When I was 13, I loved amusement parks and listening to the same songs over and over. (My top 2 burnt-out songs of that age were “End of the Road” by Boyz II Men and “Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover” by Sophie B. Hawkins—the b-side of that song was dope, ya’ll. Just ask my friends Kim and Liz, who were subjected to it the whole weekend we spent at Lake Chautauqua that summer.)

Twenty years later, the only real difference is that I don’t have braces anymore. And if I really felt so inclined as to dildo my ego, I might even say that my hair is way more fabulous now. (Hi, I had a perm then.) But other than that, there I was in the car last Saturday morning, listening to the same 5 albums, rinse and repeat, for 4 hours on the way to Knoebel’s Amusement Park in Elysburg, PA.

“Uh….this CD is back to the beginning. Can we change it now?” Henry would ask futilely as the instrumental intro to Dance Gavin Dance’s Downtown Battle Mountain replayed. (Yes, I still buy CDs.) I’d answer that question by looking out the passenger window and smirking. God, it’s good to be childish.

I mean, child-like.

 We arrived at the park 30 minutes before registration time, but luckily Knoebels is a free admission park, so we parked and did a preliminary walk-around. I needed to get a lay of the land and to scope out all of the rides, as if I hadn’t creeped on their website 87 times in the weeks prior.

I take amusement parks very seriously. If a park is particularly crowded and Chooch wants to stand in line with 60 screaming assholes to ride the Tilt-a-Whirl, I will calmly* count off on my fingers all of the other parks and fairs where he will be able to ride the ubiquitous Tilt-a-Whirl, at which point I will drag him over to a ride that we wouldn’t normally have access to at home in Pittsburgh, like the Looper or the Cosmotron (like an indoors Music Express — Metallica was playing when we rode it). Someday, Chooch will understand this and his future children will be better because of it.

*(I mean…..)

The concept of an amusement park with free admission is just so precious to me. I remember when I was a kid, our local Kennywood Park was like that — you could just strap on your fanny pack and walk around if you were an old person or perhaps someone allergic to standing in lines, and not worry about it costing you $35+.  And maybe later on if you wanted to just ride the bumper cars because  maybe you’re 9 months pregnant and trying to put yourself into labor, then you could just buy tickets for that ride and call it an abortion day.

Knoebels is still like that! You can either get the ride-all-day wristband, buy individual ride tickets, or not do either of those things and just eat yourself to death on caramel apple pork chops. KNOEBELS ISN’T GOING TO JUDGE YOU.

PETA probably will, though. Right after they make stickers with your caramel apple pork chop-stuffed face on it. I’m sure I’ll be signing some petition about it at Warped Tour this year, too.

Finally, it was 11am and we got to meet up with our peeps at the pavilion. The Handas were already there, so Chooch and their daughter Katelyn did their weird elementary school flirting routine (which is obviously still the same flirt set I belong to). Those two never stopped bickering like an old married couple for the rest of the day: Insult! Assault! Compete! Repeat! 

A little 411 about DAFE (appropriately pronounced “daffy”): Back in November, I enrolled the three of us in the Darkride and Funhouse Enthusiast club because I was always checking out their website for trip ideas anyway, and then once I became friends with the Castle Blood family, I learned that they have an affiliation with that group as well. That was all the arm-twisting I needed.  One of the coolest perks of being a card-carrying DAFE member (aside from bragging about it, of course), is that there are kinds of fun group events to attend at various amusement parks and we get exclusive ride time on the dark rides. In November, we got preferential treatment during Kennywood’s Holiday Lights event — a lights-on walk through of their dark ride Ghostwood Estate while the everyday commoners were still waiting to get into the park.

Shit, you know I rode that high horse the whole way home.

However, my work friends think that this is one of the most ridiculous things ever as far as my ridiculous life goes and have been making fun of me mercilessly. To that I say: u mad, work-bros?

I was so excited to get my own laminate that I didn’t even question the fact that “fourty” is spelled wrong. I LOVE LAMINATES. All day long, I was thinking, “Yeah, I see you looking at my laminate” to all of the non-laminated people in line. Somehow, Henry became part of the registration crew and sat at a picnic table, stringing together laminates. He is always identified as “blue collar volunteer” no matter where we go and always ends up helping people.

We are so fucking different.

I’m going to get him a bunch of “CREW” t-shirts for his birthday.  I’m sure they’d be applicable every time he wears them.

After we were registered, we still had to get our hands stamped and wrists braceleted, which required us to stand in line with COMMONFOLK for an extended period of time because the park was just about to open for real and everyone decided to get there at the same time. That gave me time to scope out the non-DAFE crowd.

“I’m looking for my kind,” I explained to Henry, who knew immediately that I was looking for scene kids.

“Good luck,” he said dryly.

I thought I saw a guy later on in the day that I could possibly have an ill-conceived crush on, but the closer I got to him, the more I realized he was half past Bring Me the Horizon, more toward Blood on the Dance Floor.

That and also the fact that he was probably only 15.

And had pretty bad skin.

And wasn’t Jonny Craig.

With our special DAFE vouchers, we each got a ticket for the two dark rides—Black Diamond and the Haunted Mansion—which are an additional fee on top of the ride all day price for all the peasants.

Meanwhile, my stomach had REALLY STARTED TO HURT. I’m not sure what the fuck was wrong, probably Henry’s terrible driving and the shitty Sheetz breakfast sandwich that was revolting inside my new Weight Watchers-shrunk stomach. But it was so bad that I was afraid I wasn’t going to be able to ride anything. CAN YOU FUCKING IMAGINE!?

I’m going to end Part 1 with this awesome photo that I took inside the free Knoebels Museum:

In our travels from Lancaster back home to Pittsburgh, we stopped at the Flight 93 Memorial in Shanksville, PA. The road wound us all over a rural expanse of undeveloped land. No houses. No businesses. Barely any other cars. Just the three of us, driving closer and closer to a site of tragedy and gloom.

Once we parked, we had to walk a bit to the actual memorial. Only family members are permitted to visit the actual crash site, which is presently marked with a small boulder and a flag. Apparently, there is a monument in development.

Objects of rememberance were scattered across the wall leading up to the memorial. I’m not going to lie — it was hard to even breathe while we were there. It was scary being so close to where such a huge piece of our tragic history was scripted, but mostly just overwhelmingly sad.

At the end of the path, there are tall marble markers etched with the names of the crew and passengers, angled toward the direction in which the plane was crashing.

After visiting Shanksville, I can’t even begin to imagine what the Ground Zero Memorial would do to me.

Shippensburg, PA would have absolutely no value to me if not for Ed Helms and his impeccably-constructed Tiny World, a small village in his yard built for his cats.  Henry seemed pretty ambivalent about this stop on my agenda, and I think he was going to try and dispute it so I made sure to loudly announce, “But it’s a town built for CATS!” which made Chooch’s interest pique real quick, and soon Henry had two children whining and begging to visit Tiny World. Henry glared at me for using the c-word. “Cat” is like the equivalent to smelling salt for Chooch. He can be in the deepest zone, a self-induced pouting coma, but someone casually says the c-word and he’s very much in the present, yelling, “WHERE? WHERE? WHERE IS  THE CAT!?”

Sometimes I don’t even know why Henry bothers to object. His voice of dissent falls on pretend-deaf ears every time.

As Henry wound the car over country roads, he asked, “Um, this isn’t at someone’s house, is it?” I answered him by looking out the window and ignoring him.

Parts of Tiny World can be seen from the road, so I screamed for Henry to pull over the first second I glimpsed a hillside dotted with a doll-sized community. We parked in a small, makeshift gravel lot next to several other cars. At first it seemed like Tiny World was going to be booming with tourists, but we were the only oglers the whole time, so I guess the cars belonged to the family.

I don’t know what I was expecting, just some plywood shells I suppose, but Ed’s attention to detail was impeccable. I read online that he had no formal training in this stuff, just sat down and did it for no reason other than because he wanted to. And you know what, that’s inspiring even to someone like me. If I want to be a brain surgeon, I should just sit down and do it! And boy, have I got just the person to be my guinea pig.

The town was a tiny bit weathered, some of the furnishings had toppled over and cobwebs abound, but it was still pretty surprising that it wasn’t in a greater state of disarray. The proprietor is apparently pretty old and was suffering some health problems according to a Roadside America update from 2011, so it’s hard to say if upkeep is being honored at all.

The attic of one of the larger plantation-esque homes had items all strewn about and I wondered if it was intentionally done to make it look haunted. In either case, I legitimately shivered and stepped away from the window before I wound up accidently staring into the eyes of Bagul.

Dead rooster in the barn’s hay loft.

To be honest, I kind of liked that it had an abandoned tone to it. It made me feel like we were being watched from the nearby woods, hackneyed hillbillies lining us up in the crosshairs of their laser guns, preparing to shrink us down into Tiny World citizens. I already knew which house I was going to move into. (The one with the haunted attic, duh.)

If you like trains, then one might imagine you would enjoy the Tiny World Train Station.

That wallpaper! And look at that tiny box of thread on the sewing machine – even if you’re some joyless cat-hating asshole who thinks that building a sprawling town for feral cats is a waste of time, you still have to give respect to the details that went into this project — it’s a true labor of love.

There was even a relatively hot picture of Jesus Christ on the wall of the church.

Chooch’s succinct review, typed on his own: “It’s cool!  it’s kitty awesome! it’s  really freakin cool as shit.”

Again, the reviews I read online weren’t exactly current, but Tiny World is supposedly a hot commodity for all of the neighbors during the Christmas season. We noticed quite a bit of leftover Christmas lights and decorations peeking out here and there, so God only knows the last time the holiday lights set-up was functioning.

Built into the entrance/exit trellis is a pot for donations which I insisted on contributing. This seemed to prickle Papa Tight Wad’s asshole, but he finally handed Chooch a dollar for the pot.

“I WANT TO PUT MONEY IN TOO!” I cried. “IT WAS MY IDEA TO COME HERE!!!”

Henry sighed wearily and slapped another buck in my opened, whiny palm, which I then happily dropped into the collection hole.

“I’m so glad we came out here! It was totally worth it!” I gushed while Henry tried to find his way back to the highway and a gas station before Chooch pissed his pants. “Wasn’t it awesome?!” I cried, shaking Henry’s arm.

He didn’t answer, just continued to drive while looking like the personification of FML.

Henry, actually SMILING was washing the car windows! It’s a road trip miracle!

We also visited the Flight 93 Memorial in Shanksville, but I don’t feel that it’s appropriate or respectful to include that in this post.

To lighten the mood, we stopped in Bedford for a photo op with a large Coffee Pot, which used to be a lunch stand way back in the day. Like all awesomely tacky roadside attractions, it was in threat of being demolished in the 90s, but was eventually restored and is now used as a landmark.

THANK GOD!

“No, that’s OK,” Henry mumbled when I asked him if he was going to get out of the car and gawk at it with me and Chooch.

After Chooch accidentally knocked off part of the coffee pot (in his defense, that pot has structural leprosy), we both turned into royal motherfuckers. Henry of course knew this was because we were hungry and FINALLY stopped at a Valley Dairy to feed us.

“Hey Mommy, knock knock,” Chooch said after our food was served and we began to return to our non-surly, hyper selves.

“Who’s there?” I begrudgingly went along. His knock knock jokes are the worst.

“Room service!” And then we both laughed our food all over the table while Henry simply frowned at the memory of his stressful experience the night before at the hotel.

“What are you looking at?” Chooch asked me as I stared off into the distance while slowly eating a scoop of maple pecan ice cream. (Hello Weight Watcher narcs, I was on “vacation.”)

“Nothing, I’m just thinking,” I answered.

“Oh,” Chooch shrugged. “I always figured that when you do stuff like that, you’re wondering why Daddy won’t marry you.”

HOW ASTUTE.

—————

That night, after we had been home for a few hours, Chooch sighed, “I miss yesterday.”

“What part do you miss?” I asked.

“Uh, Pierce the Veil,”  he answered in that awesomely snotty teenaged tone.

Me too, Chooch. Me too.

So much love for that entire weekend!

It was imperative to go back to Dutch Haven the next morning before we left Lancaster. Crybaby Henry wanted to get a piece of shoo-fly pie and Chooch and I wanted souvenirs for our peeps. Plus, I like to look at the windmill on top of the store.

“How many pictures of that do you need!?” Henry cried when I went out front to take another picture. AS MANY AS THE DUTCH GIRL INSIDE OF ME DESIRES, OK FATHER?

I almost bought this Amish bonnet for Andrea because she said she wanted Amish shit, but I just couldn’t decide which one would make her look like the best Chaste Candlemaker. So I got her other Amish shit instead which of course I haven’t mailed yet, because I have a Lazy Sender reputation to uphold.

Chooch so badly wanted a t-shirt of a bunch of cats on the beach. It said “Beach Bums” and the back of the shirt was a picture of the cats’ asses. We literally fought about this shirt in the middle of the store because hello, I’m not buying some stupid beach t-shirt when Lancaster doesn’t even have a beach! Get a courting candle or GTFO kid!!

He ended up getting a little Amish doll magnet — for his TEACHER whom he loves more than me.

Of course, he managed to lose the magnet during his spring break.

Thank god for the Roadside America app or else we would have gotten home about 4 hours earlier than we actually did. There is a ton of tacky shit to see and do along the historic Rt. 30, so I was pretty thankful for our bent wheel keeping us off the turnpike.

One of the things I desperately wanted to do was take a tour of a Shoe House in Hellam, PA. I emailed them a few days beforehand to see if anyone would be around to give us a tour and they said NO. I flew into a rage that night at work. DON’T LIVE IN A HOUSE SHAPED LIKE A SHOE IF YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BE AVAILABLE TO GIVE A TOUR, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!

I mean….maybe next time.

On our way to Lancaster the day before, we kept seeing signs for Smittie’s Soft Pretzels but never actually found Smittie and his soft pretzels. Near Gettsyburg, the signs began popping up again, but unless Smittie was selling his wares from inside a broke-down van from 1983 (one of the signs was propped up against its hood), there was no sight of any damn pretzels.

Miles later, I screamed, “THERE! ANOTHER SMITTIE’S SIGN!” Henry pulled over down the street and there it was — the elusive pretzel van.

The pretzels were eh.

“They’d be better if they were warm,” Henry lamented. Yeah, what’s up with that, Smitty? Maybe he should have my co-worker Cheryl send out an email for a pretzel warmer contribution drive. She’s really good at collecting money, on par with the paperboy from “Better Off Dead,” at least.

Fuck you and your room temp pretzels, Smitty. You cunt.

Of all places, Henry was the most adamant about stopping at Mister Ed’s.

“Is it going to make us miss Mister Ed’s?” he interrogated me when I mentioned casually some of the other awesome tourist traps I wished to visit. Then I figured out he probably just wanted to see if they had any old-timey candy from his childhood.

We were going to stop there the day before, but they were having some gigantic Easter egg hunt and there were millions of screaming kids and their asshole parents milling about, so we kept on driving and felt extremely thankful that Chooch was sleeping in the backseat, else we’d have never heard the end of it.

So, the story is that Mister Ed has been collecting elephantine things for his entire life, for no good reason. Except that if I had watched the video playing in the small museum, or read any of the signs on the walls, or cared enough to Google, I would probably have way more information to enlighten you guys right now. But the truth is that I stopped reading when I got to “over 5,000 elephant items” because really, what else do I need  to know?

Wait! Lies! I’m telling lies again! I did read that Mister Ed’s had a fire a few years ago and over 2,000 of his elephant thingies perished. He ended up receiving OVER FIVE THOUSAND more in the mail from kind-hearted hoarders all over the world.

Mister Ed’s is basically just a roadside candy & gift shop with way too many stuffed animals for Chooch to beg for. Henry was mad at us for some reason that I forget now so he wouldn’t even stand near us inside the store. We even let him buy himself a Mallo Cup, but he was still being a total Hoover. Then he got mad because I bought a maple cake even though he mumbled, “You’re not going to like that.”

Well guess what? He was right. It was disgusting. But still!

I know. Don’t say it. This is going to be Chooch as an old man, but with tens of thousands of cat curios.

The actual elephant museum was only one room, but it was still worth it. Mister Ed even had the same elephant table as me! Except that his is elephant-colored, not pink. I bought a small Hindu-esque elephant from the gift shop and now I don’t know where I put it.  I also bought a Mister Ed’s magnet and lost that, too.  I always happen to LOSE STUFF after Henry cleans the house.

Ugh, I wish this was for sale!! I’ll just get Henry to make me one, I guess. In lieu of an engagement ring, maybe.

l-r. elphants.

Henry, being miserable. Even in a pachyderm paradise.

That elephant was supposed to talk, but it did NOT.

I was actually able to pay attention to the rest of the tour now that Andrea’s picture was planted, but shit — I was tired of listening to organ music and Dick’s scripted adages. Furthermore, I realized that there was not a single wheelchair in Chuck’s collection. (Excuse me while I pause here and Google “German wheelchairs.”)

(OMG German Shephards in doggy wheelchairs – abort mission. ABORT MISSION!!)

One of my favorite parts of the tour happened about 2 minutes after I took this picture, and that was when Dick started bitching about his failure to wear suspenders that day while hoisting up his ill-fitting pants.

Classic Dick.

Then we listened to a machine that some fools consider to be a “calliope.” Don’t be an ignorant asshole, OK? It’s a band organ. If you don’t know the difference, then get off my fucking lawn.

Calliope. Morons.

Meanwhile, Shelly was  right behind me, sitting at one of the 87 bars, making me all self-conscious and completely paranoid. So I folded my arms and mimicked the facial expressions of the Shoulder-Baring Know-It-All to make it appear that I was Really Into It and hadn’t just committed reverse theft.

The completely-wasted, superfluous wine cellar. When having a wet bar in every room of your house just isn’t enough.

Dick didn’t point out the bottle of Mad Dog this time,which proves he only did that last December in hopes that Andrea would shout, “Mad Dog? Why, that’s my jam!” and then he could take her (and the bottle) up to his creepy, cordoned-off Bayernhof bachelor pad.

The weird, man-made cavern secret passageway that leads from the basement to the indoor pool area is the money shot of the tour. Talk about saving the best for last.  Fuck all those weird fake Calliope things!

I wonder how many of Chuck’s old party guests fornicated down in there.

Shit, son!

I can’t express how badly I want to swim in this pool. I might even write some poetry about it.

Um, of course there’s a gnome-covered bar in the pool area.

Yeah, that’s what I thought too, until Dick caught me giggling, sighed tiredly and said, “They’re shoeing a horse.”

At the very end of the tour, Dick had Shelly pass out a basket of comment cards.

“And if you’d like to volunteer and do what Shelly does, please leave your contact information on the back of the card,” Dick added, and I practically pushed people into the pool in my mad dash for a comment card.

Like there was going to be any shortage.

At first, I panicked when I realized every single person was filling out a card, but I think I was the only one awesome enough to volunteer my door-shutting, eagle-eyed services.

“You sure you want to do this?” Shelly asked, and I jumped a little, not realizing she had sidled up that close to me.

“Why?” I asked, with a nervous laugh, half-expecting her to clamp some kind of edelweiss-branded handcuff on me and hauling me off for questioning, where I would be forced to admit my picture frame deviancy while fake calliopes blasted out my ear drums from all angles.

“Well, some people can be annoying,” she whispered and then just as I was sure she meant me, she smiled and I realized she was clearly referring to Shoulder-Baring Know-It-All.

But…probably Dick.

Shelly ended up being pretty cool. I know this because I shook her hand and it was pretty cool.

***

Later that night, I was excitedly telling Henry about my dreams of spending more time at the Bayernhof, getting to know the real Dick (his name is apparently Tony, who knew? I guess everyone who was actually paying attention), and just otherwise immersing myself in weird German crap.

“Yeah, until he finds that picture and goes back and watches the tapes,” Henry said smugly, dashing my dreams.

The upstairs is where shit really gets crunk. Taxidermied birds singing in a cage? Random, out-of-place collection of baseball caps? Humongous Hummels and remote-controlled bathtubs?

All upstairs, baby.

Corey, up to his eyeballs in Bavarian sights.

Kristy, procuring decorating tips for her Zombie Lounge.

This guy would rather be drinking micro brews while listening to Gaslight Anthem.

The balcony from which Andrea contemplated swan-diving last year.

The game room!

This one girl in our group (pictured above) reminded me so much of Andrea because she had the face of a person contemplating suicide. Her male companion was equally solemn, but later I heard them ambivalently mumble to each other about how the Bayernhof was cool, so that was when I realized they were actually just hipsters.

Dick didn’t seem nearly as enamored with the Andrea Knockoff. In fact, he didn’t even force her to take a fortune from the fortune teller machine like he did to Andrea last year.

Speaking of Andrea, in the French-decorated guest room, I pulled the framed picture of her out of my purse and contemplated leaving it on the dresser I was standing next to, but then I made eye contact with Depressed Teenager. Before I had a chance to slip it back into my purse, Dick turned off the phonograph that was holding everyone enrapt, sending everyone’s attention back toward the door, and I was forced to carry the picture with me into the master bedroom.

I noticed a security camera in the corner of the ceiling, pointed right at me, so I was too afraid to put the picture back in my purse for fear of it looking like I was stealing, but carrying it around in my hand looked just as suspicious, if you ask me. I really wanted to leave it on the bedside table, next to the photo of Chuck and his buxom German fraulein, and so I planned it that I would be the last to the leave the room when Dick led everyone into the master kitchen/bar.

However, Shelly the Muscle slinked over to the doorway of the master bedroom and leaned up against it, Roadhouse-style. I was convinced that she had made me her mark, so now I was starting to perspire slightly on top of darting my eyes around in a paranoid fit.

I filled Kristy in on my plan right before we climbed the steep staircase to the Bayernhof observatory. (Corey mentioned later that he felt like he was in a game of Clue and I just can’t imagine why.)

Shelly followed us up to the observatory too, I guess to make sure no one tried to steal the $20,000 (and probably 20,000 lb) telescope. I actually wasn’t aware that she came up there with us until she apparated from nowhere to Vanna Whitely gesticulate at something Dick was going on about.

Her mere presence was making me fidget with the picture frame until I eventually snapped off the flap on the back. I tried to whine to Kristy about it, but it was at the exact moment we were walking past the 87th bar inside the house, so unless I was saying, “Do you want that on the rocks?” I don’t think she was listening.

In the master bathroom, Shoulder-Baring Know-It-All made some kind of racy comment about having a party in the bath tub, and according to Corey, a brief sign of life flashed across Surly Hipster Girl’s face in response. Of course, I missed all of that because I was too busy silently melting down over where to place Andrea’s picture, and HOW.

Meanwhile, Corey got the giggles and I was trying to stave off my innate desire to gang-laugh with him.

After Dick gave us enough visuals of Chuck’s bathtime routine to produce a Kubrick-helmed cinematic saga  in our heads, he pulled on a long floor mirror which opened to reveal the first of several secret passages, which is of course my favorite part of the house and momentarily distracted me from my photo-placing panic.

Chuck’s Nixon-centric office. I don’t remember this lady in the photo, which means she must not have been annoying.

Shelly didn’t follow us down the secret staircase into the office! I thought I heard Dick mumble something about her having to go and pick up her husband, so I became extremely hopeful and even unclenched a little.

I was the lucky one who got to descend the secret staircase from the office into the boardroom right behind Dick’s ass. We entered the room and Dick found that one of the closet doors was open.

“Chuck must have been in here again,” Dick said with a laugh.

Oh shit, I wanted to murder him with ghost questions, but everyone else had filed into the room by then, and god forbid anyone interrupt Dick’s meticulously memorized spiel.

I have no idea what everyone is looking at because obviously I was too busy taking pictures. I do love how everyone has their arms folded accordingly.

After learning about how the boardroom was essentially one collosal waste of money and space considering Chuck didn’t even have a board, we exited through another secret doorway, into the basement bar.

Attached to the basement bar room is a small canning room, full of industrial cooking equipment which Chuch only used once — to make sauerkraut. Dick let everyone pile into the room while he stood near the doorway, rambling on about the specs of the room, yet conveniently leaving out the part about how it was used to butcher people.

With Shelly nowhere in sight, and me being the last one to exit the canning murder den, I figured this might be my best chance to dump Andrea’s likeness. I quickly conferred with Kristy and Corey who agreed that I should just drop it like it’s hot.

So I did, but not without first clanking it against that glass straw holder and fumbling to make it stand without the aid of the little flap I broke off earlier.

When I emerged from the claustrophic canning room, I saw that Shelly had returned. I’m sure that if she or Dick had asked me a question at that moment, the word “Guilty” would have blurted out of me like the “cuckoo” from a clock.

Shelly squeezed past me and headed straight for the canning room. I held my breath, expecting her to come marching out with Andrea’s portrait, shaking her fist in my face, getting Dick so riled up that his suspenders break. When I imagine Dick losing his temper, and I immediately think of the Caterpillar from Alice In Wonderland.

Turns out Shelly didn’t even go inside the canning room; she was just closing the door.

Total adrenaline rush for the rest of the  tour. (Yes, there’s one more part. Sorry!)

Apparently, whoever lived in this cell was well-behaved enough to be given his own TV, what the hell?

After getting a load of the maximum security North Hall digs, the cells in the “moderately bad guy” hall almost looked livable. According to Wiki, “[t]he fate of the prison was sealed in a 1986 ruling by the West Virginia Supreme Court which stated that the 5 x 7-foot  cells were cruel and unusual punishment.” Nine years later, the prison peaced out when all the inmates were moved to a larger facility in a nearby town.

Volunteers got to be locked inside the cells. Of course, Chooch was all over this. I only wish they’d have kept him longer.

The guide told us that on one of her tours, a man was taking pictures of his wife and daughter in one of the cells, but every time he looked at the pictures on his camera, the cell was empty.

The guide said she saw the pictures herself and could confirm that his wife and daughter were not appearing in the photos. A girl in our tour group lunged for that cell immediately after hearing the story, but the phenomenon must be particular because she showed up in all of the pictures.

Ghost shit never happens when I’m around!

Another outdoor area where the general population criminals could exercise and, I don’t know, mill about? Lay on their backs and look at the clouds?

There’s a chapel out there, and a bathroom, the wall of which had to be knocked down after an inmate was killed in there.

Entrance to the Sugar Shack. This was an area in the basement where the inmates could go during inclement weather, but they entered at their own risk. They were completely unsupervised down there, and even though there’s no record of anyone actually dying, it’s still considered the most haunted area of the prison, due to all of the violence and suffering that occurred in there. We didn’t get to go inside during our tour, which means I’m going to have to go back and take one of the ghost hunt tours, so if anyone wants to join me, holla atcha girl.

Old Sparky! I think he speaks for himself.

The museum room was fascinating. I think I want to decorate my future invisible house with prisoner art work. I mean, I already have a small collection thanks to my death row pen pal’s penchant for abstract water coloring.

(I shouldn’t be concerned that he painted a nude of me, right?)

Next possible Christmas card in the series…

Chooch seemed particularly interested in the weapon wall. Go figure.

My favorite part of Moundsville is its connection with Charles Manson.

Manson grew up in this area, and his mom was even imprisoned there when Manson was a kid. So he wrote a letter to the warden, asking for permission to be transferred so he could be closer to his childhood home. He also thought he would be treated better there.

The warden’s response was a simple yet effective, “It’d be a cold day in Hell.”

Can you imagine how different Moundsville’s history would be if Manson’s wish was granted? He would have taken control of that prison right off the Aryan Nation and god only knows what would have happened next.

Anyway, I pointed to Manson’s picture and asked Chooch if he recognized him. He looked at me like I was a dummy and said, “Um, yeah. He’s the guy on your cards.”

That night, Chooch watched some of Manson’s interviews on my phone. It was a really awesome bonding moment for us. Thank you, Moundsville!

The warden and his family used to occupy the top floor of this section, and supposedly the ghost of some broad is sometimes spotted in one of the windows. (OUR GUIDE HERSELF HAS EVEN SEEN IT, WHAAAAT.)

For only being the beginning of November, it sure was fucking nipply up in that pen. I never knew this, though it seems pretty obvious, but there was no heat or A/C for the inmates in this prison. They roasted like pigs in their tiny cells during the summer and turned into frozen predator pops in the winter. However, a new cafeteria was built shortly before the prison closed for good. It was part of a deal that the Governor struck with the inmates during the last hostage-situation riot that took place there in the 80s: the new cafeteria would be the only room in the prison with heat and air conditioning. Danny Lehman, president of the bike gang the Avengers and the inmate responsible for striking the deal, was murdered in the North Hall by the Aryan Nation before ever getting to see his cafeteria completed.

Our guide talked about Danny Lehman A LOT. I think she had a crush on him.

(I looked up his picture. He was pretty OK looking.)

The new cafeteria has some pretty sweet paintings upon its cinder blocked walls. They were all painted by the same inmate, who was color blind (shout out to my color-stupid brother!) so he had another inmate mix the paint for him and included his name on the paintings, too. Sounds kind of un-prisonly to me.

Who knew jail birds could be fair.

The guide let us explore the kitchen area without her, so that tells me either there is nothing to note in that area, or the paranormal perils are so plentiful that the guides are like, “Y’all go on ahead and poke around in there if you want while I stand out here close to the exit.”

Anyone who knows me knows that I have this condition where I need to write my name everywhere, on everything, all of the time. Restaurant place mats. Scratch paper at work. In Henry’s underwear. On sidewalks in chalk. Under the mattresses of the people I stalk. I think it’s called megalomania. Solipsism. Egocentrism.

Maybe a pretty perfume of all three, with notes of narcissism.

You best believe I dirtied my finger in that prison grit to leave behind my name.

If I was a tattoo artist, I’d sign my name to everyone’s motherfucking skin.

Bitch, try and stop me.

View of the yard through the cafeteria window. Apparently, nothing of note ever happened in the new cafeteria, but they had emergency tear gas running up through the rafters just in case shit got cray.

Tried to get Chooch to eat this.

We got to check out the yard after poking around the cafeteria.

All the way back in that corner was a tiny bullpen set up for the inmates who were in protective custody, mostly murderers and rapists of children.

Attention: Parents of Young Kids! If you’re not ready to broach such heavy topics, perhaps a tour of a penitentiary can wait a few more years.

The words “rape” and “rapist” were slung around so much during this tour that it’s a fucking miracle Chooch didn’t raise his hand and ask what the fuck it means.

Hopefully this doesn’t mean he already knows.

The blue building is where some of the inmates got to make a month making license plates.

Some of them would smuggle parts of the machines out, like tiny screws and stuff, and then throw them over the fence at the maximum security inmates out in the bullpen playing basketball with each others heads. Then those guys would do ungodly things to be able to sneak their newly acquired weapon-making contraband past the guards.

Some would even cut their arms and slip this shit in there, oh my fucking god.

But I guess at that point in your life, what’s a little prick, right?

Ninety-four men were executed in Moundsville. Eighty-five of those were hanged from 1899-1949, and the other nine were electrocuted after one of the inmates constructed an electric chair for the prison. (He then had to be put in protective custody. Duh.)

Hangings were viewed by a public bleacher section until 1931, when the rope decapitated its victim. Can you imagine dressing little Susie in her Sunday’s best and sitting on bleachers eating Cracker Jacks while some fucker was lynched in front of you?

Actually, I kind of can.

And that fucker is Henry.

Chooch has been obsessed with prisons thanks to season 3 of The Walking Dead, so I thought it would be fun to take him to the old State Pen in Moundsville, WV last weekend for a tour. Henry acted all put-out about it, but you know he was in there flexing his fake muscles during the tour, fantasizing about being a prison guard.

This was one of the bloodiest prisons in America, and all those paranormal shows have had episodes revolving around it. The prison itself offers ghost tours, which is what I really wanted to do but figured I would start out with the historical tour so that my 6-year-old doesn’t get too fucked up.

I took a ton of pictures with my phone and camera, so this is going to have to be done in parts.

Entering the North Hall.

North Hall: where the most savage inmates were kept. Chooch is absolutely obsessed with two inmates, Red and Rusty, who were held in this hall. Red was stabbed 37 times by Rusty in 1992.

Even in broad daylight, with a group of about 15, you just couldn’t shake that foreboding sensation. I lingered a few times while taking pictures, and then did a super-frantic scramble back to the group.

I think Chooch sat in every cell.

It’s hard to imagine spending 23 hours a day in that tiny cell. I’m fairly positive I wouldn’t last a night. Especially not without my PHONE, god forbid.

I have a pen pal on death row in Florida. It makes me wonder what his cell is like. I don’t think I ever asked him in the 10 years we’ve corresponded!

If Henry was a prison guard, he’d be the first son of a bitch to get shanked in a cafeteria riot and you know it. And let’s not even think about his fate as an actual inmate. Can you imagine how fast he’d wind up as some hick biker’s Mary?

Actually, he’s probably felt like an inmate for the last eleven years now that I think about it.

Part of this door was turned into a shiv after an inmate patiently worked on it with a cigarette lighter. (Seems kind of stupid to me that they were once allowed to have lighters on them, but hey — what do I know.)  Inmates are the worst kinds of MacGyvers.

Ha-ha-ha, glory hole! (Glory triangle?) Apparently, two North Hall inmates were pretty intimate with each other. This was my favorite part!

Can you imagine all the Jonny Craig graffiti I’d have in my jail cell?

The door to this cell had to be cut to accommodate an inmate in a wheelchair. On the day he was being transferred to a new facility, he got up out of his wheelchair and walked out.

The Wheel House — a large iron-barred revolving door in the Administration Building used to transport prisoners from one area to another. This is basically what Chooch looked like during the whole tour – he never stopped moving. For a change though, he wasn’t being too annoying. He was just super stimulated and interested in everything the guide was saying.

Still, I was thankful that our guide seemed like a kid person. Chooch kept ditching us to walk with her.

There was definitely something different about the New Vrindaban community when Seri and I left the Temple, and then it hit me: the grounds were empty. There weren’t any kids on the playground or climbing all over the giant plaster elephant. No one was milling about in the courtyard or strolling along the lake.

It was just us.

And the 18 pounds of food playing Tetris in my stomach.

We sat underneath a lakeside gazebo for a few minutes, admiring the view and hypothesizing if we could ever get Henry and Pete to come back with us and rent one of the cabins on the edge of the woods.

Because that’s not a horror script that’s been written 87 times.

The lake was so serene. There was a swan at the other end and I tried to focus on that and not the 30-foot dancing acolyte statues in the distance, which were sincerely making me nervous.

Jonny Craig was there, too!

I was afraid that if we sat there any longer, we’d end up seeing something we wouldn’t be able to unsee, like a murder, so I suggested we keep walking. We kept hearing loud plops along the edge of the lake, and I was so sure it was a large frog so we both edged our closer to the water JUST IN TIME TO ALMOST STEP ON A LARGE SNAKE AS IT SLITHERED BACK INTO THE WATER. And then Erin and Seri, as animated by Hannah-Barbara, screamed and did their best unintentional cartoon run back up to the path.

That might have been my most religious moment there.

Shaking off that disgusting brush with nature, we continued walking down the path—albeit with our hands on our hearts— toward the large gazebo-like structure on the lake.

“Can we go in there?” Seri asked, but I was already trampling down the gravel-path to the door. I figured, as honorary Hare Krishnas, we were allowed to open any door we pleased. [Cue Pandora’s Box parable.]

I actually screamed a little when my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I saw a big ass swan boat staring back at me.

There was a throne-type structure built above the seat of the boat, which made me think this was reserved for special occasions, like Anglo-sacrifices. Boxes of fireworks lined the boat house walls, and I considered snagging some but with my luck, the swan would spring to life. Meanwhile, Seri was trying to get inside the boat and I very honestly said to her, “Look, if you fall in, I can’t promise that I’ll come in after you.”

Not now that I knew there were snakes in that water.

Leaving the boathouse, I finally realized what this place reminded me of. “The Wicker Man.” And not that shitty Nicolas Cage remake, either. Yes, everything was beautiful, but it came with an artificial, uncomfortable quality.

Plus, it was in the hills of West Virginia.

And teeming with Hare Krishnas.

Just then, we noticed that the peach-robed conch-blowing priest was standing further down on the path, watching us.

“We didn’t do anything wrong!” I said to Seri. “Just act normal.” Which means we continued walking with suspicious mannerisms illuminated by a beacon of guilt.

The peacock enclosure was next, so we were distracted by that for awhile, until I turned around and saw that he was following us at this point. So we continued on, across a small bridge, right smack into the feet of the dancing acolytes.

Are you kidding me?! Tell me these things don’t come alive at night.

This is basically what everything there looked like up close: cracked, broken, decrepit. What was once meant to be a flourishing testament to their gods and Swami was now grossly depreciating. Even the boathouse was full of cobwebs, and the swan boat was chipped and looked more scary than regal. It wasn’t hard to imagine this being the setting for tragedy and murder in the 1980s, when Swami P-dawg’s successor had fanatic cult members commit murders for him. Twenty years later, and it must still be hard for the community to shake that stigma, considering that’s the reason why Henry wanted no part of this little day trip. Of course none of this stuff is mentioned during the tour, though.

Chugging the blood of sacrificial white girl lambs, it’s what keeps them pacified.

And then Seri called Pete to tell him that we were being chased by who she thought was the Dalai Lama, who at that point was meditating in the grass by the boat house. I was actually offended that he wasn’t really trying to chase us down to convert us. Who wouldn’t want two nervous white girls? Seri could arts-n-crafts that bitch up! And I could….eat their food? Start a New Vrindiban blog? Teach them about Jonny Craig?

At that point, we had been there close to 4 hours, so we mutually agreed it was time to leave. Rather than backtrack and have to walk past the meditating priest, we opted instead to climb a hill back to the main road. It was a great ascent with my food luggage in tow. I didn’t want to die at all.

Somehow, we still managed to spend another hour back at the Palace grounds, admiring the rose garden and sitting by the lotus pond. On the way back to the car (to grab my unicorn mask; Seri promised she would pose in it!), we passed the cashier from the gift shop who exclaimed, “You girls are still here!?” Which made me realize that it had been about two hours since Henry had last heard from me and it didn’t occur to him to check in to make sure I hadn’t been slain. Thanks for loving me, Henry.

On the way back to Pittsburgh, we both agreed that this was totally worth it and that we would definitely return. Probably with more animal masks.

***

The next morning, I received a voicemail from someone named Jay Sree of New Vrindaban, claiming to have found my wallet, which I didn’t even know I had lost. She described it as “black, with a heart that has a picture of a young girl in it.” Definitely sounded like my iCarly pocketbook. I called Henry to tell him and he immediately got all disgusted and spat, “You were probably pick-pocketed!”

Luckily, I had my debit card at the bottom of my purse, because I’m so lazy when it comes to putting it back in my wallet. Ugh, all that zipping and tucking? So exhausting. So the only thing in my wallet that I really needed was my drivers license. When I returned the call, I spoke with a man at the Palace who sighed and said, “Yes, it is here in Lost and Found.” He sounded disappointed in me, like an Indian Henry.

It arrived in the mail several days later, and I was crestfallen to see that they didn’t slip in any religious pamphlets or sign-up vouchers. WHY DON’T THEY WANT ME!?

 Swami P-Dawg, chillin’ in the Temple. Seri swore she saw him breathing.

I almost needed rolled across the yard into the Temple after winning the blue ribbon in my Lunch Buffet Bender Championship, in which I competed against no one. I couldn’t even stand entirely erect, so I’m sure all the community residents were thinking, “Sri Krishna, get a load of this lazy white American, how disrespectful that she comes here and demoralizes our cuisine with her trash-mouth and then slouches in your presence.”

Which is still worlds more respectful than the time my friend Brian took me to this tiny but intense chapel called the Burning Bush and first I got all resistant when I saw that I had to take my shoes off, and then I laughed out loud at a man lying prostrate on the floor in front of the altar; Brian kindly asked me to wait outside. Afterward, in the parking lot,  I realized I left my keys inside the chapel. Brian physically blocked the door with his entire body and hissed, “No! I’ll get them. YOU WAIT OUT HERE!” This is a story for another day.

Like the Burning Bush, we were asked to remove our shoes before entering the Temple. This time, I did so without acting like a Riot Grrl. Look at me, getting all mature!

Inside, a little Indian boy ran over to me and shoved a yellow flower in my face.

“Aw, thank you!” I said as I started to take the flower from him.

He snatched it back and said, “No! Just smell it,” and stuffed it back into my face, which still had Indian spices seeping out the pores. Thanks for making me feel like an asshole in front of all of your gods, kid.

And then of course I sniffed it like I was doing a bunny bump of Special K (which is probably the only way I’d ever make it to India); Krishna-forbid I do anything gracefully.

There were only a handful of worshipers inside, watching a peach-robed Hare Krishna fan the tableau of deities with peacock feathers while chanting the official Hare Krishna mantra, the words of which can be found all over the grounds. (But I still, to this day, remember it after learning it in high school.

) There were other words to the chanting as well, but we couldn’t tell what he was saying. It was monotone, yet fascinating. We followed the example of the other visitors and sat Indian-style on the cold floor.

Seri kept asking me questions about what was happening, and I was like, “I don’t know. I’m Catholic.” I know it’s hard for her to believe that I don’t actually know everything, and that’s one of the many reasons I keep her around. I’m practically her Swami.

After he was done with his prayers, he blew numerous times into a large conch shell. It was equal parts horrific, annoying and completely captivating. I felt all spiritual and cleansed. Except that my stomach still felt like an Indian food clown car.

“What do you think that means?” Seri asked when he finally ran out of breath on the last shell-blow.

“I don’t know. I’m Catholic,” I reminded her gently, making a mental note to add Hare Krishna for Dummies to her Christmas wish list. Where was our Palace of Gold tour guide when we needed her? (Taking a joy ride on an ATV, we’d later find out. It was probably bought with donations guilted out of us dumb Christian tourists.)

(I can’t believe I just called myself that.)

I do not know what these crazy anime-looking things are, but if I was promised shit like this to look at, I would definitely start going to church more often. (Scratch the “more often” part of that last sentence.)

While we were permitted to take pictures inside the Temple, there were signs everywhere that asked us to please not stand with our backs toward the deities.

“Are we supposed to walk backwards when we leave then?

” Seri asked sincerely. Good question.

Nowhere inside the Palace of Gold lobby could I find even a footnote about the cafeteria. I thought this was pretty strange, because eating is important, especially since we were in the hills of West Virginia and would probably have to skin a groundhog or worse – a Miley Cyrus fan – if we wanted to replenish all the energy we exerted being faux-spiritual in some dead Indian’s palace. What kind of establishment doesn’t post all kinds of ephemera directing visitors to their cafeteria?

I wasn’t leaving that joint without having my fat, heretic mouth fed the food of Krishna. I waited for the annoying redneck with the baby oiled-hair daughter to suck up by donating $10 to the repair fund, and then I sidled up to our shorn-headed guide and, in a tone reserved for a man inquiring about a happy ending, asked, “So, where’s the cafeteria?”

She seemed slightly surprised, I guess because most whities get their fill of the Palace and all of its splendors and then go back home to eat real food at McDonald’s. But not these whities. We didn’t just drive 80 miles from Pittsburgh for a 30 minute tour without ingesting some sort of edible souvenir.

“The cafeteria isn’t located in the Palace. It’s down by the temple and lodging,” she explained.

“Ok,” I replied, not about to be deterred. “Is it walkable?” She said it was only a quarter of a mile down the street and come on, this is the #7-ranked Walking Challenge Specialist in Pittsburgh, PA. A quarter of a mile ain’t shit.

But first we stopped at the gift shop, where the middle-aged cashier was talking to her friend on the phone the entire time (Seri said they were talking about someone having a mistress; I was too busy trying to keep my eyeballs from aooga‘ing over all the baubles) and had the audacity to ask if I could pay with cash instead of credit because she didn’t want to get off the phone. That doesn’t seem like something Sri Krishna would want his peoples to do.

I paid with my credit card.

Seri and I got matching bracelets to celebrate our independence from our men-folk! The only man for me is Swami P-dawg, anyway.

We walked the short distance down the street, passing nothing but fields, and then cows, before arriving at what I guess was New Vrindiban’s city center. We had to ask about the cafeteria one more time before finding it on the other side of the Lodge and a small playground occupied by happy Krishnan children. (Krishnan is probably completely incorrect but it sounds so, so right.)

Finally, we stumbled upon the open-door to Govinda’s Restaurant and walked in RIGHT BEHIND MY INDIAN ENEMY from the tour. God, I would have thought he had been halfway home on his high horse by then.

We walked into the cafeteria and were immediately met with a strong sense of awkward. The West Virginian red necks had probably bailed on the cafeteria in favor of Jeb’s pig roast, so that just left me and Seri as the outsiders. But I refused to be chased away by racial discomfort. Not on an empty stomach, anyway.

Turns out the secret mystery food of the Hare Krishnas is your regular Indian fare. How did it not occur to me that this was just going to be Indian food? I’m not sure what I thought it was going to be, but I was definitely hoping for some gold-plated pudding at least.

Still, I could be content with Indian food, especially since the last 87 times I suggested it to Henry, I was denied. What’s a girl gotta do to suck down some curry?

Drive 80 miles and consider converting to a new religion, apparently.

Seri, not being a big fan of Indian cuisine, was not as content with the Hare Krishna offerings, though. However, there were traditional American items on the menu too, for all the honky posers who are driven there by the power of George Harrison’s seminal hit “My Sweet Lord;” things like pizza and grilled cheese.

There was no organization to the ordering system, so we just kind of stood in the middle of the cafeteria like two maladroit dummies, until I finally had the foresight to approach the counter. Seri followed me, for I am her leader.

Too bad INDIAN DICK  beat us there and proceeded to naan-block us while scribbling out his family of five’s order. (There was a teenage boy with them who evidently skipped the tour of the Palace in favor of sexting his boo. WWSP-DD?)

(What Would Swami P-Dawg Do? Obviously.)

But then I made eye contact with the guy behind the counter who had a head tattoo. I wasn’t about to piss around with the menu so I just ordered the lunch buffet. Since Hare Krishnas are vegetarians, I felt confident in my decision. Finally, I could eat the shit out of a buffet without accidentally biting into bull testicle.

Part of the buffet had just been taken back into the kitchen when we arrived because I think they were getting ready to switch to the dinner selections, so Head Tattoo told me, “I will just prepare plate for you.” You don’t argue with a man with a head tattoo, even if he bears an uncanny resemblance to Aziz Ansari. (He totally didn’t. I just wanted to see if your Racism Bell tolled.)

While we waited, Seri watched a man eating alone behind us. “What’s that?” she asked me, pointing to a plate in the middle of his table.

“I don’t know. Maybe like some kind of pot pie or something?” I shrugged. It turned out it was naan. In my defense, my eyes are REALLY BAD.

Head Tattoo came back with two full trays. “Oh,” I started. “I ordered the buffet for myself—”

“No! It’s OK. I’ll take it,” Seri said as she retrieved the tray. When in New Vrindiban, eat like New Vrindibanians. I was infinitely proud of her for that.

The non-head-tattooed cashier told me there was a $10 minimum for credit cards, so I told her to add a mango lassi.

“How do you know what that is?” Seri whispered.

“Because I’ve eaten in Indian restaurants before,” I whispered back, hoping that she wouldn’t expose my Caucasian roots.

“Yeah, but how did you know to order that?!” she persisted.

“Because I saw it on the menu!” I hissed under my breath, so INDIAN DICK wouldn’t catch wind of the cracker bitch trying to play like a seasoned lassi drinker. God, that was all I needed was for him to smirk at me.

Indian food is some of the most visually disgusting slop this side of homemade baby food. But Krishnadamn, is it good. And Seri appreciated the nod to the Western World the buffet gave by providing a vat of pasta. Our naan order was up at the same time as INDIAN DICK’S teenage son’s. Seri said he tried to argue with Head Tattoo because our plate had four pieces as opposed to his two-piece plate, at which point Head Tattoo gave him a lesson in counting. “That’s because THEY have TWO buffets,” he supposedly said. I say “supposedly” because who knows if we can believe Seri. We go to the high school track at night and she thinks she sees armadillos and crashing planes.

INDIAN DICK, above the Pepsi can. Even blurred, I can still tell he’s a dick.

“I COULD LIVE HERE,” I moaned, shoveling food into my fat mouth with my naan-shovel. Seri ate slowly and like a normal human not competing in a speed-eating contest. I envy that about her. But the one thing we had in common in that cafeteria is that our faces were both melting off above that tray of food. Hot flash city.

“I’m never leaving!” I texted Henry.

“The Palace?” he replied.

“No, the CAEFETERIA.”

And Seri tried everything on her plate and even liked most of it! (You’re welcome, Pete.) As usual, I ate faster than my stomach could handle and wound up pregnant with paneer and rice. What a stinky baby that would be. Halfway in, my stomach was expanding and the waistband of my jeans were waving the white flag, but I still kept eating because I drove 80 miles for this and by George Harrison, I was eating my fill even if it meant perforating my stomach lining. I really thought I was hungrier than I actually was.

Seri kept trying to rush me out of the cafeteria, probably because she knew I was 2 spoonfuls away from having my stomach pumped, but I was like, “Hello, can I finish my mango lassi? Krishna!”

In the temple afterward, not only did I come close to gilding a deity tableau with my vomit, but I apparently donated my entire iCarly wallet as well.

When making weekend plans with Seri, we tossed around the idea of going to the craft store, maybe a cemetery.

Or!

We could go to Prabhupada’s Palace of Gold in West Virginia, I hinted.

My suggestion was met with a resounding “Yes.” A day at an Appalachian Hare Krishna compound? Who could say no to that?! (Don’t answer that.)

The Palace is located in its own town of New Vrindiban, just outside of Wheeling; it’s reached by a series of seemingly infinite winding country roads, the kinds with curves so sharp it makes you think you’re going to plummet into a gorge if you do anything more than 15 MPH. (In other words, do not drive while receiving BJs on this stretch of asphalt, my friends.) It was farm house, cemetery, church, farm house, cemetery, church, farm house, cemetery, church for 8 miles. But it was OK, because I made a CD full of Chiodos, Circa Survive and Sade especially for this trip.

(You’re welcome, Seri.)

My gas light went on literally right as we passed what would be the last legit gas station for miles and miles; I was a little worried, but for most of the drive we were behind a rusty pick up truck, the bed of which was occupied by a lawn mower and a teenage boy, and I was sure they had a gas can in there somewhere, too. (I mentioned at one point that I thought the kid was pretty hot, and Seri rejected my opinion.) The further along this road we traversed, the more sure I was that we weren’t going to be stumbling upon a gas station any time in the near future and once we broke down, probably all of the men in the pick up truck were going to eschew rescuing us in favor of raping us and making us cook them sloppy joes for the rest of our lives.

Eventually, the curvy country road turned into a pot-holed path coiling through the wooded hillside; we promptly lost service on our phones right after Seri called Pete to see how long we could sustain with the gas light on.

(For the record, he told us we were fine, but I think that’s because he wanted to laugh at us after our ride home to Pittsburgh in the back of Henry’s juice van.)

I decided to defy Pete and turned around in the gravel driveway of someone who certainly had at least two decomposed bodies propped up on milk crates in their basement and was definitely sitting in stretched out underwear on a stained futon, skinning a possum for tonight’s pot roast, and drove back to the first curvy road where we had passed a small, no-name, one-pump gas station.

(You’re welcome, Henry.)

It was the kind of gas station where the overall-clad attendant blows into a ram horn to alert the nearby hill-dwellers that city folk are on their way, get yer slingshots ready and yer inbred dicks lubed.

Except that this gas station accepted credit cards. But that probably just means they’d use a phone instead of the rams horn.

The old lady clerk had to come outside and help me pump my gas, at which point the entire pump started churning and clanging, like there were tiny mountain men inside of it, peddling wooden unicycles to make the gas spurt out of the hose.

I should probably check my bank account at some point to make sure I didn’t get overcharged so some West Virginian gas shanty could buy a new sign for the shop.

Or, you know, a sign.

We headed back to the curvier, hillbillier of the two roads. This time it was four miles of trailer, forest , abandoned house, trailer, forest, abandon—OMG DEER!

, pot hole, trailer. (Roadkill is implied.) We were basically writing Tobe Hooper’s next movie for him.

(You’re welcome, Tobe Hooper.)

(Please get Elizabeth Olsen to play me.)

One last curve in the road and there it was, the Palace of Gold. We entered a door at the far end of some strange wall that looked like it belonged on a Spanish villa, not some Taj Mahal knock-off, and crunched across the long gravel walkway until we reached the steps to the palace.

And that was our first indication that the palace, while a gilded architectural fairy tale from the road, was actually in quite a state of disrepair.

It’s not like I have some vested interest in televisions, but going to the Early Television Museum seemed like a perfectly acceptable way to spend a chilly, overcast Sunday in March.

Even if it meant driving 3+ hours to the small town of Hilliard outside of Columbus, OH. Nothing weird about that, or the fact that Henry had to keep putting me and my petulant attitude in check, or the fact that nearly every one of my senses was drop-kicking me straight back into the hands of 2005.

I was just there to see some vintage fucking TV sets. Goddammit.

Our current TV is about three years away from being quite at home here.

Andrea would have hated this place because it was an unguided tour. The aging hippie at the front desk took our donation and was basically like, “I don’t give a shit what you do. Touch whatever you want.” And that is exactly what Chooch did — touched every button on every TV. (OK, I did too.)

I can’t remember the last time Jonny Craig sounded so loud in my head, even around the constant hum and squelch of vintage television.

Some buttons actually were off-limits. Thank god there were cameras in every room to make sure that we didn’t touch anything/anyone we weren’t supposed to be touching.

Oh look! It’s Henry standing amongst televisions from his own era!

“I like your shirt.”

“Thanks, I bought it after you quit talking to me.”

When I was five-years-old, there were only three TV channels and I ate sardines straight from the can! Henry to Chooch, who fucked around with his “new iPhone” all day.

For all my clown-lovahs out there.

World’s first clicker aka remote,  I think.

GERMAN TV!

PURPLE TV!

I was worried it wouldn’t be worth it. But it was worth it.

I was so distracted by all the relics from the past, that I forgot to even sign the guest book.

Seriously. Who actually LOVES Ohio? In either case, we had a nice day there yesterday. I’m very tired though & ruing the moment I gave Chooch my old iPhone so he can play Draw Something on his own.

Granted, it’s helping him with his reading and spelling, but he is SO HIGH MAINTENANCE about it and gets all pissed of when people don’t drop everything to guess his drawing immediately after he sends it to them. (omgitschooch if you want to play him.)

(He really is getting so good at reading and spelling though. Through the power of “sounding it out,” he was able to spell “piss” the other day. I’m proud and also extremely surprised that he started with such a PG word.)

At one point yesterday, we were at some playground in this small town outside of Columbus when he patted the pockets of his jeans and exclaimed, “Shit, where’s my phone?!”

Dude, you’re 5. Calm the fuck down and play with some Legos. And no, not a Lego app on your iPhone!