. It’ll be the Oh Honestly Squad. There might even be pins someday. No one will fuck with us. Bars worldwide will be naming drinks after us.

If you want in, sign up below. Then start tagging rocks with vulgarities and nuclear threats² and then send me the pictures³. It’ll be the best fun you’ve never had.

[1]: This was after I realized that stone didn’t actually say "squid." Previously, I was all about getting a pet squid but now I see the ridiculousness of that and have moved on to the squad thing. Maybe our tag should have "squid" in it?

[2]: Make sure it can’t be traced back to me. I’m not going to jail for you.

[3]: I’m not funnin’. I really want enough pictures to warrant its own set on flickr.

[x]: This post translates into "I have nothing better to look forward to, save me."

The first time I was there was the summer of 2000.

“There’s this Quaker cemetery out in Perryopolis. Supposed to be haunted or some shit. We should go.” It was one of those glimmering moments of spontaneity that, on a boring summer’s night, sounded a lot more interesting that the usual routine of getting drunk on my porch. I was a little wary that the person hatching this plan was my friend Justin, who had a bad track record of insisting he knew the exact coordinates of various haunted hot spots, and then like a bad repeating record, we’d inevitably wind up lost  with the gas tank on E and a few empty bags of Corn Nuts.

Our friend Keri wanted to accompany us, so I felt a little better because she was always the responsible one. If you were going to get lost, break down, get a condom lodged inside of you, Keri was the girl you’d want with you. She also didn’t scare easily, so I quietly planned to wedge myself between the two of them once (if) we arrived.

Perryopolis is around 30 miles south of Pittsburgh, but the trip didn’t take long in my Eagle Talon, considering my propensity for driving it like a dragster. As we approached the town of Perryopolis, I silently hoped that we would be unable to find the cemetery in the dark, of that it didn’t exist, or that the Earth opened up to engulf it every night after midnight. Maybe there would be a fence too dangerous to scale, Hounds of Hell snarling and tied to posts at the entrance, an after hours admission fee implemented by Satan.

The area was rural. We coasted past a few farms and even fewer houses. The uneven asphalt was littered with loose pebbles and sticks, which  clinked and snapped under the tires. The streetlights did little to alleviate my uneasiness. Unfortunately, Justin must have polished his navigational bearings, because after having me make a few turns, he told me to pull over.

“This is it,” he said, leaning in between the front seats and looking out my window. We kind of just sat there, real still, not speaking, until Keri finally went for the door handle. We all filed out and crossed the dark, quiet street. It was too dark to see the cemetery from where we stood, and after hesitating to see who would step up to lead us, we finally took the plunge in tandem and began climbing the slight hill before us.

Halfway up, we could make out a wrought iron fence, the kind you would expect to wreathe an old, small town cemetery. My eyes searched for the tombstones, the meat of the graveyard. That’s when I saw it, my first glimpse of the old stone house in the middle of the small plot of land. Suddenly, it wasn’t what lay beneath the ground that frightened me.

“I don’t like the looks of that place,” I whispered hoarsely to Keri and Justin.

“What the fuck is it, a church?” Justin asked no one in particular, squinting his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

“I’m not climbing no fucking fence,” Keri spat, arms crossed. She was always the kill joy of the group. Me, I’d go along with just about anything, no matter how terrified I was, mainly because my adrenaline would overtake my common sense every single time. But Keri, she’d get so far and then stop. Or conveniently conjure up a head ache. That girl has headaches more often than Seattle has rain.

Just then, the dull roar of an engine resounded from further down the road. We all turned to look. Headlights eventually appeared over the crest in the curving road, and the car began to decelerate. We continued to watch as it approached the base of the hill and slowed to a complete stop several yards away from my car, parked along the shoulder.

“Is it a cop?” Keri whispered.

The driver flashed the head lights. We were stapled to the soft ground under our feet. The driver blew the horn. We jumped. The driver laid on the horn, sending an atmosphere-rippling siren through the once-quiet night. All three of us screamed and turned to run back to my car. We shoved each other ruthlessly, none of us daring to be in the back.

My car was parked directly across the base of the hill. The rogue car still idled in the same position a few yards away on the opposite side of the road, continuing to blare the chilling horn. We made it to my car, slamming into the side of it. I fumbled for my keys. I dropped them on the road as I tried frantically to sort through the menagerie of plush over-sized key chains. Keri and Justin were swearing and screaming at me. I was crying.

The bully car continued to intimidate us with the horn-blaring while I unlocked my door and reached across the inside to unlock the passenger door. Keri and Justin both tried to get in my uterus-sized two-door Talon at once, prolonging their success. Once they were in, I gunned it, not even bothering to steal a look at the driver of the opposing car as we squealed past it.

We drove in silence until the poorly-lit country roads spilled us out onto the highway where we took refuge among the traffic.

Only then did anyone dare speak.

“I don’t know what you guys were so scared for. It was probably just some teenager having some fun, trying to scare us,” Justin said, leaning back with his fingers laced behind his head.

*****

The weather was unseasonably spring-like on Sunday, so Henry, Chooch and I piled into the car and drove south to take some pictures and enjoy the rare opportunity to drive with the windows down. Our plan was to go out to Uniontown, a small town at the base of the mountains, and get some nice country photographs.

We took Rt. 51, which leads straight from Pittsburgh to Uniontown. It also passes through Perryopolis on the way.

“Hey, there’s this old Quaker Cemetery out here. We should try to find it,” I casually suggested, recognizing that the right hand turn into farm country was coming up. What better way to spend a beautiful Sunday with the kid and manservant? Field trip  the haunted cemetery! C’mon boy, let’s get our desecratin’ on, I should have hollered to Chooch.

Henry found it without mishap (evidently the road it’s on is called Quaker Cemetery Road, so Henry figured it was a safe bet we were on the right road). When I reached the crest of the small hill, I spotted the stone house with it’s corrugated tin roof, ominously gaping front door and windows that stared out like empty eye sockets.

I wasn’t scared this time, finding bravery in the sunlight, and I marched right through the archway and started taking pictures. Probably, if I was someone other than myself, the first thing I’d do, I’d go straight inside that stone shack and start poking around. But I was cautious. I let Henry go inside first while I admired the various hues of beer bottle shards as they sparkled in the sun. The shards wrapped around the front of the house, like a moat in front of an alcoholic’s castle. I was sad that no one ever invites me to party in creepy cemetery houses.

Henry went inside first, getting some digital shots of the interior. I asked him if he felt scared when he was in there and he gave me that “don’t be an asshole” sneer. Still, I lingered near the door while Henry and Chooch retreated somewhere in the back, behind the house. I thought I heard shuffling coming from inside the house, but I shook the idea out of my mind and went in.

The inside was sheltered by a roof made up of thin wooden slats. It looked unstable, like I could be buried under it at any given moment. The walls were mostly blue and covered in graffiti. I tried to read it all, as much as I could before my bravery reserve was drained, but there was nothing very interesting. No Hail Satans or Human Sacrifice FTW!s to be found; just an abundance of generic “_____ was here”s and ambiguous initials.

Each end of the room had a fireplace. Henry said later that he had wanted to get all up in it and see what was going on in the chimney’s guts, but he never said why he didn’t follow through. Because he was scared, that’s why. I can only imagine how much clenching he had to do to keep from shitting his pants when he was in there alone.

Still afraid of the being impaled by a collapsing slat of wood, I started to walk out. Henry completely doesn’t believe me, and probably no one else will either, but as I started to step through the doorway, I heard a chorus of whispering coming from \the left corner of the room. I SWEAR TO GOD. I swore to God when I was telling Henry about it too and he was like, “You can’t swear to something you don’t believe in” so I changed my pledge of honesty to Satan instead and Henry started in on that bullshit about how you can’t believe in one and not the other and I was like, “Shut up, stop acting like you’re religious” and he said if there was no God and just Satan, then the world would be way worse than it is now and I said, “No, Satan’s just lazy is all” and that’s about as deep as the two of us get into theological debates. Our next one is scheduled for 2030. As if Henry will still be living then.

After the whole whispering episode, I was pretty much in a huge hurry to leave. If you buy into legends and ghost stories, it’s said that the meeting house was where witches were taken to be killed. I really hope the whispering I heard belonged to Glinda.

Later that day, I was reading a website about the cemetery and it says, “There are also stories of certain graves being cursed, meaning that if you stand at them, or read the writing on the head stone, you could have bad luck or die.”

Awesome. Nice knowing you, Chooch.

Rhonda and Paul loved the regal spires of the church, with medieval-like spikes jutting out along the sides. They loved the Gothic arches and the way the stained glass of the large front window so beautifully depicted "The Ascension." They loved the street lights, with the large bulbous covers, that lined the street in front of the church.

But they didn’t like the pubic hairs they found lacing the toilet seats. Rhonda and Paul couldn’t fathom making the sacrament of marriage in a church that boasted dirtier restrooms than those in a,Mexican whore house. A thick red line was drawn through St. Mary’s and they moved to the next church on their list.

Happy Valentine’s Day! So far, Henry hasn’t made me want to kill myself. I finally got to present him with the Vietnam Veteran belt buckle I bought him from etsy. It’s flooding with gold-plated hokeyness. When it fell out of the bag and into his palms, he kind of stared at it with that amazing brand of disbelief that you hope every gift recipient is addled with, and then he looked at me, his mustache creeping into a confused smile, and he said, "But I wasn’t in Vietnam….?"

"But you were in THE SERVICE! Same thing." I was still standing there, waiting for him to attach it to his belt.

"No, if this said Air Force, that would make sense. Then it would be the Service…" He flipped it over to look at the lavishly coated back.

"Well, just wear it. No one will know you’re not a Vietnam Vet." I was getting annoyed, and I really wanted MY present.

"Yes they will! I’m like, twenty years too young!" And then I couldn’t stop laughing, imagining Henry being "too young" for something.

"Like I said," I repeated, "no one will notice!"

And then he realized he doesn’t have the right kind of belt for a buckle, but I think he was trying to just get out of wearing it. I knew I should have bought the rainbow one that had "JESUS" emblazoned on it.

Then UPS hurled my present against the front door. Henry, further enabling my wanton lust for living in the past, gifted me with a bottle of Versace Red Jeans, one of my favorite scents as a young slut. The gift box was adorned with an elastic red ribbon, which is now being worn as a headband, so I’m pretty content right now.

And we’re going to Columbus next weekend! This sure beats the time he bought me a Fossil watch for Valentine’s Day, using a gift card my mom got me for Christmas.

"What are you going to do for me for Valentine’s Day?" Lady Brown Pants asked her skinny long-legged partner. "Will you drape beautiful icees around my turkey neck like you did in 1986?"

Skinny Long-Legs considered climbing over the railing for a second or two before answering. "No, I think I’ll torture you with some nipple clamps and bang your sister. She’s not dead yet, is she?"

"I want an egg cream," offered Feeble Cane User.

——————————————————————————————

This is Henry’s final year to do something amazing for Valentine’s Day. I don’t care much for expensive gifts and French dinners, but I’d like something more than, oh I don’t know, nothing. I feel like he gave me a Hershey’s bar last year which was kind of insulting, but the fact that I can’t remember probably means he didn’t get me anything at all. Maybe if he had stopped by Walgreens and picked up some foo-foo old lady perfume to go with the imaginary chocolate bar, it would have been a different story.

Since I work nights, I think we’re going to try and get someone to babysit for us this weekend and I swear to god if he takes me to fucking Denny’s, he’s a dead man.

I want to do something wild and erotic, like hide in a trench with aborigine blow darts (the solution to everything) and shoot city cops in the neck as retribution for all the times they violate traffic laws.

Henry said he’ll care more when I finally grow up, whatever that means.

 This was my absolute favorite dress when I was a kid. It represented a golden age in my life: collecting My Little Ponies, lazy Sunday afternoons in my Pappap’s pool, watching The Smurfs while eating Sharon’s Saturday morning French toast, Disney World, Shirley Temples and lobster dinners, my last year as an only child.

I still really love the green/pink color combination because it reminds me of candy and this dress.

I do not handle "sick" well. At all. Chooch does this super sweet thing where he wakes up once an hour during the night. It’s a new trend, I guess. So that does wonders for my recovery time. Wish I had shotgun. (For me, not Chooch! God.)

Chooch saw me blow my nose once and now he’s taken to dramatic reenactments of my plight.

Now I barely have a voice, which is probably a development that could inspire cheers in some parts.

Please tell me good things. I  might be sick, but I’m still just as bored as always.

This is how desolate I feel. Wah, right?

Henry found his old Pentax camera in the attic so we took it out on Sunday to see what kind of photos it would produce. I am now in love with this camera, and not just because imagining Henry using it to take pictures of his SERVICE buddies makes me laugh.

I like how the only bursts of color in the photo come from garbage, so even while it’s gross and full of litter, it’s still kind of pretty, like flowers in its own right.

This is also a good portrait of how I’ve been feeling for the past two days. I had to call off work yesterday because I felt real crappy, like my allergies were acting up. But today, my face feels like its being chiseled in a thousand pieces and my muscles feel petrified. I can never really pinpoint what my symptoms are, which makes it a real treat for Henry when he’s trying to buy me medicine. I’m sick, isn’t that specific enough? I called off work for tonight too and I feel guilty but oh well.

Boulevard Ice Cream is the best ice cream place in Brookline. Sure, one could argue that it’s because it’s the only ice cream place, but if, say, a Dairy Queen should pop up down  the street, I’d still patronize the good old Boulevard Ice cream shop with the congenial old man behind the counter.

The ice cream shop is close enough to my house to walk to, which always makes me feel less guilty as I’m fellating icy orbs of fat and calories, preferably in chocolate varieties.

I think it might be cheap too but I have no concept of dollar values.

It’s the type of place where the owner will still stuff a fat cone in your hand even if your pockets are penniless. OK, I have no evidence that this is true, but the owner seems like the type of guy who would rather see a runaway teen fill up on cream and sugar instead of robbing a liquor store for some Old Crow. And perhaps he’s gullible enough to buy into empty promises that Mother will stop by tomorrow with the cash.

While the shop’s facade might be in dire need for a signage update, how could you possibly resist the threat of a giant ice cream, smacking its lips hungrily as it sees you walking past, as if it’s sizing you up for this year’s summer pig roast. I know when I see enormous predatory cartoon foods, I want to eat them. Fast and hard, with lots of dripping saliva and projectile crumbs.

It’s conveniently located next to an air brush shop, so you can swing by after you inhale your cone and have them whip up a commemorative t-shirt.

When Christina and I were being chased by the patrons of Gordon’s Lounge in December, we considered for a split second taking refuge there in the Boulevard Ice Cream shop, which was still open at eight o’clock on a Sunday night, but as Christina pointed out, the window front was too big and we’d be sitting ducks. Plus, we didn’t have any money.

But as we ran past, I noticed the owner, sitting at a corner table and reading the paper, and I bet he’d have given two complimentary cones to two girls in distress.

Remember the baker I photographed a few weeks ago? Maybe one day this will be used on billboards promoting the prestigious Bakers Against Cocaine and Porn Coalition. They have bake sales to raise money for their cause. Obviously.

On the way to Image Box Studios for the pinhole camera making class, Janna swept away some of the cobwebs in her mind, stepped over some discarded drug needles littering her memory, and recounted a time in fourth grade when her class got to make their own pinhole cameras.

"And then Melissa Urbanek got really pissed off at me because my foot ended up being in her picture, so the teacher had to give her a new piece of film."

Why did this story not shock me?

We were the first people to arrive at the gallery, another thing that did not shock me. I have an inherent need to be early. While photographer Brian Krummel, his wife, and the gallery owner pushed tables together and slapped a CD in the stereo, I made idle conversation with the guy who arrived shortly after us. His name was Luis, he appeared to be in his twenties, and was eager to get started. Eager, but not over-the-top. I liked him.

Janna stood in the corner blowing her nose.

The gallery owner told us to sign in, pay and take a name tag. When I took a seat next to Luis, I noticed that there was a glaring absence of a sticky name-informant on his sweater. I asked him, Aren’t we supposed to wear a name tag, or is this to put on our camera? He shrugged so I tore my tag off my shirt and let it hang pathetically off my finger tip. Name tags are gay if you’re the only one wearing it. Janna put hers on, but that did about as much to temper my insecurities as seating me next to a spot light and airing my discomfort in HD.

More people arrived after we had signed in and paid. Basically, the rest of the class consisted of a group of older yuppie-ish types who were all friends and spoke loudly of people who weren’t there ("Martin is the funniest guy ever") and essentially dominated the room’s energy. A quiet couple sat across from Janna. I liked them because they had inoffensive personalities, gentle voices, and basically didn’t do anything stupid to make me hate them. Across from me was Craig.

Oh, Craig. He was in his forties, had a bald head and rectangular-framed glasses. He wore a fitted black shirt and his name tag clung mischievously to his left shoulder. His left broad shoulder. His left masculine broad shoulder.

It was then that I confidently slapped the name tag back across my breast. Turning to Luis, I whispered that he better go back and get his name tag after all. And so he did. I took care of Luis. I had big plans to make him the Ricky to my Angela Chase. Being seated at the end of the table made it difficult for him to procure certain tools that we needed, like hammers, magnifying glasses, and the bowl of sugar for our complimentary coffee, served in tiny Styrofoam cups. The kind of cups they give you at car dealerships, like that’s supposed to make you feel better for forking over a down payment of five grand, a down payment that involved cashing in a CD that you’ve been hoarding for years at the bank. Oh thanks! Thanks for giving me a cup that I can’t even keep as a souvenir. Thanks!

I like Styrofoam cups better than Dixie Cups though. I don’t know why. Maybe because I associate Dixie Cups with urine samples.

There was a brief moment when my world stopped spinning and I thought that I had fucked up my tin. I showed it to Brian, fully anxious and expecting him to kick me out. Brian soothed my panic by slapping a piece of electrical tape over a tiny hole I had accidentally made in one side of my tin. "So, I don’t fail?" I asked, and Craig laughed heartily across the table. Then he held out his roll of electrical tape for me to cut for him, a service I was happy to fulfill. I started to forget about Luis, because I’m a fickle woman.

In the darkroom — really just the tiny gallery bathroom with a red light and a shut door — Brian had groups of four come in to load the b&w photo paper into their newly transformed red tins. In the darkroom, Craig laughed at one of my quips and touched my arm. He said "Nice." A lot. Like it was his catch phrase. I could have stood there all day, in that tiny bathroom darkroom, having him touch my arm and saying Nice! Maybe a generous handful of jelly beans would be nice, too.

Every one got to take two photos with their pinholes. Janna and I nearly came to blows over rights to photograph a wooden cow propped up in someone’s front yard, a short walk down the block from the gallery. I won, so Janna settled for a different angle of the house. An old black man ambled past. He looked at our tins. He stopped. He looked at me expectantly.

I explained what we were doing.

"That? THAT is a CAMERA?" He shook his head as though to say, "What they won’t think of." Instead of being a smarty pants and reminding him that pinholes are like, ancient, I laughed and said, "Oh I know, right?" He wished us both blessed days, and I was kind of mad, because Janna didn’t even bother to say hello to him, so why would he wish that she has a blessed day? Janna is clearly too good to speak to old black men. Just wait until the day she decides she wants one of them to play the harmonica at her wedding. She’ll get hers.

Everyone’s first attempts were drastically under-exposed so we set off to re-take the shots. While I was waiting for Luis to finish (because we were clearly born to be each other’s besties, we had both chosen the same spot to photograph, unbeknownst to each other), I stumbled upon Craig’s name tag, slightly curled and orphaned on the sidewalk. I somberly took a picture of it with my phone. Janna didn’t seem to give a shit. Maybe if it belonged to the love of HER life, she’d have fashioned a coffin for it out of a cigar box and given it a proper burial.

We were supposed to time our shot for one minute this time. I volunteered the services of my phone’s clock, but then quickly became distracted and immersed in an urgent texting storm with my friend Amelia. Three minutes later, I thought to myself, "Now, wasn’t I supposed to be doing something? Oh. Shit." But my flightiness was rewarded in this case, because when we entered the gallery, several people emerged from the darkroom and said, "A minute wasn’t long enough either."

My first shot came out pretty good.

Janna’s did not. Her entire block of photo paper was white except for a small triangular spot of image in the center. She seemed dismayed, but undeterred since we had a second shot to do. I chose a chain-link fence that had eerie parade of stuffed animals strung along it. The stuffed animals were gray and tattered and I imagined they reeked like mold on a homeless person’s flannel shirt and car exhaust.

Janna’s second attempt provided the same results. She was really upset so I did what any good friend should: I made fun of her mercilessly.

If all cameras were pinholes, what would the paparazzi do?

This is my favorite one that came from the 35mm I used in the Holga. It has a vintage feel which appeals to me, like Eddie Fisher is about to come out and start serenading. I was telling my friend Merry about this picture last weekend and she got really excited. Too excited. "Oh my God, I can’t believe someone else knows that! I used to drink that all the time!" she yelled in her southern drawl. This took place over the phone, but I pictured her excitedly cooling her face with a lacey fan held by a gloved hand. "You drink steak sauce?" I mean, I know I have weird friends, but I was still taken aback. Just a little. Then she explained that she thought I had said Ale 8, a ginger ale-ish beverage. "Yeah, Erin. Whenever I get that craving for a delicious drink of savory meat sauce, I just have to have my A-1."

My first attempt at using the Holga. This is Chooch’s boyfriend, Reynold. It’s unfortunate that the empty can of Milwaukee’s Best in his lap isn’t visible.

Downtown, by the Amtrak station.

A church, you know?

Bueno Mexicana’s visiting from Ohio, so we’re about to go and try to get arrested today.

It appears cemetery photo shoots on December 25 became a tradition without me knowing it. Here’s hoping Chooch passes it down.

The rest of the set is here.