I guess my new seat isn’t too bad.

[Ed.Note: The Juggalo rant is still going strong. Lee asked me to remind him how it even came up and I said, “Because you asked what Henry does for a living and I said he distributes Faygo. BLAME HENRY.”]

For weeks, I was all backed-up with blog posts and it was all, “I can’t wait until I churn these out & get caught up so I can go back to fucking off on here.”

Except that now it’s all, “I HAVE NOTHING TO WRITE! HOW WILL MY IMAGINARY READERS COPE?”

The problem is that I haven’t been doing much this week, which has been LOVELY. My friend Wendy lent me a book and I have actually had time to READ IT. You guys, I’m READING AGAIN! And it has been heavenly.

So to cap off my week of leisure, I will leave you with pictures of my current nail art, an homage to our own Henry.

When he saw his likeness on my thumbnail, Henry mimicked its exact expression without even trying. It was rich.

Then I came to work to find that Barb had bought Chooch a pair of gloves. Why’s everything gotta be for my kid? I WEAR GLOVES TOO.

*(Because these aren’t getting old at all.)

You know what I think is interesting? Henry rarely declines when I say, “Let’s go to [insert city] to see [insert band].” As long as the driving distance is within reason, he will usually oblige, so you know what I think? I think that Henry ENJOYS it. You know what else he enjoys? Answering my questions. So let’s just get right into it.

Me: What style are you going for when you go to shows – Urban Lumberjack, Megan’s Law leisure or Amber Alert athletic?

Henry, looking up from Bakery Story on his phone and twisting that mustache into a snarl: What the hell are you talking about?

Me: Do you mean you’re denying pulling clothes from the Child Predator rack?

Henry: [*crickets*]

Me: What are your thoughts on Craig Owens?

Henry, mumbling and making put-out faces: Same as they were before.

Me, pressing the issue: Did you approve of his hair this time? You seemed concerned about the darkened hue when he was on Warped Tour.

Henry, annoyed that I’m making him think and string words together: It was a little better, I guess. I don’t know. It looked blond. What the fuck do you want from me?

Me, changing the subject so he wouldn’t completely shut down: Let’s talk about your caesar salad. What kind of man orders a salad?

Henry, smirking indignantly: One that wants a salad to eat.

[When asked if it was better/worse than tossed salad, he said better, which leads me to believe that he didn’t understand the question.]

Me: If you actually had a say in what we listened to in the car on the way to Cleveland, what would it have been?

Henry, cutting me off before I had a chance to add “And don’t say anything but Jonny Craig”: Anything but Jonny Craig.

Me: Why didn’t you propose to me during Craig’s set?

Henry, my questions now wearing his face into the visage of a wild Appalachian man: What?! Because I was in the bathroom at the Mongolian BBQ!

[Henry went next door to the Grog Shop and went through the motions of getting a table at the Mongolian BBQ joint just so he could shit on their toilets. He quite literally missed half of the show and I didn’t even notice. And also, nice try Henry. We all know it’s because you don’t even have a ring!]

Me, brushing off the bitterness: Yeah, speaking of, let’s talk about your gastrointestinal hiccups of the night.

Henry: What about it? And why do we have to talk about my gastro—[gives up because he can’t pronounce it]?

Me, trying to get this over with so I could stare longingly at my Jonny Craig Christmas tree topper: Because some people might daydream about your bowel movements. YOU DON’T KNOW.

Henry: WHAT? People don’t…what the fuck are you talking about? You’re so…[goes back to playing on his phone]

Me: When you were young—-

Henry: No.

Me: —did you ever roadtrip for a show?

Henry, disinterestedly: No.

Me, pressing the issue: Not even for Judas Priest or Tone Loc?

Henry, all emphatically: NO. [And then repeated “Tone Loc” to himself and shook his head.]

Me, determined to dig deep beneath the non-descript t-shirts (worn over top of non-descript Henleys now that it’s winter!) for real answers: In your own words, describe the trip to Cleveland.

Henry, looking around confusedly. (Sorry, your mommy’s not here to hold up cue cards for you.): I don’t know. The trip was OK until we hit the snow that you didn’t tell me about. [Ed.note: maybe if he would use his phone for more than playing games and watching porn, he would have been privy to the weather forecast.] Then it became annoying. That was about it until the show and then the trip home which was not fun because I had to drive with a drunk girl next to me.

[Imagine how riveting it would be if Henry had his own blog.]

Me: That’s it?

Henry: Yeah. What else do you want?!

Me: Sentimental stuff.

Henry, repeating my request in a tired tone: My stomach was upset 90% of the time. Sentimental stuff went out the window.

[Or down the commode, as it were.]

Me, poking the bear one last time before we went to bed: Did you see any shows in the SERVICE? Like Bette Midler or Gloria Estefan.

Henry: What? No! You mean USO concerts? No. I did see Cheap Trick though when I was stationed in Texas.

Me, getting unnecessarily worked up: YOU DID? WHERE WAS IT?

Henry, looking at me suspiciously and clearly debating whether or not to answer: In a bar.

Me: [Dying of laughter, smothering myself with a pillow.]

Henry: [Ignoring me and trying to remember what album Cheap Trick had just released at the time of this show.]

Me: [Crying at this point.]

Henry, snapping out of his Cheap Trick glory: IT’S NOT THAT FUNNY. Really, it’s not that funny.

Me: Was that the show where you pushed over someone in a wheelchair?

Henry: What, no. That was Ted Nugent, and that’s not what happened.

Me: [Losing it all over again.]

This is what Henry looked like during most of our interview.

I’m going to try and really hone my investigative reporter skills by getting him to reveal what REALLY happened at that Ted Nugent show.

In addition to the Henry pins, I’m making these little promo card things for my blog. It’s 2012 and while I don’t do resolutions (that’s the fast-track to failure, if you ask me), I decided that I want to focus more on the blog this year. No, I don’t want to be “famous,” but isn’t getting people to read this shit the whole point of having a blog? That’s what I thought, anyway, so I’m going to try and do a better job of promoting myself and whatever you call this crap I throw down on here.

I figured people might be more compelled to visit my blog if there were actual reader reviews for them to read. So I made some up. (Although, there are some real ones floating amongst the lies!)

I spelled Cheboygan wrong, I KNOW. GOD.

And here is this one that I didn’t get to print yet. The front is one of the Goofus & Gallant: Oh Honestly Erin-style comics that I was doing for awhile over the summer.

I’m going to be making a shitload of these, each one will be different. If you want a handful, holla at me! And, as always, if you read this, say hello every now and then. That kind of stuff makes my day, really.

***

And while I’m at it, let me go ahead and remind everyone reading this that this is my blog and I have the right to state my own opinions on here. So if you’re some scene-famous singer who didn’t happen to like the review I gave your show, please note for the record that this is a personal blog, not Spin; I’m writing from the point-of-view of a disappointed fan, not a music journalist. Maybe you shouldn’t be trolling Twitter, looking for negative things about yourself. And also, trying to mask your whiny disapproval with New Age advice, “less-than-threes” and smiley faces only makes you look like a desperate doucher with self-esteem issues. And to insinuate that I need to find happiness? Because I didn’t enjoy your solo show? Bitch, I’m not the one who tried to OD.

I’m sorry that I originally felt bad for you, and I’m sorry that I have a painting of you in my house; it will be listed on eBay within the next 24 hours. But hey, thanks for giving me a lot to think about and making me realize that I’m only going to be more ballsy from here on out. Playing it safe is for pussies. I’m glad you found my review and that I obviously evoked a strong reaction from you.

Otherwise, what’s the point of continuing this song and dance?

Chiodos FTW.

I FEEL SO MUCH BETTER NOW.

On December 17th, Henry and I were Cleveland-bound again, this time for the Craig Owens solo show at the Grog Shop. You might know that I have had a long-standing love affair with Craig Owens’ music ever since he was in Chiodos, even though I feel that I’m starting to out-grow him a little bit at a time. (I love his new band, but there is this braggadocian cloud he’s been riding lately that I’m just not a fan of. It’s really hard to explain, because he acts all Kumbaya at his solo shows, but when he’s on stage with his band D.R.U.G.S., I kind of want to vomit into a hobo boot.) Regardless, Craig still has a way of warming my soul so I thought it would do wonders considering the depressed state I had been floundering in.

Plus, all that time to irritate Henry while he’s trapped in the car with me and the constant rotation of Jonny Craig projects oozing from the speakers, making me fan my face? You can’t get that kind of joy in regular therapy.

Henry’s favorite part of the trip was all the piles and piles of snow that began to appear as we drew nearer to Cleveland. He knew that it was supposed to snow later that night, but didn’t know that it had already previously snowed the night before. I did know this and made the mistake of casually saying that I had seen snow pictures from some Cleveland people on Twitter and Henry was all, “YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS?” like the fallen snow was code for me taking his mom to get a clandestine piercing.

Apparently now on top of sitting around looking pretty, I have to keep tabs on the weather. I’m so overworked in this relationship.

Getting lost, sliding in snow, PISSED.

By the time we made it to Coventry, we were starving and running out of pre-show time. There’s a Winking Lizard near the Grog Shop and we settled on that, because we had eaten there before and I was reaching that point where I was so hungry that I honestly didn’t know what I wanted and we were about to come to blows. Henry ordered a chicken caesar salad and I honestly did a spit-take. I mean, it’s unusual for men to order a salad to begin with, but Henry? HENRY? BLUE-COLLAR HENRY? I have not once in my life seen this man eat a salad unless it was atop a blood-dripping burger.

“What are you suddenly watching your girlish figure?” I asked him.

“No, my stomach is still messed up*,” he mumbled. So what does he do? He orders a salad and a side of wings. He threatened to make me cry if I took a picture of him and his salad.

*(I still think I brought home some kind of Bavarian virus from the music box museum.)

I felt like living large so I ordered some gingerbread cocktail in spite of Henry’s pursed lips and shaking head. It was pretty much the worst thing I have ever imbibed this side of an egg cream, which made Henry go on a tirade about how I just wasted $6 and I was like, “Jesus, I’ll offer to wash the dishes if your piddly Faygo salary can’t afford a $6 cocktail, go cry in your pussy caesar salad.” It’s just a matter of time before one of us tries to stab the other at a restaurant.

We had just enough time to run down to Big Fun after dinner, which is one of my favorite places to shop in Cleveland. I was hoping to grab some last minute Christmas bullshit for Chooch, but the most annoying people in the world were in there (most of them were probably en route to the Craig show, I’m sure) so I got fed up. I was also going to buy a pair of reindeer ears, because Craig had tweeted earlier that he wanted all the boys at the show to wear Santa hats and all the girls to wear reindeer ears, but then you know what? I got this sudden jolt of self-righteousness and said, “Fuck this, I’m too old to be playing sheep.” So I put it back and got some giant rubber mustache for Tommy and Jessy’s dogs. Next time Craig does something I tell him to do in a tweet, we’ll talk.

Besides, I hate being like other people. I enjoy being the plain old lady at the back of the show. Reindeer ears would only distract from that.

We got to the Grog Shop just as the first opening band was starting. I grabbed us a spot at the bar and immediately began chugging Strongbow. It was either get drunk or be emotionally vulnerable and cry through the whole show. It was bad enough there was one acoustic emo band after the next playing all kinds of wrist-cutting melancholy.

I don’t remember much about the opening band. They were local and their name had something do with Wolves. But the second band, Envoi, came out and I was immediately taken by the singer.

“He is so fucking hot and totally my type,” I hissed at Henry. By this point, Henry likely could have achieved a buzz off my breath alone. I like to slam back some Strongbow, ok?

Henry didn’t respond, so I repeated myself.

“He’s not that hot,” he muttered. At first I thought maybe he was just sulking, but he’s typically a pretty decent wingman so I was confused. That didn’t stop me from tweeting things like, “I can’t wait to date rape this singer after the show, just as soon as I chuck my kid’s carseat out of the backseat.” I mean, I had it so bad that I kept latching on to Henry’s bicep and squeezing, while making purring sounds that probably made everyone around me uncomfortable.

After their set, I kept my eyes on him, willing him to come over to the bar. He had huge gauges and was wearing a slouchy beanie and scene glasses – TOTALLY MY TYPE, RIGHT GUYS? Henry was still frowning over my latest conquest.

Finally, he did end up coming over to the bar, and squeezed in right next to where I was sitting. I was so stunned that I swiveled by seat away from him and mouthed to Henry, “WELL IS HE HOT OR WHAT?” Henry was firm in his stance and said, “No, not at all.”

I quickly spun my head around, letting my eyes scan him just long enough to determine that, oh fuck, Henry was right. This guy was so not hot at all. Not even his sex-voice would have been enough to win me over after finally seeing him close up.

“My eyes are really bad,” I said, returning to my can of Strongbow. At least I know I can still trust Henry as my wingman, even when he wears my pink Delia’s scarf.

Then we were totally making fun of this flapper-wannabe with an angel halo head topper and she totally ended up being with Craig’s “band.” I think she just stood there playing the tambourine. I was not impressed. But before I could find that out, we had to get through two more bands, one of which was My Arcadia, a female-fronted band we recently saw at Warped Tour. I liked them better this time, though I did admit to Henry that I wished the singer was just a smidge hotter. She had good stage presence at least.

Sometime before Craig took the stage, our friend Jason arrived and Henry immediately turned into a sycophant. He’s so ridiculous when it comes to bromances. He practically clotheslined himself against the bar, trying to get the bartender to put Jason’s Boylan’s on our tab.

“Can we go now?”

Craig came out and chose to cover Bieber’s “Under the Mistletoe” as his opening song. I thought it was a joke at first; who wouldn’t? He slowed it down and made it all breathy and serious; I kept waiting for him to stop abruptly and say, “Sike, naw!”

But no. He was serious. This was unironic. I seemed to be in the minority, considering that all the kids in the crowd were going ape nuts over this. I kept frowning at Henry and rubbing my chin, like this was going to help me suddenly make sense of things. It just sounded absolutely ridiculous.

At least the next song was “Lindsay Quit Lollygagging”, and I adore that song so much, you guys. It takes me back to a pre-pregnancy time. But for some reason, I kept finding ways to make everything about Speck, so I started crying, and since I was drunk, it was that stupid half-sobbing/half-laughing psychotic meltdown which usually leaves me wanting to punch people and there just happened to be a group of 4 or 5 asshole chicks next to me who I always see at Craig/Chiodos shows and I’m pretty sure they’re from Pittsburgh and I just really hate them. They do all these horrible exaggerated Glee-movements while drunkenly singing along with flipped-back heads, but this is just when they’re not SCREAM-CONVERSING with each other over top all of the songs.

The last time I felt like fighting while drinking Strongbow was at a Chiodos show in Columbus, only this time it was two jocks standing behind me, talking shit on the Penguins (too bad they won the Stanley Cup a month later, motherfuckers).

Anyway, I think I lost some love for Craig that night. He talked too much and there were times when he was borderline cult-leader up there on that stage. And he’s all “OMG I LOVE MY FANS” to such an extreme degree that it’s almost hard to believe his sincerity. I really don’t like feeling this way! But he leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth now. And also, I paid to hear him sing his fucking songs, not all the kids in the audience. I really dislike that he only sings three words and then gives away the mic.

Meanwhile, Henry’s caesar salad began knocking on the exit door, so he took off for the nearest bathroom, after refusing to poop on the prison-like Grog Shop commodes. I didn’t see him for at least four songs. Which ended up being most of the set, since the Grog Shop double-booked and Craig had to be off the stage around 9. Totally fucking weak. I knew this ahead of time, but I guess I assumed all the other bands would have cut their sets short to give Craig more time. And I also feel like Craig wasted so much of his set on stupid songs.

I really wanted to hear “Bibles and Badges” and we all know it’s all about me.

He did a few D.R.U.G.S. songs (none I particularly care for), “Intensity in Ten Cities” (not my favorite but at least it’s Chiodos), a Cinematic Sunrise joint and a song off the mediocre solo EP he put out a few years ago. Pretty disappointing show, but I was still happy to be out of the house, drunk, and having some quality time with Henry. (I know, right?) And it’s always a treat to see Jason.

At one point, he brought his puppy Charlie out so everyone could say hello and all that did was make me sad again. “SHE’S GONNA DIE SOMEDAY!” I was screaming in my head. I miss my fucking cat so bad.

The last song he sang was “Baby, You Wouldn’t Last a Minute on the Creek,” one of my all-time favorite Chiodos songs. He left the stage and had a bunch of guys hold him up which was cool, but that just made it easier for him to give the mic to the crowd. HI CRAIG, CAN YOU SING ONE SONG IN ITS ENTIRETY? At least let me get a quarter of my money’s worth? Cut the summer camp bullshit, please. He kept stopping during every song, putting his hand behind his ear and screaming “WHAT?” while holding the mic out to the crowd. I cringed every time.

I get that he wants it to be all intimate and shit, but then go for more of a Storyteller’s vibe and DON’T STOP SINGING.

Still, when he left the stage, I turned and walked back to Henry and Jason with my lip all protruding like a TV tray. Jason pantomimed straining to lift it up from the floor while Henry gave me that “Please don’t embarrass me by crying” mustache bristle. Afterward, we hung around and talked to Jason for a little bit before heading back to Pittsburgh, where Henry thankfully only needed to stop twice to tend to his explosive diarrhea.

(I also asked Henry some questions about his night at the show, which I will type up here tomorrow! And hey, don’t forget to tell me if you’re Team Poor Henry or Team Blame Henry!)

There was no late shift at work today; freebie for me!

It was nice to actually be home for dinner and I demanded Mexican food.

Mustachioed.

Pouting. When we left the house, he fell down the driveway.

Every day, I cry out DON’T RUN DOWN THE DRIVEWAY! in vail. He totally bit it today, scraped his knee, and is basically acting like he needs an organ transplant now. I have no idea where he gets this melodrama.

My new favorite Henry picture.

And now we’re listening to Dance Gavin Dance all the way home.

The pins have arrived! Chooch and I are squealing like little school bitches! They look so good I can hardly stand it! Thank you, Andrea!

And just to clarify: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Does anyone want one? I was thinking $1.50 for each (to compensate postage & Henry’s grief), + I’ll toss in some extra art cards, etc I have for my Etsy shops. (I feel like such a sellout.) I was going to list them on Etsy but it seems stupid to have to deal with listing fees on such a small product, so perhaps directly through PayPal? My email address on there is erinr.kelly@gmail.com. Just let me know which one you want!

Chooch buttons coming soon!

(Oh, and speaking of Henry: I have a new interview with him coming later today.)

[Ed. Note: Today’s “Best of 2011 Repost” is from the Fayette County Fair, where I spent my 32nd birthday in July. I want to say it was a fabulous day, but the truth is that only parts of it were fabulous; still, it was enough to be one of my favorite days of the year and it makes me smile sinisterly every time I go back and read it. Apologies to the people who are annoyed that I am reposting shit they already read. Let me live a little, will ya.]

Spending a birthday at the county fair seems like a great idea on paper: gut-churning rides, complimentary (if not downright sleazy) carnies, fried desserts (calorie counts are nil on birthdays, everyone knows that), the cacophony of laughing children and tractor pulls (forgetting for a moment that I hate children and anything with even the slightest redneck-tilt).

Yes, a perfect day!

But then you add in Henry, whose face threatens to crack a million different ways if even the slightest hint of a smile creeps upon his lips; Blake, who is apparently an 80-year-old retiree in an 18-year-old’s body, adverse to sunlight and complaining of back pain and lethargy all day; Chooch, who is a little motherfucking birthday killer-in-training who makes the day all about HIM HIM HIM; and Janna, who won’t ride anything aside from a carousel and a 20-second-long Haunted Mansion ride that Henry’s SAT score out-scares.

Not to mention the fact that these assholes weren’t constantly fawning over me and winning me plush Family Guy characters. IT WAS MY BIRTHDAY, NEED I REMIND YOU.

Blake and his new friends, planning their upcoming move to Florida.

Awkward Standing.

At first glance, I was like, “Aw shit, this fair might be pretty good.” I mean, it was run by Powers Great American Midway, after all, and I am obsessed with them. However, it was only about half the size of the Big Butler Fair, and I’ll tell you: That fair can spoil a bitch. Power’s light blue unit brought along some choice rides. (Is it sad that I know which “unit” PGAM deployed to the Fayette County fairgrounds? Maybe I look at their website too much.) And I saw lots of familiar carny faces, one of which was Kirk’s! I didn’t talk to him, though. What’s the point when my lame non-carny boyfriend was glued to my side all day?

But the layout of the fair sucked. And it was super muddy and smelled like sewage, but that was probably because Henry kept standing so close to me. Still: 100% better than the shitty Washington County Fair. (I go to county fairs a lot. It’s kind of become A Thing.)

You know you go to a lot of fairs when you start to recognize carnies, is all I’m sayin’.

Blake: Jeepers, it’s so hot! I think I’m dying! And I left my cane at the home and missed my 3:00pm dinner! I wonder if Dad has any individually-wrapped prunes in his pocket before I pass out.

Thank God Lisa and her husband Matt met us out there a few hours after we arrived. They joined us in standing around awkwardly, which is something that people need to master before even attempting to hang out with me. (I suggest going to a crowded store and standing right in front of a doorway or at the top of an escalator for practice. Do not move when you find that you are blocking foot traffic, and ignore the scowls you inspire. Only then can we hang out.) Lisa was in a really good mood and I like to think it’s because she knows how delicate of a situation my birthday is, like the entire premise of Speed, with less bus more birthday cake, but actually Lisa is always pretty chill and somehow wasn’t completely put off by the foul moods of my companions who need to be reminded that SOME PEOPLE AREN’T LUCKY ENOUGH TO GET TO GO TO THE FAIR.

Fuck!

Within minutes, Chooch claimed Matt and I’m sure everyone at the fair assumed they were father and son after that. I’m sorry, Matt. But Henry and I were relieved to be off the hook for awhile.

***

A week before the fair, I was on the phone with Lisa.

“I hope the fair is a good one,” she said thoughtfully.

“Um, Lisa? Of course it will be. It’s run by Powers Great American Midways,” I informed her haughtily.

“I don’t know what that means.”

THAT’S BECAUSE SOMEONE DOESN’T READ MY BLOG.

***

Lisa and Matt agreed to ride the Orbiter with me immediately after they arrived. I was SO EXCITED. Finally! I get to ride something moderately extreme! But then we got in line and I saw it said “No single riders” and those asshole words are ALWAYS BEING SNEERED AT ME at fairs because I am perpetually single in this world of grinding traps of pleasure (amusement rides, not vagina dentata). I looked at Janna who had accompanied us to the line and she said no before I even asked her. Way to tag along on something you’re not a part of, then Janna! So I had to run over to Henry and Blake, who had combined to form a Dildo-ic Duo while Chooch rode some stupid train operated by Kirk.

I hadn’t even approached them yet and I was already absolutely wailing about how Janna ruined my life and wouldn’t ride with me and Blake, while I was still approaching them mid-run, said no. Henry, however, said: “Fine.”

“What?” I asked in surprise.

“I said fine,” he sighed.

I guess he was trying to make up for the fact that he failed epically in the birthday present department once again. (Seriously, he got me a shirt that I already have, which proves that he doesn’t look at me. Ever.) This was the SECOND ride he rode on! (We rode on the Swings when we first got there. They made him sick.)

Oh, I was so happy! And the best part was that it took so long for the ride to get loaded to capacity, that Henry and I had plenty of time to talk about Jonny Craig!

Henry bitched about the Oribiter for the rest of his time at the fair. “I have cold sweats,” he kept complaining, though I’m not sure to whom because last time I checked, his mommy didn’t come with us and she’s the only person who gives a shit about him. He didn’t ride anything else after that, though I kept trying to con him into being my partner on the Skydiver, since it’s less commitment that being my partner for life. He kept saying, “We’ll see,” which everyone knows means NO.

After Chooch and Matt, Lisa, Janna and I had our turn at sliding down the Fun Slide, which I hadn’t done since I was a kid and good goddamn is that scary. Ascending the steps alone made me clutch my heart. I felt like there was going to be a religious cult waiting at the top to push me back down the steps into God’s eternal arms. It was like walking into the hospital on D-Day and wanting to run back out the doors but having 3 nurses pull you back in because “that baby’s gotta come out one way or another, sweetheart!” Longest climb of my life.

“I’m scared,” I told the Mexican carny who smiled, probably assuming I said, “Let’s go fuck behind that lemon cart you pushed across the border.” What? The Pennsylvania border, you guys.

Lisa thought it was the funnest thing at the fair, Janna had no comment, and I was just glad I didn’t slide through piss, shit, vomit, a chewed-up wad of Skoal or semen. And by “it,” I mean the Fun Slide, not Mexican carny sex. I know you were probably confused.

Things took a turn for the worse when I decided I was ready to eat something and made everyone halt and bow to my whims. I ended up getting a small bowl of haluski, which seemed like an OK choice as far as keeping my stomach lining primed and at the ready for vigorous riding. (And yes, finally I’m talking about sex!) Besides, it was either that or throw away 16 years of vegetarianism for some unidentifiable meat on a stick. There was some lame square dance bullshit happening inside the 4H building, so we all sat around and pretended to care about that while I ate. (Lisa really did care, though. She likes the simpler things in life.) This was about the time Chooch turned into the biggest prick of all the fair, and Blake did nothing but antagonize him which only increased Chooch’s crowd-drawing by 500%.

I attempted to not look like I belonged to the two of them by focusing my attention on the asshole inside the 4H building who was singing the most ridiculous square dance songs for these idiotic plaid-tastic children to clomp around to. I almost wished he had CDs for sale so I could buy one and break it in front of his face. God, get fucked with your pathetic farm melodies, douchebag square dance warbler.

In the middle of the Chooch & Blake: American Assholes show, there was an older lady sitting nearby (the blond Peg Bundy in the background of the above picture) who said about Chooch, “Boy he sure is cute” but what she meant to say was, “Damn, child. Your mama needs to put you in a cage because you are acting like one hell of a mother fucker.” And then to me, she said, “We just ate some fried Oreos for dessert. Boy they sure were good!” and what she meant by that was, “Bitch, why don’t you go to the other side of the fairgrounds, far away from me, and choke your bastard child on some fried Oreos, because he is being one hell of a mother fucker.”

Chooch flipped over a chair in response while I pretended that Janna was his mom.

The square dance brigade had some young child canvassing the area with literature. He approached me with his stack of white and green papers and said, “Would you like one, they’re free?”

“I want a green one,” I said with just the right drop of bitchy entitlement. He looked slightly stunned, like no one had ever bothered to make a color request before. While he shuffled through the stack in search of a green one, I said smugly, “It’s my birthday.”

Lisa and Janna were watching this pan out. Lisa looked mildly amused and Janna looked like she was bracing herself for the ‘splaining she was going to have to do to the kid’s mom by the time I was done antagonizing him. This is just how I talk to children: in a very demeaning, ironic way. They seem to like it.

Meanwhile, the guy who was inside singing the square dance “songs” promised “this next one” would “speed up.”

“You should join our square dance group!” He sounded nervous, slightly intimidated by me. Just how I like boys to be.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, as I folded up the paper. (The age limit is 20, by the way. THAT KID RULES FOR THINKING I’M NOT OLDER THAN 20.)

“This next one” still hadn’t “sped up.”

“Dylan!” a lady called from inside the 4H house. “Come dance to this last song!” Sure, maybe there was some plaid lass inside who missed being partnered-up with Dylan, but I have suspicions that this lady just didn’t want him near me anymore.

“Yeah!” I yelled in my best “I’m riding the Wacky Worm, motherfuckers!” impression and when he looked at me all startled-like, I gave him a thumbs-up and said, “Do it! Wooo!”

Lisa hadn’t heard the lady call for him in the first place, and admitted later that she thought I was just spontaneously excited, though she was confused why I was telling some young boy to “do it.”

Then I called Dylan my “new son” and Chooch got all upset. I win at parenting.

I have no recollection of Henry being anywhere near us that whole time.

Oh apparently he was off supporting his cocaine habit.

I told Dylan I was going to watch him, but that was actually the time we rose up as a group and went to the petting zoo. Fucking with children is the one true talent your God gave me.

Here is all I remember about the petting zoo: I relayed my birthday woes to a camel and then Chooch fell in a pig sty and Henry had to take him and Blake home.

Coincidentally, my night really picked up after that! Janna bought me root beer in a tin mug from an old broad who tried too hard to sway our decisions and Lisa and I rode the Gravitron with the cast of Jersey Shore. It was fabulous!

Lisa encourages me to take pictures of every little thing she does. She’s like Chooch, but grown.

The only downside to the Fair: After Hours (read: After the Douches Left) was that neither Lisa nor Matt would ride the Zipper with me. I was only able to ride it once, earlier in the day before Blake’s desire to drink a glass of Metamucil and take a nap got the best of him. We talked a little bit about music while trapped inside the Zipper’s jaws, but I could tell he wasn’t having too much fun.

Everyone is growing up but me.

Janna, Lisa and I rode this moderate thrill ride called the Tornado, which is pretty tame but Janna was still clutching her rosary and trying not to re-eat her haluski while Lisa manually spun our car around on top of giving Janna dating advice. My favorite part was when the ride ended and Lisa’s safety bar didn’t release. She pulled it toward her, hoping it would spring back, but it only made it tighter. I fetched the carny and then ran away to stand outside of the ride’s gate by Matt, who had been relegated to little more than a Purse Tree at that point.

The carny gave Lisa a hard time for awhile before manually releasing the bar for her. As she and Janna approached Matt and me, Lisa yelled, “And I love how Erin just ran away!”

Behind her, looking a gorgeous shade of gangrene from her jaunt on the Tornado, Janna irritably mumbled, “Yeah. She does that.” Possibly Janna’s way of suggesting that Lisa spends more time with me.

Janna bought* me a birthday ice cream cone from a girl who had been punched in the eye. Lisa opted for more scatastically phallic fare. Then we said goodbye to the fair and immediately upon leaving the parking lot, Janna’s GPS lured us out onto un-lit backwoods lanes and I’m not going to lie: It was scarier than riding the Zipper in a lightning storm with the cage unlatched. This was after Janna got raped by a bug.

(* This mostly happened because when Henry left the fair, so did my money.)

Happy fucking birthday to me, to me, to me.

[Ed.Note: Today’s repost is about a pitstop we made on the way to Gatlinburg, TN for our summer vacation. The time we spent at the Mystery Hole was definitely one of the highlights of the trip, second only to getting to hang out with Bill & Jessi and making new friends. I anticipate another trip to Ansted, WV’s Mystery Hole sometime in the near future. You should come, too.]

Mystery Hole, West Virginia

And no, I’m not referencing your cheating ex-wife’s vagina.

About a week before we left for Tennessee, I turned to Roadside America to help us map out a route. By the time I was done adding side-excursions all over the west side of West Virginia, our 8-hour drive had morphed into a 12-hour trek.

Henry was totally not OK with this. But I begged him, out of all the roadside attractions, to let me keep the Mystery Hole. It was on our route!

That morning of our departure, I was up by 4AM, packed, showered and rearin’ to go. Too bad Chooch and Henry didn’t wake up until 7. And then we didn’t even leave until 8. Henry argued that we could go to Mystery Hole on the way back home and I threw a substantial fit, pointing out that it was only open until 4 and how could he be sure we’d make it.

So we didn’t speak for awhile. I stared at my framed pictures of Jonny Craig to punish him. He hates when I openly lust like that.

But then Jessi texted me from the road (they had departed from Michigan but pretty much were looking at the same arrival time as us) a few hours into the trip and said they had been snagged by some traffic and weren’t expecting to make it to Gatlinburg until later than anticipated, so we should feel free to be leisurely and linger at any roadside stops we might pass on the way.

I read this text out-loud to Henry in my best “INYOURFACE” voice and then smugly said, “Mystery Hole. We’re going.”

And getting there was half the fun! And not just because Henry had to rely on my shoddy map-reading skills*, but because the town in which it’s located (Ansted, WV) is creepy as shit.

*(GPS is for losers. And couples who don’t like having incessant explosions of domestic  violence underneath the fuzzy car roof.)

I’m already planning a daytrip back to Ansted with props and costumes because it’s crying out for a photo shoot. The bus stops looked like open-air outhouses; there was a bar in an abandoned warehouse and you just know all brands of rape, animal sacrifice and baby-roasting goes on in the back next to the collection of scrapped, blood-soaked vehicles from unlucky travelers who get lost because they don’t use GPS; every other house was boarded up; tiny churches  sat flush against the woods. There was even a Civil War encampment.

In other words, there was nary a Starbucks to be found in Ansted.

But once we passed through “downtown” Ansted and started traveling up into the mountains, it got even better. Ramshackle sheds, confederate flags, cinder-blocked cars eaten by rust. Most of the houses looked unlivable and I’m sure each had a clothesline out back, pregnant with damp overalls. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to get out of the car and tempt fate, see if you can get chased away by a shotgun-toting hillbilly in faded camouflage stained with underarm sweat and Skoal-tinted slobber.

And then this appeared on the left hand side as we reached the top of a crest:

One of the tips on Roadside America warned that it was easy to miss. I hope they were being sarcastic. How the hell does someone miss something that looks like Sid and Marty Kroff spent too much time in the mountains subsisting on little else but Moonshine, mushrooms and sardines and then vomited all over the side of a Quonset hut after plowing into it with their VW? The whole compound was a fluorescent host for tetanus. Just how I like my roadside attractions: colorful and deadly.

For Chooch and me, this was a real feast for our eyes, a nice break from all the mountains and nature bullshit we had been subjected to. But Henry, who I’m pretty sure is color- and fun-blind, didn’t seem fazed by this wondrous explosion of Flower Power.

“Now what is this supposed to be again?” he asked all curmudgeonly.

“Um, only the most awesome place in the world!” I exclaimed in my teenaged “duh” tone. He kept looking at me though, waiting for a real answer, until I mumbled, “I don’t know, it has something to do with gravity or something.”

Real Talk: I only really wanted to go because one of the Roadside America tips likened the proprietor to the Soup Nazi, saying that he denied her entrance because she kept her camera in her coat pocket instead of returning it to her car, even after his wife laid out the rules of the land for her. So the woman’s husband took the camera back to the car, leaving his wife to be continuously chided by the Mystery Hole gate keeper and he still refused to let her enter because she BROKE THE RULES.

I had to see this guy for myself.

I also wanted to see the unbelievable.

Tickets for the tour were $5 and we purchased these inside the technicolor gift shop. The woman at the register, whom I can only assume is Mrs. Mystery Hole herself, ran down the list of rules to us and never once cracked a smile.

“And no large purses,” she finished, giving me a hardened stare. I took my purse back to the car. I was totally not trying to get kicked out of the Mystery Hole like some emasculated husband in the doghouse. (All of these photos were taken post-amazement of the Mystery Hole tour.)

Not a huge fan of Mrs. Mystery Hole, I gotta say.

We had around 10  minutes to kill before the next tour (“We’ll ring the cow bell,” Mrs. Mystery Hole monotoned, not even a smidge of personality slipping through. Broad made me shudder.), so we enjoyed the scenic overlook, and by that I mean Henry enjoyed the scenic overlook while I screamed, “OMG CHOOCH DON’T FALL OVER THE EDGE JESUS CHRIST HENRY HOLD HIM!”

Mountains: still a novelty on Day 1

Still waiting for the elusive cow bell, I gave Henry a spontaneous hug.

He looked at me all wide-eyed. I never hug him in front of people, and there were definitely a few people milling about. “What was that for?” he asked skeptically.

“I’m just so happy to finally be here! I’ve wanted to come here since….” I quickly thought about how long it had been since I found it on Roadside America. “….last week.” Henry just sighed and walked away.

And then the cowbell happened! I grabbed Chooch’s hand and together we ran to the entrance like the uncoordinated idiots we are while Henry and an older couple walked like regular people behind us. I wanted to be in the front of the pack, up close to Mr. Mystery Hole (whose name is Bill, by the way) and his crazy “I collect soiled underwear” eyes. Bill, a slender man with an eccentric energy and slight mountain drawl (he and his wife are actually Michigan natives, if we are to believe my Internet research), reiterated the rules to us and then asked if any of us have heart problems. We all said no (Henry lied) and Bill asked me if I wanted to see a rattlesnake egg.

“Sure, why not,” I answered and cupped my palms for him to place a small manilla envelope, which immediately vibrated wildly in my hands and emitted a loud rattling noise, causing me to shriek and hurl it to the ground.

Everyone laughed at me because they’re assholes.

Bill retrieved the envelope and opened it up to show me that it was just some stupid rubberband-rigged gag, which I have totally seen before yet STILL fell for.

“Does anyone here know why there weren’t actually rattlesnake eggs in here?” Bill asked. The old lady in our group answered, “Because rattlesnakes don’t lay eggs.”

Smug bitch. I choose to fill my brain with important facts, like shit about music and serial killers, thank you.

“And by the way,” Bill said teasingly to me. “Your heart’s just fine.”

I kind of liked Bill after that.

He opened a gate and led us down a relatively steep ramp into the basement of the souvenir shop. Even moreso than outside, the interior was steeped in the stench of the ’70s. It smelled of moth balls, musk and the sweat on a paisley-print A-line dress after a long night of dancing to ABBA. It was also quite damp and there were probably impressive arrays of fungi growing in the darkened corners. Random memorabilia from the ’70s lined the walls and one small room even glowed with the power of a black light in case we weren’t comprehending that we had traveled back to the Me Decade. I’m sure it brought on a flood of memories for Henry the Elder.

And there were mannequins.

I wasn’t sure what any of this had to do with the Mystery Hole, which was actually the largest room down there. We had to enter it by walking up a ramp and then down a ramp, at which point we found ourselves unable to stand upright and needing to grip the wall to keep from falling. Bill instructed Henry, Chooch and me to sit on a couch, while the other two leaned against the wall. Bill then walked with an extreme lean to the front of the room and began showing us a variety of gravitationally-impossible tricks, like balls rolling up a hill (which I’ve seen before in Laurel Caverns and sorry, Bill, but I do understand how that happens), water flowing uphill, and Bill being able to sit on a chair perched on nothing more but a small nail in the wall. He then had Henry, Chooch and me hold out our arms in front of us and try to stand up. We couldn’t, because while it appeared that we were sitting normally, the way the room was set up we were actually almost laying on our backs. (Henry would never have been able to do this even if he was sitting on a couch in a room with normal gravity. Because he’s old, remember?)

The old couple politely declined Bill’s offer for them to sit on the couch after we unsuccessfully struggled to get up.

According to the Mystery Hole website, those who don’t ask questions are the unintelligent ones. But when asked, none of the people in our group asked any questions (though Chooch had repeatedly whispered to me, “When are we leaving? This place is scary.”), so I guess Henry shouldn’t have been the only one I was calling “Dum Dum” all day.

Besides, I would have only inquired, “When do we get to see the basement?”

They had a guest book in the gift shop, which I happily scrawled “Stoked to be here!” after my name. Henry frowned. But in his own words: “It was pretty cool.” That’s a big deal for Henry to admit.

Bill was high energy, full of jokes and showed us some cool parlor tricks. Totally worth the slight detour and $5, and I would tell any one of you to go there and be amazed. But probably more by the tacky decor and crazy blue eyes than the actual “gravity defiance” show.

I was still riding a Mystery Hole high hours later in the car. “I didn’t think the tour guide was an asshole at all. In fact, he seemed to really like me. He paid a lot of attention to me.”

“I wonder why,” Henry smirked, lowering his eyes to my cleavage.

***

The next day, we were tromping around downtown Gatlinburg when I noticed Henry was acting weird and off-balance.

“What’s your problem?” I asked with my usual lack of compassion.

“I think Mystery Hole really fucked me up,” Henry moaned. “I haven’t felt right since we left there yesterday.”

Well, there is a disclaimer for that.

I figured after writing on the Internet since 2001, maybe now would be an OK time to start promoting myself and what better way to do that than with Henry’s unmistakable mug. And there seem to be two distinct and staunch camps: the Blame Henrys, who love to see him fail, preferably while weeners are being drawn on him; and the Poor Henrys, who are all waiting for the day when he rises up, Mortal Combat-style, and starts swinging, at which point I will kill him and then he will become martyred.

I designed these real quick yesterday and then Andrea made them into pins for me because she is the BEST.

I’m going to make some more swag too, probably through Cafe Press, maybe throw some Chooch-related slogans up in there too.

(“I can’t like that” and “You’re a douchecup”?

Yes, I’m totally trying to capitalize off my 5-year-old AND HE OWES ME.

) So if you always wanted an “I’d Rather Be Riding the Wacky Worm” t-shirt of your very own, well, you might have your dreams come true very soon.

The secret passageway from the office led us into the boardroom; it’s amazing we were able to squeeze past Andrea’s Dick-inflated ego to even get into the next room at all. This room was kind of boring, and pretty typical of what you would expect a boardroom to look like. Even still, Dick kept asking us what seemed awry in the room and even the super old people had seemed to lose some of their enthusiasm by this point, so no one really volunteered any guesses.

“The chairs have never been sat in! Chuck didn’t even have a board!” And oh, how we laughed at Chuck’s absurdity. That one chatty old lady tried to say something to me in this room, but I murmured “Mmhmm” and turned the other way.

Evidently, the table was actually made in the boardroom, because it would have been too large to fit through the doors otherwise, you see. I pretended to be impressed by this, but I was really reaching the end of my rope, I had to pee, I was hungry AND I REALLY WANTED TO SEE THE SWIMMING POOL.

A bookshelf opened up into some sort of extraneous sitting room. Off to one side was a smaller kitchen-like room that Chuck had built specifically for canning, and then only canned once. It was super creepy, thick cutting blocks lined the walls and industrial stoves and other cookery added to the sinister ambiance. I thought I saw a faint blood stain.

“This is where we all get murdered,” one of the old guys whispered, only I didn’t hear it but Andrea told me about it later and this seemed to slightly redeem old people to her. It was pretty obvious that he was only there because his wife had dragged him there, so Andrea had already felt some strange kinship to him, I’m sure. BECAUSE I AM JUST LIKE A NAGGING WIFE, JUST SAY IT ANDREA!

A billiards room was next. The table was PURPLE you guys, and Dick made sure to tell us fifteen times that he had never seen a PURPLE pool table before. Apparently, Chuck had told him that the table was made for the movie “The Hustler,” and so Dick went and watched the movie TWICE but he’s pretty sure that this was another of Chuck’s tall tales (he was such a kidder) and furthermore, the movie was in black and white so why would they want a purple pool table?

Dick laughed heartily at this.

Meanwhile, he suggested that I take the seat right next to the room’s player organ so that I can “really feel the bass.” I did as told, but all I really wound up feeling was an extreme stabbing sensation in my eardrum, like the entire organ was trying to copulate with my ear. It was awful! Furthermore, when Dick opened up the front of it to show everyone the insides (which is why Andrea looks SO INTENT in the above photo), I couldn’t even see! That was my least favorite room, I think.

Back in the large sitting room, we finally got to listen to the Merry-Go-Round band organ. This was Dick’s opportunity to make us all feel like inferior music retards for assuming that it was a calliope. “Everyone always confuses these with calliopes!” he scoffed. I half-expected a secret chute to open up in the floor and send us off on a flight of shame.

“This is the second-loudest music box in the house,” Dick said, flicking a switch that blew back our faces against our skulls. Goddamn, that was some loud fucking music. “This is what draws people to merry-go-rounds!” Dick shouted over top the joyful amusement park soundtrack. One of the ladies in our group started doing some stupid mock-waltz and I wanted to punch her.

Afterward, we got to listen to the band organ behind that one. “This is the loudest one in the house!” Dick said, but nothing could have prepared us for the sonic needles about to be gouged into our cochlea. I’m pretty sure I even saw Andrea’s spirit leave her body.

I mean, I was REALLY into this shit the whole time, but it was even too much for me. It was like every speaker at Warped Tour funneling gutteral screamo into my ear canal all at once, this fucker was that intense. It was like the ninteenth century’s version of a metalcore band. MAKE IT SHUT THE FUCK UP! TURN IT THE FUCK OFF! ABORT! DICK, YOU DICK!

These are things that my unmoving lips wanted to scream if only the aural violence hadn’t caused me to suffer intracranial injury.

After Dick felt all brains had been sufficiently jostled, he turned off the organ and flicked some secret switch that made some wall panel behind Andrea swing open and hit her in the ass.

“He totally did that on purpose,” she scowled, having just been goosed by the Bayernhof. God, she got ALL the special treatment!

I hadn’t even had a chance to peek around Dick’s bulky girth, but I already knew that we had finally reached my long sought-after part of the tour thanks to the strong aroma of chlorine and all-around dankness that came wafting from the other side of the door: the swimming pool secret passage. We all walked into the entrance of a man-made cave, complete with stalagmites, dampness and a fake bat. It was all I could do not to bowl Dick over to get inside even quicker. I kept giving Andrea all these adorable Make A Wish Kid faces, but she was making a point to ignore me, I think.

Before we could further explore the cave, we made a pit stop into a small wine cellar, which featured grotesque trolls straight from the pages of Grimm’s.

I wanted to steal it.

“Don’t steal anything!” Dick said teasingly to Andrea who answered him with nothing more than a withering glance. In his excitement to tell us that Chuck wasn’t a wine-drinker, I don’t think he noticed that Andrea was weaving a voodoo doll from his suit lint, projectile-spit and music box-love jizz. Among all the cheap bottles of wine in the cellar, Chuck also had a bottle of Mad Dog. Everyone giggled; Andrea continued to stew in her crock pot of animosity and disgust.

Finally, we got to walk through the cave! OMG CHUCK WAS SO LUCKY! If I lived there, I would have congregated in those caves all of the time. That’s probably where Chooch would have been conceived. I couldn’t resist running my fingertips along the surface as we all trudged slowly down the narrow, dimly-lit path. The eye-watering stench of pool chemicals grew stronger as the path started a slight incline.

And then, we were in the ultimate Germanic Eden. A stone bridge arched over a sauna and a 10-foot waterfall cascaded majestically down a rocky wall to our right. Tears stung my eyes and I wanted to twirl around like Julie fucking Andrews on a hillside. IT WAS ABSOLUTELY GLORIOUS.

But not enough to change Andrea’s mind about the Bayernhof. In fact, she seemed even more disgusted.

Oh, I wanted to just dive right in! BAPTIZE ME, BAYERNHOF!

I wonder,when Dick goes for a dip, does he wear a Speedo or one of those 1950’s striped onesies? I can see him floating on his back while balancing a snackbowl of prunes on his rotund belly.

Finally, Dick led us out of the pool area and we found ourselves back in the foyer, to the left of where we orginally convened at the start of the tour.

“You mean we could have just walked through this door in the beginning and been done with it? Son of a bitch,” Andrea hissed, right as Dick announced that he was ready to accept our payment. “And we have to pay for this shit, too?” she verbally-whipped at me. And apparently, it was cash only, which I didn’t know and only had a credit card and gum wrappers in my wallet. Andrea reluctantly handed Dick a twenty for the both of us, and I swore to her that I would buy her dinner that night.

“It’s the least you can do at this point,” she said, singeing my eyebrows with her vitriol.

“Here, have a postcard!” Dick said to everyone as we tugged our coats on and prepared to head out into the snow. I thought it was strange that he didn’t hand one to Andrea, but I shrugged and walked out the front door. Andrea fell into place beside me before I got to the car and said, “Here.” She was shoving an entire stack of postcards into my arm.

“He gave me all of these and then told me he hopes I come back,” she said miserably, and I laughed so hard I cried.

Thank god, right before we left,  I was able to snap a fortuitous picture of a framed photo of Chuck, daydreaming about Germany and music boxes. Just for you, Andrea. I hope this is the first thing you see when you close your eyes tonight! Love, Erin

***

Later that night, Henry and Wendy joined us at Max’s Allegheny Tavern, where we dined on Andrea’s favorite food – GERMAN. OH THE SWEET IRONY.

“I wish there were music boxes playing,” I said, to which Andrea retorted with a hearty “Fuck you.”

Henry’s weeners.

Coincidentally, I was felled by a nasty stomach flu the very next day. At first I thought it was Karma, and Andrea took great pleasure in this, but Henry wound up even sicker than me. I had fever dreams about the Bayernhof throughout the day and couldn’t think about it for at least a week. Then my cat died two days later and I really began to think that I brought something evil and German home with me that day, like Hitler’s own fucking spirit or a Black Forest demon. But I got over it and now I’m ready to go back. Anyone want to join me?

[Ed.Note: Apparently roller skating was all I had going for me this year, because these seem to be the only events I find worthy enough of an end-of-the-year repost.  So take a break from Christmas Eve freak-outs and read this shit. IT IS ALL I WANT FOR XMAS. Seriously, make your friends and bail bondsmen read this, too.]

Henry and I went to the Adult Skate two weeks ago alone, kind of like a real life date, I guess. He didn’t even seem to mind when I blasted Dance Gavin Dance on the ride there while pantomiming in his face. (That’s his favorite part anyway, who’s he trying to kid.)

This particular adult skate was way less soul, more cracker because it wasn’t hosted by the Steel City Rollers. They did play my Return of the Mack song, though, which I’ve decided is my all-time favorite skating jam. But still — way too many whites. It was almost embarrassing. And maybe if I didn’t already have knowledge of the Steel City Rollers, I’d have been impressed by some of these Opies, but they just looked farcical out there. Especially the one older man who was fist-pumping aggressively to Queen.

Queen.

I was definitely the best white-girl skater there that night though, so I took satisfaction in that. And Henry even skated with me a lot, even to the tail end of “Rush, Rush,” and even after I admitted that I was pretending he was Jonny Craig. Henry is willing to role-play to keep me.

It became suddenly very apparent during this Adult Skate why Neville Roller Drome isn’t open all year. It was unseasonably warm that Sunday in April, and even at night the rink was trying to smoke us alive. The windows were open, and the exit door at the far end of the rink was propped open (which lured neighborhood children over to watch the grown-ups acting like teens on the rink; I raised the roof to them every time I skated past) but even then my whole body was moist with skate-sweat and I was starting to get scared of passing out. For the first time ever, Henry and I  spent more time sitting off-rink and downing fluids in the snack room than actually skating. That’s when it became apparent that we needed to find a new rink. (Though we’ll still be going to this one just  for the adult skates until the season ends.)

***

And that was the catalyst that led us about 40 minutes out of the city to Donora last Saturday. We let Janna come with us, even though she is A ROLLER BLADER.

Immediately upon entering the building, my tongue was slathered with a horrible taste as a Valley Skate-shirted woman darted around a corner and, in a very condescending tone (don’t listen to Henry’s version of this) asked, “Can I help you?” Her bug-eyes were sizing us up, realizing we were city folk, probably wondering what our motives were, like, why weren’t we at a martini bar?

I continued to stare back at her, making my eyes into slits of intimidating fuck-you-uppery, while Henry calmly told her we were there to skate.

I mean, I understand some people go to rinks to sell drugs to minors and have sex behind the skate rental counter, but bitch please. I have all the intensity of a professional roller dancer, but just to be clear: I AM HERE TO SHOW YOU WHAT A DREAM ON WHEELS LOOKS LIKE.

“Oh. Well it doesn’t start til 2.” And with that, we were made to go back out to the stench-laden vestibule, which was muggy as Hell thanks to the rainstorm performing directly outside the doors, where we had to stand with another family for an entire 10 minutes. (This will now be known as The First Thing That Pissed Me Off.)

And you know I was motherfucking that broad up and down, which prompted Henry to release his years-perfected elbow-clench (which, by the way, hurts but never makes me shut up). “She’s right on the other side of that window!” Henry hissed, pointing to the open plexi-glass of the ticket booth. “She can hear you!”

“OH I HOPE SHE CAN! THE DUMB WHORE BITCH!” I replied with my outdoor voice. (Which doubles as my Church Voice.) “LET’S JUST LEAVE! I DON’T WANT TO SKATE HERE ANYWAY, IT’S A DUMP.” (It was not actually a dump.)

“Don’t start,” Henry seethed. And then he tried to block me from taking her picture. NICE TRY, ASSHOLE.

Turns out (or, if this were Henry talking, “Come to find out”) she’s the daughter of the owner and also the go-to girl for purchasing skates, which is what I want to do, but now I’m not sure if it requires talking to her without the aid of a translator. Or a paper bag over my face.

They got the Ode to a 1987′s Trapper Keeper carpet pattern down to a T. I completely approved, even though I tried to act disgusted by it at first when I was still hating the place.

The Second Thing That Pissed Me Off: The kid working the skate rental counter did not put enough attention into assuring that the skates he plucked from the wall were in my best interest. As soon as he handed them to me, I said (apparently to no one, since neither he nor Henry appeared to notice my presence), “I can already tell these are too big.”

And they were too big. So I threw a small fit, which Henry took as his cue to go get me a smaller size. Meanwhile, I decided to utilize the facilities before skating-up.

The bathroom was clean enough, but it was concerning how low the stall doors were. Any adult could have stood on the other side and watched from above as I proudly peed currents of rainbows and the blood of  Christ, which is also rainbow-colored and serves as an astringent for anytime a Katy Perry fan might lay a hand on you.

Which leads me to The Third Thing That Pissed Me Off: getting bested by a motherfucking sink.

A SINK, I SAID.

After lathering my hands up real good (I’m not even so much of a germ freak), I held them beneath what I could only assume was a faucet and hopefully not the piece of farm equipment it actually looked like, and nothing happened. I fiddled around with the invisible knobs on top, banged around a bit with the heel of my hand and felt my face heat up as panic crept in.

I considered walking away, but I had this thick sheath of pink antibacterial soap on both hands and of course there was only a hand dryer at my disposal, nary a paper towel dispenser.

Suddenly, it was 2005 and I was in the lounge of a funeral home, waiting to be interviewed for a job. “Have some coffee while you wait!” I was told. But I couldn’t figure out how the coffee maker worked, which made me light-headed with anxiety. I didn’t really want coffee, but I was told to HAVE SOME COFFEE so I felt that I should do just that. I spent the whole time (at least a half hour, because the interviewer double-booked himself), slamming the carafe against the counter, sweating through my blouse, crying. Oh, I cried. And when I finally figured out its twisted puzzle, I was called back for the interview.

This sink was the new funeral home coffee maker, and I found my eyes were welling up much in the same manner. WHAT COULD I DO?! To my right, I noticed a water fountain. I tried to covertly assess how many people were nearby, and which of them appeared to be noticing this grown woman completely spazzing out in front of a sink (did I mention this sink was located OUTSIDE of the restrooms?)

I could rinse my hands in the water fountain, I thought, momentarily awash with hope. Just as I started casually walking over the fountain (to be clear, the Erin Version of “casually” is suspiciously clod-hopping with unbent knees while furtively glancing over my shoulders and drawing every last bit of attention to my person as single-handedly possible), a young girl skated over and took a hearty gulp from it.

I froze, like a priest caught with my hand up an altar robe, and she and I locked eyes for what seemed like an entire episode of that shitty television program where F-List “stars” pretend to dance. Then I decided to do that thing that people are always telling me about, where one human asks another human for help. So that is what I did.

“Oh! Here I’ll show you,” she said cheerfully, skating over to the trough. “You just step down on this,” and as she did so, glorious streams of water poured forth like a waterfall of promise. “And it’ll turn off on its own.”

I thanked her with way more enthusiasm than necessary, and she was like, “Um, OK,” then left me alone to have what I can only explain as my Virginal Hand-Washing Experience.

Meanwhile, I had been gone so long, Henry probably thought I was giving birth to my Internet Boyfriend’s lovechild in one of the stalls.

“You’ll never believe what happened to me over there,” I wheezed, out of breath from running the length of the building with jazz hands. I explained the situation and Henry, with a bemused smirk, said, “Let me guess—-did you have to step on something?”

“Fuck you,” I sighed in defeat, sitting down to put on my skates. Of course Henry would know! He’s so fucking old, ain’t no sink he hasn’t encountered.

Once Henry scraped the gum off my wheel, I was set free and it only took me .0002 seconds to understand just how perfect the rink was. It was smooth as silk, twice the size of Neville Roller Drome, and even had a small children’s rink off to the side, so the idiots could stay over there and learn how to act like proper human beings.

The Fourth Thing That Pissed Me Off: Really awful music. In a three-song span, I was ear-assaulted with Miley Cyrus, Who Let the Dogs Out and Smashmouth. SMASHMOUTH, REALLY? I almost had an angry-cry session right there on the rink.

“It’s probably just because the session hasn’t officially started yet,” Henry reasoned, like he always does because he’s a professional father. Eventually, the lights went out and the colored track lights came on, at which point the rink was soundtracked by a mix of somewhat appropriate pop (there was only one Katy Perry song, I couldn’t be too hateful), 80s rock classics and a little bit of 70s soul for a little flavor.

An hour into the session, I noticed that there were still really only about 20 or so people on the rink, and most of those were children who actually knew how to skate well. There was only one incident where a boy younger than Chooch decided to change directions and came careening into me. We completely crashed into each other because I have little to no reactionary instinct, though I managed to stay on my feet while he rolled a good five times before coming to a stop.

My heart was racing.

“I COULD HAVE KILLED HIM! WHERE THE FUCK ARE THE RINK REFS?!” I screamed at Henry, because he was obviously responsible for the near-carnage. There are two rink refs at this joint, the one with bleached blond hair was nowhere to be found, and the other (the asshole who gave me my skates) was sitting in the corner of the rink with some kid, yukking it up.

UNACCEPTABLE.

“I’m saying something to that lazy asshole!” I yelled with determination, because it makes me mad when patrons do not abide by the rules of the roller rink. YOU DO NO SWITCH DIRECTION MID-STRIDE. There were literally no more than 15 people on the rink together at any given time, so collisions should not have been a worry.

“Please don’t,” Henry said quietly. So I didn’t, because we were newbies after all, and I guess I didn’t want to get black-listed right after we finally found The Perfect Rink. (It’s where I’m having my birthday party this summer, probably. It will be at the end of July so if you want to come, just tell me. I need all the people I can possibly get to pose as friends.)

After a minute or so, Henry added, “You should just be a rink guard.” (He refuses to call them rink refs like I do.)

“I KNOW RIGHT!” I yelled, even though he clearly didn’t READ MY BLOG a few weeks ago when I wrote about just that.

“No one would come on the rink.”

That’s actually a pretty good possibility.

From some undisclosed location, the voice of Whore Bitch filled the rink and announced that it was Game Time. All fifteen of us gathered in the center of the rink for the Hokey Pokey, at which point we were all instructed by Whore Bitch to sit down for Spin the Pin. “The adults can remain standing,” Whore Bitch went on to say. “I know it can be kind of hard to get back up!” And she laughed, along with Henry who knows all about being old and unable to stand from a seated position. I sat with the kids because I’m not old. Janna and Henry stood like old people.

Spin the Pin was a crock of shit. The bowling pin was clearly about to stop while pointing at Chooch and me, but the tow-headed rink ref did something to make it keep spinning, I fucking swear to god, because he probably wanted a townie to win. So some other asshole got to win a free pass to come back, while Chooch and I sat there with our mouths twisted in the shape of WTF.

It was Katie’s birthday! I don’t know who she is, but she couldn’t skate for shit. She got a fucking purple balloon and I kept cheering and wishing her a Happy Birthday in a very exaggerated fashion, which was really pissing off Chooch because I think he thought I cared more about her birthday than his, which hasn’t even happened yet.

Then we played a game called Corners! How exciting! Along the rink, there were six numbers painted on the walls. Everyone had to split up and stand under a number. I went for 6, which was located above the DJ Booth. Whore Bitch was explaining where all the numbers were located and when she said, “And then number 6 is right above me!” I turned around just in time to make eye contact with her on the other side of the DJ booth glass. I don’t know why, but it hadn’t occurred to me this whole time that she was the DJ. Janna, Henry and Chooch were across the rink, standing under the number 1. Janna laughed when she saw my expression of extreme disdain.

One of the Rink Refs came out with a large felt die and had some asshole toss it. I’m chanting “666!” over and over, like some sugar-fed Satanist, and the die landed on 6! I was like, “HELL YES BITCHES! WOO!” but then Whore Bitch was all, “Oh, sad. Everyone under the number 6 is out! You must now leave the rink! Go stand somewhere over there.”

LONGEST SKATE OF MY LIFE. I had my head hung low, especially when I inevitably had to pass Henry and Janna, who were belly-laughing at my loss.

“I thought I was supposed to root FOR my number,” I hissed at them, before sitting sadly and alone on a blue carpeted bench.

Stupidest fucking game ever.

Chooch got to roll the die and rolled Janna, Henry and himself right the fuck out so I made sure to jeer and heckle them loudly from my spot in exile. Assholes.

AT least they didn’t piss around with Limbo. I hate Limbo.

The rest of the time was All Skate, with an occasional Couples Skate thrown in (I tried to get Henry to twirl me but he was too embarrassed to have to publicly place his hands on me).

By the end of the session, I was a hot mess of frizzy hair and brow-sweat, which is how I look at Warped Tour. That’s how I know it was the best day ever. And I didn’t even find a single skater I wanted to hate! Except for Janna. Obviously.

Henry and I get along best at the roller rink, it’s become quite clear to me. I’m thinking—we have hardwood floors, so maybe if we just go about our homelife while wearing skates, we might actually be able to achieve full-scale Love.

Imagine Andrea’s chagrin when she had to walk away from the front door and follow the group upstairs for more German wonderment. Me? I was stoked because I just knew there were going to be secret passages up there.

Burnt Offerings Lady opted to sit down on a chair in the foyer because her legs were not stair-savvy. I  noticed Andrea casting her longing glances, probably because she wished she had the foresight to feign a physical handicap. Too bad Dick noticed Burnt Offerings camped out downstairs and put a kibosh to it.

“Oh dear, is this an antique?” Burnt Offerings asked after Dick got all flustered at the sight of her resting her brittle bones. She labored herself out of the chair as he hot-stepped it down the staircase to join her.

“No, it’s just that my boss would have a fit if he knew anyone was left down here alone. I can’t let you stay down here, so we’ll have to take the elevator.”

Andrea looked at me, eyes all slit, and hissed, “He is such a dick!” So suddenly Scary Old Lady from the parking lot had become Poor Old Lady in Andrea’s eyes. I think it also made Andrea realize that there was NO WAY OUT OF THE BAYERNHOF.

We all milled about the upstairs landing until Dick and Burnt Offerings joined us from the elevator. Apparently, there was no staircase that couldn’t be swapped out for an elevator, yet I never actually saw the elevator, thus solidifying my theory that Dick was actually a warlock, latching on to Burnt Offerings by her hair and flying her in through windows.

The first upstairs room we saw was one of the guest rooms and hoo boy, do I wish I could sleep over! Paintings of castles, curtains that opened with the press of a button, a mini kitchen tucked away behind a cabinet door, the bedspread a paroxysmal splatter of burnt oranges, reds and yellows – it was a room fit for a German Dan Tanna. Dick told us that in his room, he puts a coffee pot on one of the stove burners and even has a small microwave tucked in there, too. I noticed Andrea flushing a distinct shade of chartreuse, probably because she was picturing Dick in his tightie whities, brewing coffee and popping prunes while doing the Charleston to wound-up music boxes.

The next room was a game room with a riverboat theme. It had a large poker table, a music box with a real banjo encased in it you guys!!!!, and a hexagonal domed skylight featuring painted images of, oh my God, Germany. But the best part of this room was the fortune teller box. Dick, having caught on by now to Andrea’s unchanging dour expression, volunteered her to crank the arm and get a fortune.

She reluctantly did as she was told, and then Dick made her READ IT OUT LOUD; it was some horrid string of words about how the one she is engaged to is not the one she will marry, and everyone began tittering and giggling at the absurdity of this fortune, but Andrea looked ready to self-combust on the spot. And if the Bayernhof wasn’t already haunted, it was sure to be if that had happened. As everyone retreated from the room, Andrea whispered, “I’m going to kill you” in the iciest tone I have ever heard in my whole entire life, and I used to watch A LOT of Soap Operas.

In the master bedroom, we learned that Chuck only wore blue Brooks Brothers shirts, and after he died over 200 were counted in his closet. What a fucking weirdo. All I really remember about this room is that it was overrun with Hummel figures and some fucking Walt Disney collection. Dick pointed out that this was one of the few rooms in the house that did not have its own bar, which made everyone cry out in surprise (myself included, albeit only to irritate Andrea). But then Dick opened a door with a flourish and yelled, “That’s because he has an entire kitchen and bar attached to his room!” and everyone (myself included) chortled joyously like the audience of Hee Haw.

Except for Andrea, who merely sighed exasperatedly.

Also in the master bedroom, we learned that Chuck had a long-time girlfriend, some German broad named Erma. “They never married,” Dick said, pausing dramatically. “Because she never wanted to! I bet you thought it was him that didn’t want to get married!” he directed solely to Andrea, pulling back his lips to really give her a good shot of his gums.  I could sense her recoiling. Listening to Jonny Craig in my car probably never sounded so appealing to her before.

One of the men in our group, Burnt Offering’s son I believe, began whistling through his teeth right about the time I began noticing someone’s sour, pungent breath swirling around me. Old people suck.

There was a narrow, winding staircase in this room and it was all I could fixate on the whole time Dick talked about the worth of the Hummel collection and what kind of toothpaste Chuck preferred. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally instructed us to ascend the stairs (I AM OBSESSED WITH STAIRS) while he whisked Burnt Offerings off to the secret elevator and promised to meet us up there after he finished snacking on her blood.

I was like a giggly school girl on that staircase! It was so narrow, twisty and wooden! Oh my god, I wished it would have went on forever. Fuck, I love a staircase. (I just jumped up and down at the memory!)

At the top was another bar which spilled out into a small, dark  and curved room decorated with large murals of constellations. At the center was a metal ladder which led up to a gigantic orange telescope underneath a small observatory dome.

“Totally did not see that coming!” I enthused to Andrea, who retorted with, “This is fucking stupid.” Dick and Burnt Offerings joined us from the other side of the room (WHERE THE FUCK WAS THIS SUPPOSED ELEVATOR?

!) and then told us some stuff while the old lady in feathering coral lipstick who came late to the tour kept trying to share with us her own observations that no one cared about and too bad she missed the part about not talking over Dick to your neighbors because I only had one half of a fake smile left in the bank for her. Andrea’s signature response to everything was an effective deadened stare and taut lips.

Back downstairs, we saw some other bedroom, and someone jokingly asked Dick, “When do we get to see your room?” to which Dick laughed and said, “Mine is one of the rooms with the closed doors. Trust me, it’s just a bachelor pad and you don’t want to see it!”

I bet at that point, Andrea’s mind was taken to a room full of palpable flatulence, piles of worn and ear-marked Hustlers and skid-marked underwear festering in discarded heaps.

Finally, in the master bathroom (which featured the same grand bathtub that’s in the master bathroom at my grandparents house), Dick pulled open a hidden door and I almost wet myself.  FINALLY A GODDAMN HIDDEN PASSAGEWAY! I was an excited mess, fumbling with my phone and spontaneously breaking out into jazz hands. Andrea’s reaction was to grimace and look at me with disapproval.

At the bottom of the steps, we emerged through a gun case into Chuck’s office.

“I guess you could say we ‘shot right through’!” said the old lady who loved to talk. I laughed really obnoxiously and exaggeratedly at that and Andrea just rolled her eyes.

In the office, we learned that Chuck liked to display framed photos of Nixon and that “The Andy Griffith Show” was his favorite. He used to watch reruns in the kitchen while preparing for dinner parties, you guys!

“Any guy that has that many pictures of Nixon in his office has got to be an asshole,” Andrea said later. She really, really, really hated poor dead Chuck.

Apparently, when Dick first met Chuck (Dick used to come up from the South to repair the music boxes), Chuck had told Dick that Nixon was his cousin. When Chuck died in 1999, Dick came up for the funeral. He said that the house was packed with well-wishers, and that Chuck was laid out in the LIVING ROOM (so glad he waited until after to tell us that), but he couldn’t locate any of the Nixons. Finally, he asked someone who laughed and said, “Chuck wasn’t related to the Nixons!” Oh, that Chuck; such a trickster.

On a shelf near Andrea was one of those old school penny-flinging mechanisms. I’m not sure what they’re called, but I’ve seen them a million times, and so has Andrea, which really made for a crestfallen Dick when he tried to impress her with one. Really all he was doing was preparing us for the real wonder, which was the SECOND SECRET DOOR! The entire shelf spun opened and let us out into a boardroom, but not before Dick got all close to Andrea and sneered, “You have such a pretty smile.” In her best Ben Stein, she mumbled, “Thanks” and then later bitched to me that he was only singling her out in an effort to be an even bigger dick, but I will always believe that he wanted to make her the house fraulein.  And that is where I will pick up again later.

(I just can’t sit long enough to bang this all out!)

The tour commenced as Andrea and I strangled inside a balloon of old lady perfume. It was this acrid, palpable bouquet of marzipan candy dishes, yellow and burnt orange afghans, dainty doilies and Maude reruns, and I thought for sure my flesh would become moist with their sickly odor if I got too close.

Dick first learned us that the man who once owned the Bayernhof, Chuck [Something], had become wealthy through some sort of industry here in Pittsburgh and really, I mean REALLY, liked Germany and music boxes for some reason, so in the 60s or 70s he built the Bayernhof to house his collection of obnoxious noise machines and Bavarian bric-a-brac.

(I don’t pay attention very well.)

(Also: I was too busy masticating my bottom lip to keep from upchucking with giddy laughter.)

Chuck had a penchant for dinner parties, so his kitchen had lots of fancy (for that era) appliances and Germany shit on the wall that lit up. I emitted “ooh”s and “ahh”s with all the stinky liver spotted-hags at all the precise moments, which made Andrea glare at me.

Just imagine all the spaetzel and streudel he must have whipped up in that kitchen while shadow-dancing to the melodious plunks of his music boxes. Fucking weirdo.

“Wouldn’t it have been awesome to have been invited to one of his dinner parties?” I whispered to Andrea.

“No,” she said flatly.

The dining room was where Dick first struck up a music box, and I utterly lost my mind, laughter came projectiling out of my shitty-grinned lips like piss from an octogenarian’s bladder. I couldn’t control it, had no idea music boxes could ever be so funny to me, and I had nowhere to run; I was directly in Dick’s line of vision, so I tried to play it off like I was just THAT HAPPY and overjoyed to be hearing a goddamn tinkling box. Luckily, one of the younger of the old broads was legitimately pleased to be hearing this, so she too let out several cries of jubilation. I tried to just piggyback off her from then on. Especially since she laughed out loud at all of Dick’s “jokes.” This enabled me to get some of my immature giggles out of my system without arousing suspicion.

Dick then played another music box for us and was so disappointed that no one knew the 100-year-old song that came clinking out. It actually was rather surprising considering how old some of those ladies were.

The old lady with the cane had “Burnt Offerings” attic written all over her.

Leaving the dining room, I came perilously close to knocking some chintzy figurine off a pedestal with my ass, as previously mentioned. Andrea did the “hand to the heart” nervous Mom motion.

On the other side of the dining room door was a sunken living room with stark white carpeting, in true mod fashion (though, if he really wanted to do it right, Chuck would have opted for white shag like my grandma has in her living room). There was some grotesque Germanic wall-hanging above a fireplace, an obtuse music maker that practically housed a full-scale orchestra, and two player pianos. Dick instructed everyone to take a seat, but there was no vacancy on the couch so I was left to sit on the steps.

Another old bitch arrived while we were having our ear drums perforated by boxed music. Since she missed Dick’s lecture about not speaking to our neighbors, she sat next to me on the steps and immediately began regaling me with her feathered-lipstick asides. Bitch, don’t you know that’s what Twitter’s for?

Sometime during Dick’s spiel about repairing one of the player pianos, I happened to glance down and notice that my TOMS had tracked in a good bit of mud, which I had inadvertently ground into the WHITE CARPET while mock dancing along to the stupid old-timey music. I hurriedly stepped on it so Dick wouldn’t see. I pointed it out to Andrea as we were all herded out of the room, and she deemed it the highlight of the tour, something about “that fucking house deserved it.”

In a hallway, we listened to more music boxes and player pianos! The novelty was really wearing thin and I started bouncing from foot to foot in anticipation for the secret passageways. It was all I could do to keep my hand from springing up so I could ask him about the basement.

This was also about the time I learned that Dick is an avid fan of the rhetorical question.

The music box-filled hallway spilled us back out into the foyer and I could see the look of hope on Andrea’s face as she prayed to every relic we saw at Saint Anthony’s for this to be the end of the tour. Too bad for her there was still an entire upstairs and like, THREE SECRET PASSAGEWAYS that we were yet to explore.

There was a guest book in the foyer chockful of elderly scrawl. I added our names before we left, with a little note that said, “THIS PLACE IS REALLY OUTTA SIGHT!”

Dick was showing us, wait for it……..

….another music box, which was located in kind of a tight space, so he was having everyone come over one at a time to get a load of its innards. One of the old broads gave it a cursory glance and then offered to move out of the way so Andrea could look.

Andrea’s response was a throaty, “No.”

Not a “no thank you” or “I’ll pass.” Just a very curt and Pee-Wee-Herman-Wet-In-The-Alley-esque “No.”

I was beginning to think that maybe Andrea had some sort of music box phobia, something that dates back to her childhood and she had kept repressed up until this fateful trip to Pittsburgh. Perhaps she walked in on an uncle dressed in drag and doing unspeakable things to a gutted Thomas Kinkaide music box.  Hopefully my not-yet-started music box collection will be in full swing by her next visit.

Maybe if there had been one that played Lil Wayne, the music box world would have won her over.

Here, Dick spins some yarns about Chuck’s grandfather, who never actually wore Lederhosen.  This was one of those times I got to exercise my fake belly laugh.

And then we went upstairs, with Andrea “motherfucking” me every step of the way. I’ll get into the wonders of the upstairs next time.  And believe me, the wonders were copious.

Took Henry’s son Robbie and his girlfriend Karen out to eat at the Sharp Edge tonight.

Chooch was borderline brat-like, but it was nothing a mini sundae bar couldn’t pacify.

Bonus: two pictures of Henry the Surly Douche.

One is from breakfast this morning. He was in good spirits because he got to share morning meats with his bromance, Tommy.