One of the things I really wanted to do while in Williamsburg was go on a ghost tour. I mean, you can only watch Colonial actors perform Colonial acts so many times, if at all. You know? (Actually, aside from walking down the main street in the sweltering heat, looking for ginger cakes, we opted out of the Colonial exhibits. As I mentioned previously, we were given tickets for that shit from our resort, but we exchanged them for Busch Gardens tickets instead, because we ain’t be needin’ no history on this vacashun.)

When I told Henry about the ghost tour, he was like, “……”

And then when I was like, “Well, we’re doing it,” he was like, “………………………………”

And then when I was like, “I paid $4 extra a person for the EXTREME version,” he was like, “Oh for fuck’s sake, Erin.”

We left a little bit early so that we could go to this peanut shop we saw the day before, because Henry and I are what you might call “peanut connoisseurs,” in that we often like to partake in the mastication of groundnuts. For example, right now I’m at work, eating a small cupful of peanuts that I cribbed from another part of the department. (Yes, I’m still a snack stealer.)

Chooch wasn’t feeling it.

Then we visited some some large tourist trap of a shop full of moccasins, souvenirs, and bacon-flavored everything. Basically, an “outpost” stuffed with shit no one really needs. They put a fluorescent vintage VW minivan thing out from and a giant bear to sit on in order to lure people in. It works.

Chooch desperately wanted a pen that looked like a rifle, and of course it was basically glowing in neon letters WILLIAMSBURG! CIVIL WAR! HISTORY! MORE THAN JUST A PEN! It was only $5 or something but Tight Wad Hank was like, “NO” which made Chooch sad, and I have to hand it that kid: he wasn’t being too spoiled so far. Sure, he was asking for everything, but 99% of the time, once we said, he moved on.

Except with this pen. He like, needed this pen. His heart was aching for it. So I gave him money to buy it and then told Henry to go fuck himself, basically. Henry just batted at the air with his blue-collared hand and walked away, leaving me to stand in line at the checkout with Chooch, who was getting really tired of thanking every old woman who stopped to tell him they liked his hair. THEN DYE IT BACK ALREADY!

We came outside just in time to catch the tail end of Henry taking a picture for two broads who were also drawn off the road by the prospect of sitting on some fake bear’s crotch.

“Hyuk, hyuk, you’re welcome!” Henry was saying after he handed the phone back to them. Of course, Chooch saw right through this ruse and knew immediately that Henry probably had programmed his number into the phone and is by now deep in the throes of an affair. And that’s fine, because Henry’s not my type, anyway.

(Please see: must wear fitted flannels and beanies, be known to attend a Thrice or Circa Survive show BY CHOICE, neck/hand tattoos, preferably in a band.)

I bought our idiot tickets online rather than going to the “general store,” wherever the fuck that is, so once we got back down to Colonial Williamsburg, we walked straight to Bruton Parish, which is where the website said we should all plan on meeting. Since we were already there once that day, I felt less like a tourist since I knew right where to go. (It also helped that it was on the main drag.) Gradually, more and more people started popping up and I was getting angry. How were we going to get the full experience with so many motherfuckers who had the same idiotic idea as us (me)?!

A family of four plopped their asses down near us and naturally, the mom started moving her lips in the shape of small talk; why. Why why why why. Go talk  to your own family!  Henry of course was standing further away with his face firmly planted in his phone, so no one bothered him. This broad was even talking to people who were just passing by. Like, lay off lady!

“What makes this ‘extreme’?” Henry eventually broke down and asked.

“I don’t know, it just says it starts at 9:00* and there’s equipment involved,” I verbally shrugged.

*(Good old 9:00PM. SOME SAY it was the runner-up for the Witching Hour.)

Sometime after 9, some broad from the ghost tour office arrived and started collecting tickets and, thank god, dividing the now-sizeable crowd between several guides. Each group ended up having about 15 or so people in it, and we were separated from the Talker, so I was pleased. Except that in exchange, we got a family of 5 that included A BABY IN A STROLLER.

WHO BRINGS OUT THEIR BABY DURING THE (RUNNER-UP FOR THE) WITCHING HOUR?

We got paired with some hyperactive older woman who Chooch pointed out later reminded him of Ellen, and when Henry had the audacity to ask, “Ellen who?” Chooch shouted in disgust, “SERIOUSLY?! Oh my god” because there is only one Ellen in the world and that is the Degeneres one.

I actually don’t think I ever caught the guide’s name, so we’ll just call her Ellen. Thanks, Chooch.

Ellen was mildly humorous (some of the less intelligent people in our group thought she was a fucking riot, though) and asked us to keep an eye out for horse shit on her behalf since she was backpeddling while telling us historical ghost stories. She encouraged us to take pictures with the flash on. Have you ever taken a picture at night with a cell phone? Well, if you haven’t, get stoked, because you’re about to put your eyes on a shit ton of iPhone night photos, and they are real lookers.

Henry, annoyed before it even started because GHOSTS AREN’T REAL, spent nearly the whole tour trailing behind the group, reading the same status updates over and over on his phone (he only has like, 70 Facebook friends) and probably reading things about the Republican Party and pinning mason jar DIYs on Pinterest. This is what he looked like:

I’m going to go ahead and tell you that this is some kind of paranormal activity that my advanced phone camera picked up.

Turns out that the “equipment” included on the EXTREME tour was one (1) EMF meter. (I had to google that.) Ellen gave it to the vocal non-believer of the group, this broad named Donna, who was there with her husband and two bitch-daughters who were wearing t-shirts that said “Got Ghosts? Williamsburg does.” Chooch hated them right off the bat, and I quickly realized that it was because the one was a huge dickhead whiner just like him.

“I NEED SOMETHING TO DRINK,” she spat at her father through gritted teeth pretty early on into the tour. “I AM LIKE DYING OF THIRST.” God, that sounded familiar. I could almost hear that coming out of her mouth in Chooch’s bitch-voice.

And mine.

Quickly, Father! Run to the nearest haunted Williamsburg well and quench your dumb daughters thirst!

Anyway, DONNA got to hold the EMF meter first and surprise, surprise, she was picking all of the activity! Ellen was delighted. The non-believer was attracting all of the ghosts! Oh ho ho, isn’t that always the way it works? All hail, Donna! She encouraged everyone to bombard Donna with photos because this would be a great time to capture orbs. Of course, Donna’s husband took a photo that basically made it look like Donna was a magnet for paranormal activity. Ghosts were coming down from Salem, for Christ’s sake! DONNA THE NON-BELIEVER’S HERE, GUYS! LET’S APPARATE!

Everyone crowded around to see the poster for Paranormal Activity 6: Douchebag in Williamsburg on her husband’s phone. It was early into the tour so I was kind of interested in what was going on, I wasn’t full-on pouting yet, but I couldn’t get close enough to see what had everyone so excited.

I don’t know what this was supposed to be. Tree. Fence.

Ellen told us a handful of, truthfully, very interesting stories, which had us all gathered around like this:

There was this one broad there with her friends, they were probably in their early 20s, and she was fucking scared out of her mind. I mean, nothing was happening. There were no chainsaws. No scare tactics being employed. And with all the taverns in Colonial Williamsburg, we were far from being the only idiots out there that night.

Henry, closing his eyes to better enjoy Ellen’s stories.

Chooch and I agreed that the best story was about the Ludwell-Paradise House. Lucy Ludwell was the daughter of a prominent family, but her ginger cake was missing some very important ingredients, if you know what I mean.

Let me rephrase that for my non-Colonial friends: she was batshit, guys. I was reading about her on some historical Williamsburg website after the fact, and she is adorably referred to as an “eccentric.” This made me laugh, because I have been called that a lot in my life.

She would get all up in ladies’ grills and tell them that she liked their dresses. And then when they would nervously say thanks, she would ask for the dress! Of course, they’d be like, “The fuck?” and quickly retreat. So she would follow them back to their houses and stand out front, watching through the windows, until she saw that the dress in question was now hanging up outside on the clothesline, and she would promptly go into their yard and take it! Oh, Lucy. Nothing is more charming than a rich person stealing from her neighbors.

Of course, her parents would pay people off to save face. And in order to make people like her, Lucy would invite people to her house and promise them carriage rides, because she had this beautiful carriage that she brought from England. But Lucy’s definition of a carriage ride was to have the help pull the carriage back and forth on her back porch.

Eventually, once her parents were dead and no one was left to protect her, she was thrown in the mental institution, which is now the art museum.

Lucy sounds like she fucking fabulous and the whole time Ellen was regaling us with her story, I felt an electric kinship, like she was watching me through a window of her old house, psychically implanting  me with her lunatic chip. #lifegoals

A tree. Fence.

This was the prison, where Donna was attracting so many motherfucking ghosts it was about time to call in an exorcist, for Christ’s sake. Chooch and I exchanged annoyed eyerolls and silently agreed that Donna was a fuckerbitch.

Chooch’s review: “It wasn’t scary at all and eff Donna.”

The highlight of the tour for me was when DONNA LOST HER PHONE OMG! HER PHONE THAT WAS CAPTURING ALL OF THE GHOSTS IN THE HISTORY OF GHOSTS BEING A THING!

“How the hell did she ‘lose her phone’ when it’s never not in her hand?” Henry grumbled. So we had to linger in front of some house that apparently wasn’t haunted at all but it sure as fuck was scary, while Donna and her husband walked back toward the prison to look for it. Mu theory is that she just needed some extra time to orb-ify more photos with whatever ghost hoax app she was using. Get fucked, Donna.

OMG don’t worry though! Donna found her fucking phone.

FINALLY! MY RUDIMENTARY IPHONE LENS FAKED AN ORB! I was so stoked because I did just as Ellen said and took a series of photos in a row and just like that, one of them produced an orb.

“SHOW HER!” Chooch cried, trying to pry my phone from my hands.

“No!” I hissed. “I don’t want these a-holes passing my phone around!” I mean, what if I got a sext during that time? Talk about a ghost hunt foul.

I just asked Henry for a review and he laughed without mirth, shook his head, and said, “No.” I think he’s still trying to not think about all of the peanuts he could have bought with the money I flushed into this ghost event. My favorite thing to do during the tour was whip my head around and make “OMG!!!!” faces of disbelief at Henry as Ellen told us story after story. He was so mad.

Hilariously, the three of us pretty much walked separately from each other the whole time. God, what a team we are.

I wonder if ghosts and Amish people ever get together and talk about how fucking annoying tourists are.

Ellen showed me some photo of a window on her phone and I have no idea what I was supposed to be seeing, so I just said, “Wow. OK.”

Toward the end of the tour, someone else finally got a chance to use the EMF meter and promptly mistook it as her chance to try out new modeling poses she saw on A Beautiful Mess.  Still not as annoying as Donna though.

I wonder, if no one is paying attention to Donna, does she cease to exist? If Donna falls in a forest, and no one is around to hear her, does she take an Instavid of herself to prove that she made a noise?

Finally, the tour was wrapping up and we all headed back to Bruton Parish, where Donna told us some story about lightning striking and leaving ghoul faces on this grave marker:

And then Donna came flying over to show Ellen more of her doctored photos and I didn’t even try to be subtle about the barfing noises I was making. We left without saying thanks or goodbye to Ellen, but that’s OK because only had eyes for DONNA anyway.

DONNA DONNA DONNA DONNA.

And here I was worried that a baby was going to be the douche of the tour, but no. It was a grown-ass woman. Douchey Donna. I hope she took some evil entity home with her to her Douche Headquarters. She must be so proud of herself, being the star of some dumb ghost tour that no one will ever remember. EXCEPT FOR ME BECAUSE I HAVE A STORAGE UNIT FULL OF GRUDGES.

In summation, I enjoyed the historical and ghost stories Ellen told us (I didn’t write about all of them because they’re all taken from books written by some dude name L.B. Taylor so they can be easily accessed if anyone was interested in learning more) and to be honest, once we ventured off the main drag, it did get kind of creepy. But I would not recommend paying extra for the “Extreme” version because that EMF meter was a fucking afterthought. I don’t even think Ellen even really explained to everyone what it was doing, and she honestly seemed to forget that it was in use most of the time.

As soon as we were out of earshot, I was like, “Fuck Donna.” And Chooch and Henry wholeheartedly agreed, so really you could say that this was family bonding experience. It’s not often we’re all in agreement on something.

In addition to the Cheese Shop, my friend Jeannie also recommended that I visit Bruton Parish while in Williamsburg. Jeannie went to college in Williamsburg and she knows what is and isn’t relevant to my interests, which is why she didn’t send me to a golf course or butcher shop.

Bruton Parish was established in 1674. I know this not because I read a placard or went on an historical walking tour, but because I just now Googled “Bruton Parish” and skimmed the first three lines.

It’s basically against the law for me to be that close to a cemetery without stopping by. Actually, Jeannie’s official travel tip to me was to get sandwiches (with House Dressing!!) at the Cheese Shop and then take it to the cemetery to eat, but Henry was being an impatient douchebag, probably a lasting side effect from his Toby smoking habit. and made us eat at a table outside of the Cheese Shop.

“WHERE ELSE WOULD YOU LIKE TO EAT!?” he snarled, which might seem like it would be scary and threatening, but it just really annoys and pisses off me and Chooch. I hate when he uses That Tone on us!

“In the cemetery!” I cried, and then he went on to postulate that there was “probably nowhere to sit there.”

Gosh, Henry. What’s this here wooden butt-crate thing? Is this one of them there benches that I heard about? In a cemetery? TO SIT ON?! WHILE EATING A SANDWICH IF ONE SO DESIRED?

Way to ruin a perfectly good hypothetical picnic, Henry. Go choke on a Toby.

The fact that skulls were so prevalent on headstones back then fills me with joy.

The guts of the cemetery was cordoned off, so we were only able to admire the graves from afar. It was still worth it though. There was so much beauty there, even if the constant chute of sweat sluicing into my eyeballs made it sometimes difficult to see.

Seriously, we’ve been having such an unusually mild summer here in Pittsburgh, that we were left woefully unprepared for the blistering heat and sweltering humidity that left my face moist and oily like a glazed donut, like where’s that spare slice of bread when I need it to soak up my sebaceous facial splooges, like my cheeks are a fucking fount of extra virgin olive oil (that’s EVOO to you Food Network sluts) I’m a real goddang babe in the south, y’all.

Wishing he was six feet under.

“OMG A CEMETERY. I’VE NEVER SEEN A CEMETERY BEFORE.”

I think this was after I told him we were going to come back here later that night for the ghost tour that I keep mentioning but haven’t had a chance to write about, and by now it probably seems like it’s going to be the greatest story ever told (on this blog) because I keep foreshadowing. Goddamn are you going to be sorely disappointed.

P.S. We hated basically everyone in town that day because HELLO LEARN HOW TO NOT TAKE UP THE ENTIRE GIRTH OF A SIDEWALK.

And don’t try to tell me you’re just really engrossed in the sights and sounds of Williamsburg. Because no, you’re just an asshole.

We spent the morning of our first full day in Williamsburg signing away our life at Kings Creek Plantation. Immediately after, we drove out to downtown Williamsburg and got sandwiches at the Cheese Shop because Jeannie told me to and even though I act all tough, in reality I do what people tell me.

Haha, just kidding. But I went along with it this time because Jeannie said the magic word: cheese.

After that, we ventured down the road into the Colonial portion of the town. All the exhibits have an admittance fee, and the resort offered us free passes to watch people churn butter and hammer iron things, god only knows what goes on in those houses, but we traded them in for BUSCH GARDEN TICKETS because please, don’t try to teach us stuff. They* don’t charge you to walk down the street at least, and to spend money in the many novelty shops, so there’s that.

*(I don’t know who “they” are. The ghosts of Williamsburg, I’m guessing.)

“What are those?!” Chooch cried as we walked down A Colonial Street, pointing to a tree pregnant with what looked like dangling alien weeners.

Henry squinted up at the tree.

“Oh, that’s a Toby tree,” he answered in his Know-It-All tone. “We used to smoke those when we were kids.”

OH HELL NO, HOLD UP.

WAIT A MINUTE.

PULL UP A CHAIR TO THE FIREPLACE, PAPA H IS ABOUT TO SPIN A YARN.

And then in true Henry form, he conveniently had nothing else to say. Just straight up sauntered away from the can of worms he left writhing in the Williamsburg heat.

“DID YOU LIKE, GET HIGH FROM IT?!” I screamed, imagining Henry lounging against a tree trunk, puffing on a “Toby,” glazed eyes seeking out fighter jets in the sky.

“What? No!” Henry answered, verbally swatting the fly.

“THEN WHY DID YOU DO IT?!” Chooch demanded.

“I don’t know. It’s just what we did back then!” He was getting defensive at this point.

I kept pressing for more information until he snapped. “There’s nothing else to say! It’s not like I did it constantly!”

The idea of Henry cutting class to smoke a fucking tree had me doing the pee-squat in the middle of some Williamsburg square while Old Folks in seersuckers and capris strolled past at a geriatric pace, taking pictures with their 35mm cameras.

I can honestly attest that I have never seen any of these trees in Pittsburgh. Presumably because Henry smoked them all.

Way to throw away your future, Henry.

“Look, I’m daddy, smoking a tree!” Chooch battle-cried, his exuberance echoing along the square, awakening our forefathers who probably thought it was time to fight another civil war.

Look at what you taught your son, asshole.

Henry’s mom has been staying at our house all week and Chooch just now tried to rat on his dad as I’m writing this.

“Did you know your son used to smoke trees?” Chooch sneered.

Henry’s mom was unfazed. “Oh, yeah. Toby trees. I used to smoke them, too.”

WHAAAAAT IS HAPPENING!?

Now she’s going on and on about it but I can’t hear her because I’m cracking up so bad.

I JUST GOOGLED IT AND IT’S A THING! Henry didn’t make it up after all!

And then we kept walking, in search of some ginger cake thing that the saleslady at the resort urged us to find. She really had the idea of these cakes super hyped up, probably as a distraction to keep reality from setting in as we signed contract after contact, and I didn’t care how much of my face had melted off in the Virginian heat: I was gonna eat a fucking colonial ginger cake.

We finally found a bakery!

The bakery has a well thing!

WALKING TO THE BAKERY.

And of course the ginger cake turned out to be mediocre and I was really sad.

Then I bought post cards, like this one that had Barb’s name written alllll over it. I can totally picture her loafing with this jackass and his 18th century printing press. God, I can only imagine the pamphlets they’d print together, full of anti-Bill Paxton propaganda and slang from 2005.

Then we came back to Kings Creek where Chooch and I had a huge, public argument on a tennis court because I am incapable of teaching people things, but then we managed to go to the pool without causing a spectacle, surprisingly. Meanwhile, my workfriend Colleen commented on something on Facebook, telling me that her parents live in Williamsburg and have read my blog before, so we should go visit them. I pictured her parents opening the door to find my motley crew on their front steps: Chooch and his multi-colored hair, Henry in his nondescript attire with steam billowing out of his ears and a Toby between his lips (HA), and me on the fringe of lunacy. What a fucking sight.

Later that night, we went on a GHOST TOUR which I will write about at a later date. Like tomorrow. Maybe.

I wasn’t going to liveblog on the way home but let’s face it: what else is there to do when I’m in a car with Henry?

8:47: Henry is acting like a goddamn martyr because he has been doing all of the driving. We still have 7 hours left of the trip (we left Savannah late yesterday and drove to Charlotte, NC) and we’re all kinds of DONE. Henry didn’t even feed us dinner last night! I HAD CHEX MIX. :( Also we have been looking for a post office since we left Savannah yesterday.

8:48: Chooch: Where are we doing for breakfast? Henry: the post office.

Seriously though we spent so much time driving in circles yesterday because I typed “post office” into google and it told me to go to Orangeburg, SC. So that is how we ended up driving all around an industrial park in Orangeburg, SC looking for a post office so I could mail my postcards only for Henry to realize that my inability to read maps, or properly Google things for that matter, had led us straight to the Industrial Packing Supplies building. “Here it is!” I announced triumphantly. “THIS ISNT ANYWHERE CLOSE TO BEING A POST OFFICE, ERIN” Henry spat.

Ladies and gentlemen, Orangeburg.

But we got to see a rainbow!

9:20: we’re at the Tupelo Honey Cafe and Henry is currently not speaking to us.  lol forever.

This is definitely the type of place you come with people you enjoy talking to over brunch and HENRY IS NOT THAT PERSON LOL. Oh well, at least I have my backup: Chooch.  

Henry’s omelette came with a flower on the plate and now he’s even surlier. I had a delightful sweet potato pancake with peach butter and soysage and Chooch had eggs and homefries and actually ate the whole thing. I love this place but Henry is like exploding with hatred right now. He hates how all the men here are dressed in the same brand of strange-hued, fitted yuppie shorts.

10:05: One of the guys in yuppie shorts was asked to leave a few minutes after they got there because his female yuppie-partner was so drunk that she was laying across the table and the chairs and Henry said her dress was like wide open. They were walking back to their yuppie car in front of us and she was definitely drunk. It was a good example for me to show Chooch that rich people act like trashy assholes sometimes too. He’s learning lots on this vacation!

10:10: I enjoyed my time at the Tupelo Honey but Henry did not. “My food wasn’t from scratch!” he just whined. “The mushrooms and peppers in my omelette were from a CAN! That’s not FROM SCRATCH. They LIED.” Maybe a Bloody Mary would have helped him not notice.

11:22: Just left the Dale Earnhardt Headquarters, lol. I was like WE HAVE TO GO TO MORRISVILLE and Henry was all YOU HATE NASCAR THO? I just wanted to go and laugh.  

Me: Do you think they’ll have Tony Stewart stuff here?

Henry: THIS IS DALE EARNHARDT’S HEADQUARTERS WHY WOULD THERE BE TONY STEWART STUFF HERE.

Me: Do they have the car he crashed in?

Henry, appalled: NO! I HIGHLY DOUBT IT!

WHO KNEW?!

Chooch: Where are we again?

Henry’s favorite part!

Me: Do you think they have the outfit here that he died in?

Henry, mumbling at this point: Probably not.

At least it was free! Chooch got a souvenir penny but selected by mistake Dale Earnhardt Jr’s signature to be imprinted on it. I’m going to add an extra Jr to it so it’s like the band. (Even though they changed their name to Jr Jr a few weeks ago.)

I’m pissed because I wanted a magnet to boast that I was there but the gift shop didn’t have anything specific to the headquarters. Not even a Dale Earnhardt Headquarters is For Lovers t-shirt. I ended up getting some dumb NASCAR-ish photo magnet so I can just put my picture with Chooch in it I guess. Sigh.

Chooch’s main takeaway from this joint is that Henry looks like Dale (negative) and that we’re shitty parents who took him on the worst vacation ever because we wouldn’t buy him a notebook with Dale Earnhardt’s racing number on it. Cry it out, bro.

11:50: I think it’s safe to say that Henry reaaaaaallllly hates the Roadside America app. Also, my postcards were mailed. I know you were concerned about how that was going to play out.

12:07: Just accused Henry of not having any fun this whole trip and he said “I never said that. I’m just sick of you two.” BUT THEN HE SORT OF SMILED A LITTLE. So I took that as my opportunity to demand iced coffee.

2:02: We just left Mt. Airy, NC, the home of Andy Griffith and a Mayberry shangri-la.

Chooch was like “This is great but who the fuck is Andy Griffith?”

We skipped the actual Andy museum tour, but there was a free Chang and Eng gallery in the basement that we were able to quickly access.

Roamed around Main Street for awhile and then visited Wally’s Service which is where you can take tours of the town in an old Mayberry squad car.

I went inside to get my dad a coffee cup and to also snag some postcards since we had previously driven past the post office so I could easily mail them. Chooch almost made it out of the store without incident but right as I opened the door to leave, he barely touched a toy car on a shelf with one finger tip when the woman behind the counter snapped at him to not “play with the cars.” OK BITCH BROAD. HAVE A NICE FUCK YOU.

There was a replica of the jail next door so we stopped over there for some photo ops. Chooch took this one of me and then posted it on Instagram without my permission but luckily the cell bars and my layers are blocking some of my fat bulges.

Encountered a rude bitch lady in there, too. She was just a tourist like the rest of us so I don’t know where the superiority was coming from.  
And now Henry is pissed because we’re back on the highway, stuck on accident traffic and Chooch and I keep unplugging the GPS in orde to charge our phone/Nintendo DS.

3:02: Still sitting in traffic approx. 5 miles away from Mayberry. The Hells Angels are with us, though!

3:52: Henry made us pee at idiot Love’s, a gas station that was infested with people who, like us, had been sitting in traffic for over an hour, but of course they were all way more annoying than my perfect family.

Also, we’re currently in Virginia. Henry has said that he hates approx. 87 times today. I said I was sorry for breathing and he laughed sardonically and cried, “No you’re not! Who are YOU kidding?!”

And then his idiot self bought Chooch CANDY. Yes, that makes sense.

Chooch just asked if today is August 1. Like, get a fucking calendar.

5:06: Octavia recommended a pit stop in Pulaski, VA so that’s what I’m making Henry do right now and he’s pissed. He has reached the point where he only communicates in head shakes and moustache twitches.

But first, this overlook thang!

5:33: Huge fight because Henry wouldn’t stop anywhere “downtown” Pulaski and then some guy came out of nowhere doing about 70 almost wrecked into us, Earnhardt-style, but now we’re sitting quietly at Tom’s Drive In while a big table of locals talk in hushed tones about Chooch’s hair.

 The man standing is really excited because he went outside to buy the newspaper and it was from TOMORROW! A paper from the FUTURE and it only cost A DOLLAR!

Ah, local flavor.

5:57: Thought Chooch was staring at one of the younger girls this whole time but eventually realized it was the OLDER GIRL WITH PINK HAIR. She came over before she left and said, in the perfect drawl, “I like your hair…” And Chooch’s face almost burst into flames.  

 It smells weird in here and there’s no a/c but it was worth it for the people aspect. The two young kids working here are super personable.  

Cheapest meal on the whole trip, not counting the CHEX MIX DINNER I had last night.

6:52: We’re stuck in traffic again! Henry pointed out that we still have five hours to go before we’re home. “it’s like we made no progress today. It’s like we went BACK IN TIME” and now he’s muttering. Then Chooch asked him what our next vacation is going to be; Henry turned around and breathed fire into Chooch’s face.

7:34: Listening to a Koo Koo Kanga Roo podcast where someone said “follow your dreams.” Chooch freaked out because he thought they said Paul Eugene. Now he’s calling us Ma and Pa and I’m freaking out.
9:24: Three hours from home but at least we’re in West Virginia now! Stopped at a gas station in Mt. Nebo for refreshments; it had the cutest diner attached to it.

 West Virginian coffee station. I was pissed when I learned that there was a Sheetz down the street. “Why,” Henry sneered. “You hate their coffee too.” It’s true, but really it’s just their iced coffees. They just always taste so gross to me, like they use Lip Smackers for their flavoring.
  
The bathroom was sketchy upon initial entrance, but the stalls were surprisingly clean and provided great reading material. 

 THREE MORE HOURS.
Idiot Chooch got a bag of BBQ chips and is eating them with open-mouthed panache. YELLING AT HIM HELPS NOT.

9:52: Chooch is sleeping! FINALLY! I’m so excited that I licked Henry’s arm!

10:42: Henry just sped up at the same time someone was creeping up on us from the right lane and I screamed, “STOP TRYING TO RACE HIM! OH GOD, HE MIGHT SHOOT US.”

“Why is he going to shoot us?” Henry (kind of) laughed.

“I don’t know! Maybe he’s in a gang!” I defensively reasoned.

“The pick-up truck gang?” Henry sighed.

IT’S BEEN A LONG DAY. So long that Henry just deliriously whispered, “Bye bye, Guy from Ontario” when some car that Henry recognized as one that passed us twice while we’ve been on this this highway in WV, drove away down the last exit.

10:53: KNUCKLE PUCK, CARRY US HOME. I just want to wash my face. For hours.

11:22: Pennsylvania just welcomed us. One more hour!! I hope henry doesn’t think I’m going to help carry anything into the house. Lol.

11:45: Fuckface Henry stopped “to get gas” at Sheetz so now our arrival has been pushed back to 12:45. WHYYYYYYY, TONYA HARDING???? WHYYYYYYYY? Anyway, I went into Sheetz to pee and Talking Head’s  “Psycho Killer” was playing. I got really paranoid.

12:18AM: Carly Rae Jepsen and her sweet pop sensibilities carrying us down the home stretch.

12:44AM: OK WE’RE HOME GOOD NIGHT.

Today is my birthday! If you felt so inclined to celebrate along with me, It would make me super happy if you either:

• Listen to one Emarosa song (OR ALL OF THEM!!) 
• Send me a cabbage-y picture of yourself! Posing with cabbage head boobs, eating cole slaw, etc etc. Text it to me! 412-638-2379 I won’t think that’s creepy or anything, but Henry sure as hell does.

Speaking of cabbage….

We ate at some family restaurant yesterday in NC that had cabbage on the menu and I was dying. That’s what happens when you make yourself become obsessed with cabbage for the month of July.

I had a pimento cheese sandwich because when in Wilson, NC….amirite? It was pretty anticlimactic and the okra I ordered was fried and I was sad. I don’t know what I was expecting from a semi-fast food joint: steamed and on a kebab? My expectations are stupid.  But still, okra.

Today we’re en route to Savannah from Williamsburg, and I am ridiculously bored. Henry has essentially quit talking to us altogether. Which is fine because it’s not like we listen to him anyway. Chooch is playing something dumb on his DS and I’m reading Absolute Punk. So unless you want a detailed account of Buddy Nielsen from Senses Fail speaking out against the current state of the scene, or the recently announced tenth anniversary Juturna tour, then I’ve got nothing. 

So please enjoy looking at pictures of idiot Henry at Busch Gardens yesterday. 

Here you can see Henry about to triumphantly walk through his favorite part of the park, where his patriotism and selfless SERVICE stint could be celebrated by all. 
  

Standing in line for the second of the whopping FOUR rides he rode all day. This is actually more than usual, though. (This line was for Verbolten which is my new favorite ride in the whole world. Henry thought it was “fine.”)

Looking for a bench so he could push up his glasses and use his phone to look up Pretty Little Liars theories (“A” is really Xavier Roberts!) and home remedies for hemorrhoids. (Fresh cabbage leaves! I’ve learned A LOT about that leafy veg head this month.) 

He walks far ahead so people won’t think he belongs to us. And also so he can pretend that he doesn’t hear our cries for food, presents, and STRANGER DANGER, and more food. 

My favorite part about lunch at the Festhaus was the fact that Henry didn’t want to eat lunch at the Festhaus. 
  

He got really mad when he sat down at a table far away and then realized Chooch and I hadn’t followed him, so he had to pick up his tray and stomp irritably to where we were sitting. 

Henry wore one of his favorite salmon-colored tshirts yesterday and there were TWO OTHER MEN wearing salmon-colored shirts as well, and Chooch and I kept mistaking them for Henry. Also, a man in front of us in line for the Lochness Monster could have easily passed for Henry as well, if only his hair was more full-bodied and McNicol-ish like Henry’s. He even was wearing plain white New Balance shoes which is Henry’s preferred brand!  

Ok I’m peacing out now because it’s nearly my feeding time and I’m about to punch through the roof of the car. LYLAS!

Quick thoughts on my first full day in Williamsburg.  

   
Cheese Shop for lunch, per Jeannie’s recommendation. 
Acquired a deed to property in Williamsburg. (Yes, after three hours of back-and-forth with the resort sales staff, we snagged a deal that fits our lifestyle and won’t bankrupt us.)

Bought a ton of postcards

Bantered with Nelson at the Activity Center when Chooch & I went to check-out tennis rackets. He was fucking nuts, in all of the good ways, and gave us both Popsicles. 

Argued furiously with Chooch while trying to teach him how to play tennis when I myself haven’t played in 19 years. I eventually had to walk away before I disowned him*. I hope everyone enjoyed the show. 

Gleaned another tiny morsel of Henry’s past when he slipped up and divulged more information than he intended when we asked him what kind of tree we were walking past.  Remind me, Blog, to tell you about “smoking trees” at a later date. 

Extreme Ghost Hunt later tonight!

*I’m sure it wouldn’t take long for Chooch to be taken in. Everyone at King’s Creek fucking looooooves him and he’s practically famous here after one day. It’s nauseating. WHAT ABOUT MEEEEEE?? 

You know the Liveblogging drill: keep checking back for updates, or abstain and read all at once tomorrow—oh what a treat. I liveblog because Henry ignores me.

7:36am: HI GUYS we’re about to embark on this year’s shoddily planned vacation! Chooch is a fucking hornet and keeps growling and NOW HE CANT GET HIS SHOE ON OH WOE IS HE. Henry just walked past with his hands full of suitcases and said, “I’ll get these; you guys just sit there.” Um, yeah. Duh. 

7:42: Chooch’s shoe still isn’t on and we still haven’t left. The usual. 

7:53: Chooch made me an Emarosa bracelet last night and left it for Henry to tie in the morning. I was watching him tie it and I yelled IS THAT A SERVICE KNOT? He calmly replied, “No. It’s a double knot.”

8:22: Just stopped at Sheetz where Henry yelled at us the entire time and made us feel confused about what we were “allowed” to get. I got coffee and some Fig Bar thing and then ran away because I hate road trip Henry. HE’S MEAN. 

8:50: Henry just tried to make some dumb joke and I’m not talking to him so in my head I thought, “Go stick your dick in a cabbage-bun.” But he would probably like that so I hope it’s one that is straight outta the oven!!

9:30: just realized we were driving past a lake and I mimicked violent vomiting, to which Henry sighed and said, “REALLY?” Also, I wish Death Cab would do a Something About Airplanes tour. I haven’t really liked anything they’ve done last Transatlanticism but SAA has always been my favorite. It got me through a lot of traumatic times at the abusive Meat Place I worked at with Henry and that is not an euphemism for the time when I was Henry’s sex slave. I just call that time “paycheck from hell.” I didn’t get much sleep last night. 

9:36: We’re in Maryland. I always forget that Maryland and Pennyslvania touch. 

10:26: Chooch just woke up and is asking ludicrous questions now, like how many miles is New Zealand from Australia. And I’m like “unless you’re asking because you want to go to the Soundwave festival next year, shut up no one cares.”

10:40: I hate him.   

11:30: We’re at the Old Town Diner in Myersville, MD and Chooch is dying because our waitress said “y’all.”  Henry is this angry:

Chooch and I are being bad (see also: adorable & entertaining) and Henry said he just wants to go home LOLOLOLOLOL.   

12:46: Explaining to Henry the article Terri sent me about musical frissons, or skin orgasms, and his eyes are now rolling somewhere behind our car on 270. He just doesn’t get it. “It’s sad that you’ll never experience it,” I said to him in exaggerated sympathy. “I feel really bad for you.” He just tried to roll his eyes again but forgot he already cartwheeled them out of his head the last time. 

12:50: SAY HELLO TO THE BAD GUY. 

1:36: Get ready to be annoyed, Virginia. We’re in you.   

Henry just said we have three more hours though, wtf?? How big is Virginia?? Ugh. 

2:46: Slept for awhile until Henry woke me up to see a large plaster roller skate we were driving past and it wasn’t even that cool so now I’m in a bad mood and Henry exacerbated it when he drove thru a Dunkin Donuts and got me coffeeless iced coffee because I think guy asked him if he wanted wanted extra cream and idiot Henry said yes without asking me. I hope he chokes on his Chips Ahoy donut. (Kidding! Because that would put my life in danger too, God forbid.)

3:16: I just randomly burst into tears because I miss Warped Tour & Henry, before I even finished my whine, barked, “Oh my god. Why don’t you just get a goddamn job with Warped Tour and travel with them all summer?” He was so mean when he said it, but then after considering this and calming down, he added, “You could be Kevin Lyman’s conflict analyst.” WHICH IS FUNNY IF YOU KNEW WHAT DEPT I WORK IN AT THE LAW FIRM. I would be so good at that! I could research all of the bands and make sure none of them were pedophiles or sex offenders or rapists, or have any major beef with each other. 

4:41:Just checked in. Right as Henry was hitting “accept” for the resort’s agreement contract thing, Chooch almost put a rocking chair through the window. 

   
 
Chooch: HOW DID WE AFFORD THIS?

Henry, grumbling: Oh, we’re gonna pay for it tomorrow morning at the time share presentation. 

   
   
Chooch and his imaginary friend get their own room. AND BATHROOM, thank god. 

6:46: Went to the pool for a bit and now we’re waiting for our table at Food For Thought which is right across from Ripley’s Believe It Or Not and Chooch is being OMG SUCH A FUCKING BRAT because of course he wants to go there and we are like “we went to the one in Gatlinburg & if you’ve been to one you’ve been to all” but he’s still going on and on and THERE IS NO ESCAPE. Even the sign in the parking lot of this restaurant says “additional parking at Ripley’s Believe It Or Not.” Hey Ripley’s, believe it or not you can go fuck yourself. 

7:19: we have the best waitress in this joint. She said she likes my tattoos and Chooch’s hair and said “you guys are just cool in general” and then she carded me. And the vegetarian options here have me feeling #soblessed  

8:05: Henry is completely miserable. But Chooch and I are in a great mood. Chooch read this quote that was on the restaurant wall:   

and said, “I don’t get it. Oh. George Bernard Shaw said it. No wonder.” ???

9:00: The speed limit here at Kings Creek Plantation is 17. We went to Shorty’s Diner after dinner for ice cream and Shorty’s proprietor called Chooch “boss” which totally inflated his head.   

We then had a riveting conversation about wet walnuts and cherry Coke. God, can Henry facilitate deep discourse or what.

Food For Thought had conversation starter cards on the table and Chooch was excited about it. “Daddy’s not going to answer any of those, you know. He hates sharing storied about himself,” I said. 

“No, I just don’t like talking to you people,” Henry sneered, right before ordering POT ROAST. God, what an “AARP supper.” And coleslaw! Coleslaw twice in one day. Henry must have been on slaw duty in the SERVICE mess hall back in the day, hence the affinity for that mayo bath of a side dish. 

 9:23: Current state: 
I may or may not crash right now. 

10:14: I just realized that Savannah is over 7 hours away from Williamsburg. This whole time I thought it was like 4?! 

10:23: I miss my succulents. :( Especially Panne. 

Thursday, July 16 found Henry doing three things that he hates: going out of town on a work night, eating at a vegan restaurant, and going to a show. But he did all of these things because he’s a goddamn prince and also, I have broken him.

I mean, Cleveland (Lakewood, if you want to get technical) isn’t too far of a haul, but when a show ends around 10:30-11:00 and then you have to drive 2.5 hours home only to wake up in two hours and go to work, well….I guess I can see Henry’s (corned) beef (and cabbage) with these out-of-town work night shows. But this one was special, and you know this if you have already subjected yourself to the 1000s of words I finger-vomited on here last week.

I left work early that day and by 3:00ish, we were on our way to Ohio, after angering Chooch when he found out who we were going to see.

“And you’re not taking me!?” he cried. But he was fine with it once he learned that it was in Cleveland because he hates being in the car for more than 15 minutes.

The drive was pretty uneventful. I listened to a Spotify playlist that my friend Terri had recently made and it was perfect. Henry talked about

Normally when we go to Cleveland, we eat at Melt, but I was already feeling nauseous. Nerves, you know? So I found a vegan restaurant on dreaded Yelp (I honestly will never stop hating that site;  it angers me so much) that was within a few miles of Mahall’s. Henry rolled his eyes as soon as I told him it was called Earth Bistro but at least my mortal enemy Yelp reviewer has never eaten there. Henry had taken a wrong turn, as usual, and deposited us smack in the middle of downtown Cleveland rush hour, so he was too busy screaming “Shut the fuck up” to the GPS, but definitely not to me because he knows better.

“They supposedly have really good cactus slaw,” I noted, trying to get Henry stoked on meals minus meat. Henry is very simple when it comes to restaurant pleasures, and a good cup of ‘slaw usually does the trick. (He especially loves it when I swipe forkfuls of his ‘slaw from across the table. “Order your own next time!” he growls and I just laugh because can you imagine Henry ever being intimidating?)

We were the only ones at Earth Bistro, which is never really a good sign, but I was relieved because my pre-show anxiety was going through the roof and I didn’t feel like sharing the air with a restaurant full of hipsters I’d be convinced were staring at me.  This anxiety happens every time we’re about to see a band I REALLLLLY LOVE and I know that must seem like every band in the world sometimes, but really there are only three bands currently that get me sick (in good ways). Emarosa has always done that to me.

Anyway, this joint’s decor was like walking into the 1980s, like you could easily imagine Robert Palmer and his Addicted To Love girls occupying a back booth, drinking Tab. I wished our waitress was wearing a gold lamé dress with shoulder pads, but she was clothed in a normal, modern outfit. Like, a long black skirt or something, I can’t remember. Who cares. It’s been A Week and I have no idea what sense I’m even making anymore.

The waitress, who reminded me of our friend Jessi from Michigan, twisted our arms into ordering an appetizer, and then continued to twist until we settled on her suggestion of their homemade guacamole. “It’s even been featured on TV a few times,” she bragged with a slight midwestern accent.

I was trying to pretend that this child-free evening was a Real Life date, but Henry was too busy wasting his life scrolling through his Facebook feed. When you only have like 70 Facebook friends, how often do you really need to check it?!

:(

I guess I’m just too boring for him.

The guacamole actually was pretty good. It came with FRIED PLANTAIN CHIPS and I love FRIED PLANTAIN CHIPS! They also put fresh pineapple in with the guac, which tasted great but god forbid the avocado sex jam purists find out and start a new heated Internet debate. Unfortunately, it was super filling and I didn’t even consider the fact that both Henry and I ordered dinners that came with smaller portions of the guac, so what a goddamn waste.

I order vegetable tacos and they were no bueno. Totally bland and similar to something Henry would have made me at home. I was really bummed out about it, and Henry derived such joy from my order remorse.

“It’s weird that they don’t use seitan in anything,” Henry mused, because even though Henry loves to rip animal flesh right off the bone, he actually enjoys some seitan every now and then. I thought it was weird too. I also thought it was weird that it was a vegan/vegetarian restaurant but they had an entire meat-side of the menu.

AND THEY DON’T HAVE CACTUS SLAW ANYMORE!

“People either loved it or hated it,” the waitress said apologetically. “We were wasting so much of it, so the owner finally just took it off the menu.”

“GOOD ONE, ERIN,” Henry sneered after the waitress left the room. He loves it when my restaurant choices turn out poorly.

It doesn’t matter though, because we split a piece of raw cheesecake and it completely made up for the bland, boring cactus slaw-less dinner. I wish that I had just skipped dinner altogether so that I could have ordered two desserts, because that is apparently Earth Bistro’s secret weapon. GOOD LORD, THAT CHEESECAKE!

For a brief second I considered going on a raw diet, but then Henry said I would have to find someone else to make my food then, because he wasn’t trying to get involved in that shit. And then I panicked because does Cream of Wheat fall into a raw diet? THAT IS WHAT I EAT FOR LUNCH EVERY DAY! (Mostly because that’s all I can manage to make for myself without feeling exhausted or confused.)

DATE SELFIE!

After I was finished interrogating the waitress about how they made the raw cheesecake, we left for Mahall’s, which is on its way to becoming one of my favorite venues. The first time we went there was last July to see Artifex Pereo and it was just a really chill vibe. It’s also a bowling alley. This particular show was in the Locker Room, which turns out is in the basement of Mahall’s. Henry thought this was hilarious since I was just at a show in a literal, actual, real life basement less than a week before this.

As soon as we descended the dark steps and I saw just how small this room was, I knew it was going to be a magical night. Emarosa, unplugged, on the floor.

And then I felt sicker when it occurred to me how close I was going to be to them.

The first band was I Fight Fail, and I ended up really liking them a lot. Several people standing behind me were heckling them and basically shouting over the music to each other the whole time, and it was really pissing me off. Why is it so hard for people to shut their idiot faces when bands are playing?  Anyway, the singer of I Fight Fail handed out CD-R copies of their album after their set.

The second band was The Whiskey Hollow, the side project of two members of Cleveland’s Envoi. They weren’t originally listed and I guess were added last minute, because from what I’m beginning to understand, they seem to worm their way onto the bill a lot, since they apparently have a pretty big local following. When we went to see Artifex Pereo last year, Envoi managed to usurp the headlining spot and it seemed like most of the people there were there for them, which was annoying because it had a super clique-ish vibe.

That being said, I thought  Whiskey Hollow was decent, but the singer annoys me on a personal level and I just wanted to scream, “Please. Stop talking.” But a bunch of their groupie friends were there and I didn’t want to get beaten up. Also, she sang “Me and Bobby McGee” and I cannot stress how much I dislike that song and Janis Joplin—-YES, I WENT THERE. It was actually painful to my ears.

By this point, the tallest man in the room was standing in front of me, so I said fuck it and squeezed in between him and some broad who was there by herself. It was a good spot, but I kept trying to get Henry to stand in front of me so I could hide behind him when Emarosa came out, but he was like, “WHAT IF BRADLEY SHOVES THE MIC IN MY FACE AND I DON’T KNOW THE WORDS OMG SING-ALONG FOUL!”

We still had to get through Little Envy though. The singer made a big production of lighting incense and was just adorably awkward and shy. I’ll admit that my initial reaction was one of, “Whaaaaat am I watching right now?” but they grew on me. The singer reminded me of a young Christofer Drew trying to sing like Vic Fuentes.

This really spoke to 2005 Erin.

And then Emarosa. Heart-eyes for days. I know I already wrote about the Emarosa portion of the night, but someone posted a video from one of the shows after ours, and it’s too good not to share. I never thought I would be OK with someone else singing the old Jonny Craig songs, but Bradley totally owns this.

I’m going to go ahead and say that this one of the best nights I have had with Henry in quite awhile. Once he was done berating the GPS and yelling at me for taking pictures of him and being annoyed that this was a work night and sweating his balls off in the basement of a bowling alley and fantasizing about eating elk with Ted Nugent, he actually admitted that he had a decent time and that EMAROSA IS HIS FAVORITE BAND.

When I woke up last Saturday morning, I told Henry that my goal was to be as obnoxious as possible all day.

“I’m sure you’ll win,” he said somewhat happily, probably since he wasn’t going to be with me. I was Janna’s burden!

I found out last December that Howard Jones was playing in Cleveland in March and I begged Janna to go with me. But, since Janna isn’t Henry, she said sure right away and I didn’t have to make any false promises like I typically have to do to get Henry to go to shows.  Henry was so excited that he didn’t have to go, that he even rented a car for me so I honestly didn’t have to do anything to prepare for this day aside from order my own ticket. Henry is the best, you guys!

Bu then I flipped out twice before even leaving the driveway, once because I couldn’t get the car to recognize my phone and once because I couldn’t find the route he pre-programmed into the GPS for me, making Henry come out to assist on both accounts. Janna just sat there and sighed, because she has been a spectator of the sick sport of Henry and Erin for 14 years now. Afterward, Henry made some douchey retort on my Facebook status about how I “won before even leaving.” Whatever forever, Mehoover.

The drive to Cleveland was, thankfully, uneventful. I mean, as far as being murdered by hitchhikers or flipping FBI cars go. I only missed one exit! And it was because HENRY had the GPS set on MUTE, good job, HENRY. Because Henry is a Professional Driver, I don’t do much driving myself these days. And while it was nice to be behind the wheel, it was also pretty maddening not being able to tweet nonsense about Janna BECAUSE I DON’T TEXT AND DRIVE YOU GUYS. Nor should you.

Once we made it into Cleveland, our first stop was a late lunch at Melt, because it’s sacrilege to go to Cleveland without shoving a cinder block-sized pile of bread, cheese & assorted sandwich accouterments into that gaping pit in my face that is often mistaken for the portal to Hell. The best part about Melt is that they recognize vegetarians and vegans as real human beings and nearly everything on the menu can be tweaked to accommodate the meat-averse population.

And that is how I was able to enjoy the Melt of the month: a chicken pot pie grilled cheese, are you kidding me. And the funny thing is that I was never a big fan of pot pies when I still ate meat. I would eat the puff pastry on the top, scoop out the middle straight into the trash, and continue on to the bottom layer of pastry, all soggy from the gravy and totally amazing.

Here you can see some puffed pastry hanging out, like the labia of an over-worked grilled cheesgina.

If I’ve learned anything from the last three years’ worth of Melt power-chows, it’s to pace myself. Especially considering every time I’ve eaten there has preceded a concert, which means I have to endure an evening of my rumbling digestive system rivaling the sound of the show. So I slowly ate half and then immediately pushed away my plate.

Janna’s menu was on the back of an Alan Parsons Project record cover and I almost died because “Eye In the Sky” brings back weird flashbacks/maybe-memories of my birth dad and has pretty much haunted  me my whole life. Just a few weeks ago, I spontaneously queued it up on Spotify just to torture myself. So it was pretty apropos that this happened during the tour down music-memory lane I had embarked on last weekend.

Fucking orgasmic grilled cheeses (Janna got the Big Popper, which I had the last time and highly recommend!) and kismetic album covers aside, I would have to say my Melt highlight was when our waitress carded me when I ordered an Angry Orchard and then said, “No way, you look YOUNG. We were born in the same year, I’m jealous.” FUCK YES SEMI-HEALTHY LIFESTYLE FTW! Just kidding. It’s all that baby blood I drink. 

Looks aside, I definitely feel younger now than I did in my 20s, so something’s working right.

After we ate, we took a test-run downtown to make sure we knew for sure how to get to the venue while it was still daylight, and the GPS kept trying to convince me that it was OK to turn the wrong way on one-way streets, which is why I would rather just print my directions out on paper via Mapquest like the old days, ugh. Directions and I just aren’t a match. Then the Flower Child foray happpened, after which I made good on my promise to take Janna to Edgewater State Park in order to see disgusting Lake Erie (all large bodies of water disgust me) and it was even more disgusting because IT WAS FROZEN AND LOOKED LIKE THE SURFACE OF THE EARTH AS SEEN FROM SPACE AND I ALSO HATE SPACE!! Ugh, fuck you, Janna!! (Don’t worry — I said that to her face, too.)

All that white behind us IS FROZEN LAKE DISGUSTINGNESS.

OMG I’m puking in my mouth just looking at this.

FUCK YOU. This might as well have just been ALASKA, that’s how repulsed I was. (Alaska is one of my biggest fears, in case you’re new here.)

I was just really distraught about this. I kept thinking we were going to get taken by a serial killer who would then place our mutilated bodies in some obscene ice-fishing tableau on the lake.

Luckily, I was rewarded for my valiant effort to make someone other than myself happy (ugh, who am I anymore) when we were trodding through grass and JANNA ALMOST STEPPED ON A DEAD RAT!!! Oh god, I was already cheering so hard, I can’t even imagine the euphoria that would have poured over me like a bucket of rainbow glitter had her shoe actually made contact. Of course, she was like, “It’s not funny” and then she went off to use a porta-potty but SHE HAD TO CLEAN IT FIRST BECAUSE IT WAS GROSS and she had no other option, because when ya gotta go, ya gotta go, right? So at this point, I had literal tears from laughing so hard and started to see sparks in my periphery, because this is a thing that has been happening lately when I strain myself from reacting to absolute hilarity (which I was I seriously think I have a laughing disease!!). I had to go sit on a bench and text the only person who I knew for a fact would appreciate the latest Janna episode: MY BROTHER COREY.

“Go knock over the porta-potty while she’s in it!” he begged via text and I was being stabbed in the ribs at this point by the Giggle Gods. Then I tried calling Henry to tell him that Janna almost LITERALLY imprinted with a rat corpse and then had to scrub a porta-potty, but he knew better than to answer because I was either going to:

• bitch about direction-things and blame him for being lost in the red-light district.
• tell him I found some medieval birthing chair at a garage sale and could I spent $666 on it?
• try to tell him a story but end up having a Bobcat Goldthwait-esque chuckleptic seizure in his ear instead.

And then it was finally time to set off to the Trinity Cathedral for Howard Jones! And I only made one wrong turn!

Where Henry wines and dines me at Bob Evans and Olive Garden on our “vacation” two hours away from home. Part 1 is here.

Tuesday, August 3rd, 2004 (8:36am)

Haha, Henry walked to CVS to get me a new compact (he broke the cover off of my current one so I couldn’t bring it) and he came back with the wrong color. So he dejectedly turned around and headed back out into the jungle that is Cleveland. Are you crying for him yet?

We didn’t go to the bar last night because I looked exceptionally fat and ugly. Instead, we spent the evening with Carnie Wilson and her husband Rob, and then the Golden Girls stopped by.

It’s going to be 87 degrees and humid today. I can hardly wait. It’s going to be especially comfortable in the car.

Our big plans are to go on a boat tour at 12:00, but the paper said thunderstorms for today. It looks so nice out there now though.

Uh oh, Henry J. is back. Let’s see how he fared.

Haha, he bought the wrong shade again and now he’s sitting in the chair pouting. This is after he stomped around the room on a rampage, stuffing clothes into our bags. God, he’s a hothead.

Some religious show is on the WB and the host said, “Happy Happy Jesus day to everyone!” and now a choir is singing. I feel so enlightened by God’s love, like I kind of want to herd sheep.

(9:33am)
We checked out and are on our way to find somewhere to eat outside of Cleveland and Henry called me “fucking generic.”

Downtown Cleveland has no traffic at all. Henry said it’s “on the verge of being depressed.” It’s nice when he puts his economics degree to use.

Henry’s raging because he got a tree branch stuck under the car and he was going to try and dislodge it at a red light but a mini Cooper almost ran him over. God, he’s in such a pissy mood today. His name for today will be Crappy Pants.

(10:40am)
Crappy Pants started to lighten up for a bit but then he freaked out in the parking lot of Bob Evans [ed.note: It’s nice that Henry took me to a Bob Evans while on “vacation”] because I asked him to bring in the camera bag. You never know when you’re going to need the camera.

I simply cannot wait to indulge in my fruit and yogurt plate. I don’t want to eat too much before my highly-anticipated boat tour! Which BETTER NOT BE CANCELLED.

(11:57am)
Holy shit, we just made it onto the Goodtimes III boat. I had to suffer through yet another Crappy Pants hissy fit because the lot he wanted to park in was full. We had to drive around in a tireless effort for somewhere else to park, and unknowingly got caught up in the American Idol audition shuffle. It’s being held at the Browns stadium.

Oh god, we just had to watch a lesson in lifeguard vest fastening. I really hope we don’t need to use one.

Christ, there’s this grandma on our boat with two girls. She held up the ticket line with her asinine inquiries of senior discounts. Then she told the ticket guy, “I really am sixty, I swear!” God, I wanted to gag. Then she held up the ticket taker by asking him where she could get a drink. HOW ABOUT IN THE RIVER. She’s dumb and I hate her.

Henry J. is all, “Look, there’s the captain. That’s where he steers when he’s pulling out.” (LOL pulling out.) I thought he was in the AIRFORCE not the Navy? God, being in THE SERVICE sure turned little Henry J into a well-rounded man of knowledge. I’m lucky to call him my boyfriend.

(12:18pm)
So far, this is really boring. We’re listening to some stupid guy on a recording tell us about industrial crap. We’re on the Cuyahoga River, going past the Flats, whatever that means. Henry J’s so hardcore that he moved up a seat to take pictures. I didn’t want to sit with him anyway.

Oh Christ, he’s talking while he films. Just what everyone longs for: commentary by Henry J. Way to make it boring.

(1:05pm)
Thankfully, the boring river segment of the tour is over (the only thing I learned is Cleveland has weird bridges and mediocre graffiti). Now we’re finally going into Lake Erie, my bitches.

Oh God, Henry J’s trying to be funny again. He’s so funny he should be on “Blue Collar TV.”

I asked, “Why is the boat rocking?” Now, I wanted to hear an exciting answer like, “Because Godzilla and HR Pufnstuf are battling at the bottom of the lake” but instead Henry J says, “Well, it’s because the waves are going one way and then the wind is coming in from over that side…..” and I stopped listening.

I wonder if Henry J ever did whippets when he was younger. It would explain a lot. I should ask him. I lost him to the upper deck it seems. What the fuck is he taking pictures of? Oh shit — me. I’m hunching over to shield my ugly face but there’s no camouflaging my chub. Ew, I think he’s taking pictures of other peoples kids now. How perverse.

(1:50pm)
Oh God. We’re floating past this little business airport and a plane landed. Henry J was watching it with his mouth slightly agape and I swear I’m not kidding — a tear in his eye. I SAW IT! He gets so nostalgic when he sees airplanes. Oh, memories of his days in THE SERVICE.

[Ed.Note: This must have been the tour boat version of childbirth, because I somehow forgot how excruciating the tour was and insisted that we do it again the summer of 2013, where one of the bridges broke, resulting in us getting stuck on the river for something like 4 hours and Chooch and Henry tried to disown me.]

(2:30pm)
Amazingly, we’re en route to E. 99. [Ed.Note: I was obsessed with Bone Thugs-n-Harmony and had been trying to go to Cleveland since I was in high school specifically to see the intersection of E.99 and St. Clair, because it was on the cover of one of their albums (E.99 Eternal) and they had rapped about it. It was like a yo-girl’s version of Graceland, OK?] I’m sure Crappy Pants was hoping I’d forget. I admitted to him that I was afraid his bandanna would get us into trouble. His response was, “No, what’s going to get us into trouble is the white girl with the video camera.”

I sure hope I get to see Bone! Maybe they’re home, creepin’ on ah comeup, you know?

(2:33pm)
Leave it to Henry J to take a truly blessed and sacred moment and shit his runny diarrhea all over it. Instead of being grateful to aid me in my lifelong aspiration of seeing E.99 Street and St. Clair, he instead decided to lose his temper and berate me for making him drive into the ghetto and then turn around twice to ensure a proper photographical opportunity. You would think that the awestruck smile on my sweaty face would warm his heart one thousand times over. Wrong. NOTHING can warm that frigid rock of ice in his chest, except maybe some hardcore porn and a bucket of chicken.

Driving through these ghettos makes me reminisce to the point in my life when I was knee deep in this shit. I’m lucky to be alive right now, but you wouldn’t understand. Running from the popo in the middle of the night, your glock in your waistband and crackrocks stashed in your asshole. These are times I look back on in fond reflection but would never want to repeat.

In other words: I used to listen to a lot of gangsta rap.

Holy shit — Henry J just pulled over on the curb to consult his map. I can’t help but feel he could have picked a better area for that. He “thinks [he] knows where we’re going now.”

(4:27pm)
This entire afternoon has been spent in a dire search for cheap lodging. We just drove past a Clarion. but Crappy Pants said, “No, it looks too nice in front. We need something that looks like it’s falling down.” God, I can’t wait until that man marries me.

(6:24pm)
We’ve embarked on a journey for dinner. I’m sure I’ll pick this book back up at 8:00 to write of our progress and we will STILL be driving.

So, I was taking a shower (after we checked into our palatial Super 8 suite) and I somehow got conditioner up my nose and subsequently sneezed FOURTEEN TIMES in a row. It was orgasmic.

Then, with a towel securely wrapped around my wet head, I began my search for the ice machine. I walked all the way to the end of the hall, but there was NOTHING. Just a barren stairwell. Luckily, two Mexican boys just happened to emerge from their rooms and were quite efficient with their offers to help me in my quest. I walked down the remaining length of the hall with the older of the two while he informed me apologetically of his poor English skills. He even squeezed my shoulder at one point and I blushed.

He led me down the opposite stairwell and said, “There. In there.” He pointed to a door at the bottom of the steps and I immediately thought it was a trap. that I was getting raped and turned into a milkmaid.

It ended up being OK though. He opened the door for me and gestured excitedly toward the ice machine. I thanked him by slipping my tongue down his throat and we bid each other adieu. [Ed.Note: I read this out loud to Henry and said, “Wait…did this really happen?” and he mumbled, “Who knows with you.”]

(8:30pm)

We’re at Olive Garden. A brief rundown on what has transpired in the past two hours: Henry J drove us to Coventry. It’s like our Southside and home to the famous Grog Shop. Anyhow, our visit was not in the itinerary and this was a bit overwhelming for me, as I had not planned on walking since my foot is broken (it is, but Henry J doesn’t believe me). Then, Henry was mad at me because I didn’t want to visit any of the eateries that Coventry had to offer. He EXPLODED. It was tres embarrassing. He was all, “We’re going home!” Ooh, big words for a little man. Then he had the audacity to put the weight of this Hell Trip on ME!

We got back to the hotel at which point I’m subjected to more of Henry’s theatrics. “I’m going out by myself to find a bar!” I was like, “Good luck with that” and then he spazzed out because I didn’t cling to his ankles, begging him to stay. He blurted out, “Then you don’t love me!” through a stream of big gay tears. Meanwhile, he only walked next to our hotel to Olive Garden to get a menu for me.

Boy is he a sucker.

Now I’m enjoying a peach sangria and flagrant flirtations from our waiter. And Henry is trying to put two hours worth of tears behind him.

Oh goody, I just ate a stuffed mushroom with secret crabmeat. There’s nine years of vegetarianism down the drain.

Samuel. Our waiter’s name is Samuel.

I can’t stand the white asscake seated across from us with his friend. He’s attempting to design business cards for the friend (Shawn, to those who know him) and he’s being so obnoxious about it. Then he told some lame ass joke about Jeb Bush and unfair elections and it wasn’t even a joke!  When their meal was served, the waiter asked if he wanted any cheese on his pasta and he said, ” Yeah, a lot.” And he was hitting on the Asian hostess by telling her he adopts kids of other nationalities. He was like, “I have a black and I’m looking for an Asian” and the black woman in the next booth whipped her head back to look at him. He was a WEIRDO. He was talking about Jews, Ukranians, and Russians later, too.

(9:50pm)

OK so we finally got to eat after 3 hours of Hell, most of it from Erin. Needless to say dinner was interesting. I must admit the most annoying man I have ever the pleasure of sitting near was there. I think he mentioned every ethnicity there is in his conversation. For once, we had a good waiter. except for the mushroom episode, everything else was good. I feel bad she ate the little clam, I hope she doesn’t DIE! Well, I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings. I’m sure it will be another “Happy Happy Jesus Day” because I can sure use another one. I’m not sure my heart (old heart) can take it. So it’s off to watch the Amazing Race and explain all of the confusing things to her.

(10:48pm)

“Amazing Race” is pretty fascinating.

Anyway, I need to write about all the food that Crappy Pants shoved into his fat face: Three and a half breadsticks, a huge salad, the entire stuffed mushroom plate (after I found out about the crab), and three gigantic meat ravioli. ROAR.

OH! There’s some midget on Amazing Race and she just said, “Another one of my dreams came true!” because she got to see the pyramids and Henry said, “Another of her dreams is to have normal-sized legs.” I hope he goes to Hell. Midgets are people too.

I asked Crappy Pants what his favorite memory of me is, and he slapped me on the side of my head and said, “That.”

Asshole.

——————————–

Oh yes. There is a companion video. It’s called “How Are They Still Together?” P.S. The part where I call Henry “uneducated”? Don’t go crying rivers of pity for him just yet. That was my tip of the hat in reference to the time he and I had a political argument and he told me I was uneducated. I responded by breaking his glasses.

How happy are you  that I don’t vlog?

Guys. When “we” were cleaning the house last month, I found one of my old vacation journals; specifically, there is a written account of when Henry and I went to Cleveland in 2004 to see the Cure (and also E.99 & St.Clair, an intersection made famous by the BEST RAP GROUP EVER: Bone Thugs-n-Harmony)  and I decided that I am going to transcribe it because somehow I was able to charm Henry into writing a few times and also because I have no idea how we are still together because I was way bitchier and he was way less tolerant. So here is part one.

———————————————————

Monday, August 2, 2004

(10:06am)

I’m sitting in the parking lot of PNC Bank while Henry is inside, dutifully cashing in $243 worth of rolled change. Otherwise, this trip would not be possible.

Originally, we were supposed to go to Chicago (how my heart bleeds for that City of Wind), but Henry threw a hissy fit yesterday about how it’s not worth a ten hour trip for me to find happiness. Oh OK.

(10:34am)

We’re on McKnight Road. My stomach feels acidic. I briefed Henry on my situation, explaining that vomiting is a possible conclusion. He said, “You’ll be OK” and continued reading his map. He’s such a big shot driver that he’s using a BOB EVANS map, no less.

We stopped at the Sky Bank in Northway Mall so I could continue sucking my savings account dry (Henry makes me do it). There was this big crane there because they’re working on the mall’s roof. Three ladies were standing in the middle of the road, gawking at it, and Henry had to drive around them. We parked and got to walk past them, so I said loudly, “WOW I’VE NEVER SEEN A CRANE BEFORE!” Henry said, “No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

I should note that a lot of times I re-word Henry’s quotes to either make it funnier or add some sense to it. Normally he only speaks gibberish and them I’m left to my own devices, trying in vain to translate. It’s a tedious job.

(11:06am)

We stopped at Sheetz in Wexford. Henry proclaimed that it was the same Sheetz he calls me from everyday during work, and that he’d make love to it if he could. It was touching until my first sip of their cheap, watered-down coffee. That, my friend’s, is poor man’s coffee.

I told Henry that I’m hungry and he’s turning it into a game. “Oh, I know! Let’s only eat at uncommercialized [sic] restaurants!” Meanwhile, we’re driving through a veritable oasis of eating establishments that don’t follow his moronic guidelines. What’s worse is that he’s singing along to A Perfect Circle and this coffee is completely unsatisfying! I can’t believe saving a few bucks is more important to him than satiating my hunger! I’m a growing girl! My anemia can grow worse any second now! But no, I have to sit here and wait until we enter a trailer park community and pray there’s a diner nearby. He’ll be sorry. Son of a bitch.

(11:50am)

We’re at Brown’s Country Kitchen in Portersville, being serenaded by Enrique Iglesias and sitting in a hard wooden booth. Henry likes it. He said he likes hard things pressing up against his ass.

Hopefully, sometime today we’ll make it out of Pennsylvania.

Holy Christ, he just ate coleslaw off the table. Do you know how many people masturbate while sacrificing livestock to the demon lord and then put their unwashed. seminated hands all over the table? Nasty.

It occurs to me that Henry didn’t want to go to Chicago because he doesn’t want to be too far away from his mommy.

There’s this really ugly boy that just came in. He has red hair. I started laughing and when I turned around to get a better look, I snorted. Henry said, “Don’t start. We’re still really close to home.” Ooh, a threat, and so early in the trip. But come on, this boy is repulsive!

(12:37pm)

The Bastard Redhead left the restaurant just as we got in the car. I excitedly readied the camera and had just gotten it to focus when Henry decided I’d had enough fun and pulled out of the parking lot! That picture could have been spectacular. It could have been all I’ve ever wanted. But HENRY fucked it up and he didn’t even apologize. He said he DOESN’T CARE and that it was “just a picture.” How will I remember that fucker now? The memory is so fleeting. This trip is officially ruined.

And our waitress was lazy. I don’t care t hat she was old.

(2:12pm)

We’re currently in the business district of Jefferson, OH. It’s  truly the working man’s town. I can see Henry living here. He looks like a lot of the men I see milling about: dirty, toothless, and tattooed.

(3:47pm)

I’m going to die in this goddamn un-air-conditioned car. I swear, I’m sweating to death and my skin feels like it’s burning. I’ve asked him countless times to please stop somewhere so we can get out of this sweatbox, yet he’s STILL driving along aimlessly.

We went to Geneva-on-the-Lake, which was a joke and drove for like 45 minutes after seeing a sign that said “Lake Erie Circle Tour.” Henry insists that the tour is really just the road that we’re on, but I know it’s not true and that he must have missed a turn somewhere.

God, I just want to go home.

(4:45pm)

Typical. Henry J is being all mushy now. “Oh, I am so sorry. I love you more than you’ll ever know and I just want to kill myself knowing that I’ve upset you.” I haven’t forgiven him, but we’re in Cleveland now. I can’t wait to find E.99 and St. Clair. Maybe Bone Thugs-n-Harmony will be there.

So we drove past the Marriott (on St. Clair) and the hotel looked like it was being evacuated. There were sheriffs that stopped traffic for all these kids to cross the street. The ATF and these news crews were there. The American Idol auditions are being held here on Wednesday, but something else is going on and I need to know. So I’m sending Henry back around.

Right now, the “E.” streets are in the low numbers. I said, “Wow, E.99 must be really far down there” and Henry J. said, “In the good part of town, I”m sure.” He’s SO FUNNY. He should go on “Last Comic Standing” and make us all proud.

I had a major realization that Henry J. confirmed: Cleveland hates people from Pittsburgh. Henry J. said, “So I”m from Harrisburg and you’re from Pittsburgh.” See? He’s so piss-your-pants funny.

Wow, Henry J. is actually inside a Holiday Inn inquiring about room availability. We never stay in real hotels. He left me in the car with the windows down because he hopes someone steals me.

(6:15pm) 

We scored a room at the Holiday Inn. Right now, we’re sitting in Willard Park. We’re walking around because if we take the car, we risk losing our free parking spot and then we’ll have to pay $15 to park in the hotel’s garage. That’s a crime!

So Henry J. confirmed that all the commotion was for the International Childrens Games. I said it’s stupid and Henry J. snapped, “No, it’s not! It’s for kids of different nationalities to meet so they won’t grow up like you, hating the world!” Oh snap.

(7:00pm)

We’re at the Winking Lizard Tavern after walking FOREVER because Henry J. is directionally WRONG. And lucky for us, Laura Ashley is sitting across from us.

And Henry J. is drinking a Coors Lite! Oh no, folks—an evening of drunken debauchery is surely in store for us! Or domestic violence. But really, isn’t it all the same?

(7:25pm)

I’m so happy! Not only did I have the best veggie burger (and it was HOMEMADE) I just saw CNBC that Kerry/Edwards are leading Bush/Cheney 49% to 42%! Of course, Henry Dubya Robbins is being a naysayer. “It’s not because of the convention <eye roll while gnawing on toothpicks>!”

(8:00pm)

We’re sitting near the lake now and Henry J. is wasting pictures. On our walk here, we encountered a homeless man who smelled so bad that people were crossing the street (I have a bad sense of smell though), a fat dude with an eye patch trying to give away a newspaper, a crazy guy rocking back and forth in front of the Catholic Diocese (he looked at me and said, “Heeeeeeeeheeeeee”) and a possible American Idol hopeful singing to a black homeless man.

I LOVE CLEVELAND! I want to move here and work for Alternative Press.

Oh, did I mention that Henry’s using a tan leather Puma “gym bag” that’s a “souvenir of the 70s”? It’s really a bowling bag from when he was in a league, OMG. They’d bowl and then go to the disco. Ooooh, disco delight!

(9:00pm)

Well, it’s my turn to tell the truth about the trip so far. I think this trip is a record to see how fast she could piss me off. I think it happened around 2pm. Almost came home. But as usual, she begged to stay. So the first 6 hours of the trip were not the best. So we are staying in the Holiday Inn, small room for a big price. But anything for my “sweetie.” Dinner was OK. Got lucky finding it, but seeing as how I’m the master of directions, I had no problem finding it. After dinner we walked down to the pier (so to speak). Got to see two lesbians kissing (Erin got excited). So now we’re gonna head down to the hotel bar and throw down some juice. Hopefully next time I write I’ll have more fun things to write about.

Wow. It took him nearly 15 minutes to write that. What an incredibly stimulating read.

On our walk back to the hotel, Henry J. told me a story about the last time he drank at a hotel bar. Apparently, he had such a wild time that he was too hungover to wake up for the maid the next morning. Oh my god, how exciting is that. And oh my god, it was when he was in THE SERVICE!! That was truly a story I’ll treasure always.

Yeah, so I want to hang out in the hotel bar and you know, meet some people, go home with a hot tourist, the usual.

————————————————-

OMG MORE NEXT SUNDAY CAN YOU STAND THE WAIT.

There were numerous reasons why I HAD to go to Philly to see Circa Survive:

• They just released a new album
• This was the first tour they were doing in support of that album, and it wasn’t coming to Pittsburgh
• The guys in Circa Survive are from Philly (or nearby), so this would a hometown show and everyone knows hometown shows are the best shows
• It’s Circa fucking Survive
• I would get to go with Terri and  Christian!

So I did that thing that I do when I really want something, which is tell Henry that it’s all I want for “x holiday.” This time, Christmas was the next holiday coming up, which is good because Christmas works better than Flag Day. So I was like, “OH PLEASE, PRETTY PLEASE, HENRY CLAUS, I’LL DO ANYTHING!” I think he liked the idea that all he had to do was get me to Philly, and not have to go to the show.

Plus, we all got to hang out beforehand and the next morning, so it just made sense for us to all go and make a weekend of it. At least, that’s how I tried to sell my case. “We can have group hangs! Then you and Chooch can dick around town doing fuck all while I go to the show with Christian and Terri!” I cried excitedly, and Henry didn’t really say anything, which is better than when he gets all huffy and starts yelling at me about money. Not that that happens a lot.

The show was at Union Transfer, and it was a fantastic venue even before the show started. The line to get in was super quick, the staff was friendly, and there were numerous ciders to choose from at the bar. This is really all I ask for. Terri and I each got some cider and hung out at a table near the window,  and I know this is cheesy, but we text pretty much every day so it was super nice to actually talk like real people. Eventually, we could hear the opening notes of Pianos Become the Teeth so we ditched the bar and made our way to the stage. Christian was already in there with one of his friends, but I needed to be closer for Pianos so we were like, “Peace out” and wormed our way through the crowd.

Meanwhile, Henry and Chooch were going to hit up some diner down the street from the hotel and then go get ice cream.

Pianos Become the Teeth is a hard band for me to describe, for some reason. I had a moderate affinity for them for awhile, but when I saw United Nations last summer, my appreciation for them grew (two of them are in United Nations: the drummer and bassist) and I knew I had to see Pianos live sooner rather than later. Luckily, they were at Riot Fest and their short set in the rain on one of the smallest stages in Humboldt Park turned out to be one of the highlights for me, which probably doesn’t mean much since that entire weekend was one big, obese highlight.

Their music is akin to post-rock, think Mogwai. But with anguished vocals that aren’t quite a scream so you can’t call this screamo, but more like a cry: a gravel-throated anguished cry over top of beautiful music that ebbs and flows with intensity.

Henry dislikes them because he’s a moron.

But OK, OK, this isn’t a music blog. So I’ll just say that when they played “Repine,” my eyeballs burned with tears. Jesus, that song.

Next up was Title Fight, which was exciting because the first time I ever saw them was the first time I met Terri and Christian at the AP Show in Cleveland almost exactly three years ago! We were all there as guests of our mutual friend Jason from Alternative Press, and spent the whole day together, record shopping, grilled cheese eating, and AP back issue rummaging. Jason had to do some obligatory networking during the after party that night and was so afraid to leave us alone together, for fear of one of us instigating a fistfight (we are hockey fan rivals—Pens vs. Flyers). I had a feeling that night that we were going to stay in touch and likely become good friends. You can just sometimes tell these things! It didn’t feel awkward hanging out with them and we had a lot to talk about, too.

Title Fight is one of those bands that I am a casual fan of, but seeing them live is a whole new ballgame. Terri has definitely gotten me way more into this genre, and I’m so thankful for that because I need all the help I can get to keep me away from stupid Jonny Craig and his stupid music. Ugh.

And then finally, it was time for Circa Survive. This time, Terri and I secured a prime spot near the side of the stage and, with the exception of the couple behind us who talked the whole time (GO STAND IN THE BACK IF ALL YOU’RE GOING TO DO IS TALK), it was a nearly flawless show, crowd-wise. Although Terri had some weird experience with some guy’s butt that I might try and talk her into guest-posting about.

Over the weekend, I went back in my blog and read about other Circa Survive shows I’ve gone to and really….what more can I say other than they are really something special. Even Henry, who doesn’t necessarily like their music, has admitted that they are entertaining. I’ve seen them in several different cities now: Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Chicago, Cincinnati….but I have to say that this Philly show was hands down the best Circa show I’ve seen to date. There was so much energy in the room that it was impossible to stand still, especially during “Child of the Desert,” when Anthony ordered everyone to stand as still as they could, holding all their wiggles in. “I’ll let you know when it’s time to let the wiggles out,” he promised. And when that time came, I grabbed Terri’s arm and we started jumping around like idiots because WHO CARES, WE’RE AT A CIRCA SHOW!? No offense to Henry, but it was like, next level amazingness. You have to understand that I don’t often go to shows with other people who love it as much as me! With Terri, it was like, “Fuck yes, let’s sing, high five our neighbors, and let our fucking wiggles out!”

THANK YOU, ANTHONY GREEN.

They played The Difference Between Medicine and Poison is the Dose, which ends with Anthony yelling, “Did you ever wish you were somebody else?!” After which, Anthony said to the crowd, “I used to wish I was somebody else. You know who I wished I was? James Brown! James motherfucking Brown!” and we all screamed of course because, James Brown. But the girl I hated behind me yelled to her boyfriend, “WHO’S JAMES BROWN?”

Kids!

Later, I would find out that while we were having religious experiences at Union Transfer, Henry and Chooch ended up just going to McDonald’s (Chooch’s choice) and Chooch spilled his drink in the car (“Daddy was pissed off,” Chooch wants me to  tell you) and then they went back to the hotel because the ice cream place apparently sells Christmas trees in December instead of frozen treats. So essentially, a pretty typical Henry and Chooch evening.

I’ve said this before, but there is something about Anthony Green that reminds me of Chooch. I honestly think that if Chooch was the frontman of a band, he’d have that same cult-like charisma and charm, and I was really excited when, after the show, Christian said that he was thinking the same thing. And again, I just know that Chooch is going to grow up and become something stupid just to spite me. Something stupid like a doctor. Ugh!

I bought this sick limited edition show poster (only 100 were made for this show!!) and treated it like a fucking Faberge egg until I finally got it home the next night. Still waiting for dumb Henry to frame it.

After we left the venue, I chimed in from the backseat to point out how happy I was to leave a show and have friends with me to completely analyze and dissect the night. I love Henry and I appreciated that he accompanies me to pretty much every single show I want to go to, but he doesn’t give a shit. And I wouldn’t want him to change. It’s our thing: I’m all hyper and wistful at once, and he’s just….”deep sigh.” It was just really fun and game-changing to be at this one, of all shows, with two people who are just as passionate about Circa Survive and music in general. It was such a great night and you know I don’t ever take these experiences for granted, but this one really made me extra appreciative.

Before taking me back to the hotel, Christian drove around the city for a little bit while we talked excitedly about the show and how on point all three bands were, and Terri pointed out noteworthy things and we saw a sick fight that briefly spilled out into the street. And, and, and! Even two weeks later, my mind is churning with minutiae that I don’t want to let go of.  I’ve watched YouTube videos of this show countless times since that night and Henry is like, “HOW MANY TIMES CAN YOU WATCH THESE.”

*****

Chooch was wide awake when I got back to the hotel after midnight, watching trashy TV and filling out MadLibs, but Henry was mostly asleep.  I shook him violently and, in my teenager vocal cadence, rapidly recounted all of the highlights for him and then shoved my phone in his face so he could see my Instagram videos.

“I know what Anthony looks like,” he mumbled, rolling over in bed and going back to sleep.

Ugh, shows like these make me feel better than a day at the spa.

We listened to Circa Survive for a good portion of the drive back to Pittsburgh the next day, and I cried a little while revisiting old memories and talking for the thousandth time about the first time we saw them at the Grog Shop over the summer of 2005, mostly because I like to tell that story. Henry of course knows that story well because he was there with me, so he just sighed a lot.

From: First Feet Productions

*If you’ve stumbled across this blog and aren’t familiar with Circa Survive, please please please do yourself a favor and check them out. They’re really something special.*

After looking at our fair share of medical anomalies at the Mütter (thanks, Chooch, for your gripping recap of our experience there), I reminded Terri that she promised we could eat at Blackbird, a vegan pizza joint where meat-averse people like me can enjoy a slice without worrying about pepperoni juice spill-over.

I don’t know what part of Philly it’s in because I don’t live and didn’t pay attention to how far we drove from the Mütter, except that we were lucky enough to find a parking spot that wasn’t too far away, but just far enough that Terri got to point out a street that’s on the cover of a Cinderella album. This is the shit that I want to know when I’m being a tourist! I mean, OK the Liberty Bell is cool, I guess, but I was more interested in seeing where Mannequin was filmed.

Tantalizing! Chooch tried to act like he didn’t care but I saw him turn back around to get one last boob-ogle.

Because Terri excels at pointing out places of interest (unlike me in my own city; I’m  the worst! “I don’t know what that building is…um…maybe a strip joint?”) I got to see what remains of Zipperhead, a much better Hot Topic-type store that was so cool it was referenced in a Dead Milkmen song. It sounds like it was a real institution in the Philly punk scene. We have a store similar to that in Pittsburgh—Slacker—that was the fucking shit when I used to shop there in high school, but now it’s super lame. I used to buy Lip Service clothes, crazy rings, and Fantasia cigarettes that emitted colored smoke when lit. I popped in briefly over the summer and was saddened by a rack of Yinzer-themed novelty t-shirts. God, Slacker was my jam back in the day, and I can only imagine how much I would have loved Zipperhead too.

The Internet ruins everything.

Onward to Blackbird!

Can I just tell you how amazing it feels to not be the outsider at a restaurant for once? Usually it’s all, “Oh, I’m sure I can find a salad on the menu, don’t worry” when I’m out with carnivores—I even brought a sandwich to work on the day of our office holiday party). But at Blackbird, everything is vegan and I had the hardest time ordering because for once, everything was an option. I was hoping Henry was going to cry bacon-flavored tears onto the table when his faux-meat pizza was served, which launched him into a defensive monologue about how he likes seitan, it’s only tofu that he hates. OK tough guy. (He really did eat the crap out of an order of root beer wings, so there you have it: a real blue-collared meat eater, dispelling the myth that vegan food is shit.

Seitan is everything.

So is Satan, but that’s a post for my secret 666 blog.

I ordered this chicken parm-type of sandwich and it made my heart so happy. Everything about it was on point, and I was so stuffed before I even got halfway through the second half, but I powered through it and then could barely walk back to the car later. Ugh, I wish this place was in Pittsburgh.

Chooch hated his pizza because it wasn’t ice cream.

A nightmarish window display.

There was an antique shop that I wanted to check out on the way back, and before anyone could stop him., Chooch whipped the door open, arousing about 150 years worth of dormant dust particles, and forged ahead. Unfortunately, the available foot path inside this shop was approximately two feet across, both sides lined floor to ceiling with unimaginably-priced breakables. Chooch was wearing a parka and I was hissing at him to stop and wait for us, but he is so fucking stubborn that he just kept speed-walking through the store and my mind started racing, thumbing through all of our available options at taking out a loan on a Saturday afternoon in Philadelphia when we were presented with a $65, 900 bill for damages.

An old man emerged from a cavern of gaudy lamps and followed Chooch, who was now standing at the foot of a staircase. “You don’t go up there without your mother,” the man growled and Chooch knew he was fucked. So then there was this awkward stand-off, where Henry and I were begging Chooch to turn around and come back, while the old man stood there glaring at us, and poor Terri was kind of just caught in the middle of it all and I kept hoping that maybe the man thought Terri was Chooch’s mom. I kept saying, “PLEASE GO OUTSIDE WITH DADDY” and Chooch, who was suddenly uber interested in chandeliers that would give Liberace’s interior designer a boner that no prescription of Viagra is capable of, just kept standing there in a swirl of vintage must. I was braced for A Scene (like, even more than we were already in the middle of), but Henry finally coaxed Chooch out of the store and I was able to breathe again, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing because OMG the dust.

Even with Chooch out of the store, Terri and I were already marked. I felt that man’s angry eyes on us the entire time we expressed genuine appreciation at the haunted clocks and sconces, and I really wanted to go upstairs because I’m certain we would have unearthed The Neverending Story book. But I was pretty anxious to get away from the proprietor. When we reached the back of the store, Terri and I both nearly knocked shit over trying to turn back around. A fucking waif would have had to walk sideways in that shop.

On the way out, I tried to tell the man that I thought everything was beautiful, but I don’t think he accepted my compliment. Something about his angry, milky eyeballs just screamed, “Go back to Target, peasant.” Meanwhile, some lady was behind the counter on a personal call, laughing so hard that Terri thought she was crying, and then she referred to someone as a fucking shit, and there was just something about her that made the whole experience even creepier. I hate/love that shop so much.

It was pretty late in the afternoon by this point, so we took Terri and Christian back home, and then checked into our hotel, where I had about an hour or so to rest before the Circa Survive show, because that’s what happens when you’re 35, I guess — it’s now necessary to “rest” before a show.

This is about the time I went to The Mutter Museum. First, We went to Philly to visit our friends Terri and Christian. To get to the Mutter it took us 20 minutes from Terri and Christians house. We played Heads Up by Ellen DeGenerous  in the car. I won!

Next, We got to the city I saw the hockey stadium where the Flyers play I wanted to meet them so bad. They were playing the Carolina Hurricanes. Boo the Hurricanes. Go Flyers! I was so excited! I wanted to meet them so bad! If they lost I would die!

Last, We got to the Mutter. Me and Christian were pretty much partners the whole time. I went inside this What It Feels Like To Get Shot In The Arm machine and it was weird. Me and Christian were partners. Well not partners but I didn’t want to be with Terri, Goth Erin and Napkin Dispenser Forgetter. Goth Erin told me there were people making out. But I didn’t see them so I didn’t know. She was so mad because we were in a museum with gross stuff in it. They were making it even Grosser. Me and Christian saw Einstein’s Brain so I tried to see if I could see Math Answers.  Goth Erin saw drawers of everything Dumb People swallowed because  I don’t even know why people would swallow these thing. Screws, Nails, Toys, Pins, Buttons, Dentures and Teeth, Bones and that’s all I can remember. Goth Erin got sick after she saw a bunch of Eye diseases. Pink eye, Eye Cancer, Tumors, Beaten Up Eyes,  Big Eyes, and that’s is what I remember. Me and Goth Erin kept seeing Baby Weiners. Before we left we went to the gift shop. I got a Brown Liver Cell stuffed Microbe. He is so Cute his name is Sir_osis. I had a blast at the Mutter Museum!

Clearly, This about the time I went to the Mutter Museum in Philly.

PS. If you don’t know where the Mutter Museum is ask Siri. This is the response.

Sorry what is the Mutter Museum? If you want I can show every Eat n Park near you.