The Arrival, Pt. 2

The Arrival, Pt. 2

Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

In my not-so humble opinion, this post will be most effective (affective?…I looked up the difference and honestly either works in this situation) when read whilst listening to White Winter Hymnal. If that doesn’t immediately make sense, it will once you hear about what happened over my first 24 hours in Carlisle, ME. Either the Fleet Foxes or Birdy version will do. Let me know which you chose. I’ll sort you accordingly.

Walking into Carlisle is sort of like walking into one of those Christmas villages they sell at Target or Michael’s or Hobby Lobby if you’re a lil bigot with bad taste. And that’s just facts. But still, you’ve got to give some credit to whichever intern somehow snuck this past the salaried buyers and into stores.

I swear on every book I own this is a legitimate photo I took in a Hobby Lobby in Florida.

Why yes, that is a rainbow…rooster ūüėČ

With our feet-a achin’, we decided to stop in the first place that looked at all open in the town square. Thankfully, it was a bar. Looking down the road in either direction, things were quiet, but warm. Does that make sense? It looked lived in, but not by me. It was like visiting your best friend’s house. You knew the smells weren’t your own, but you still knew them. You recognized the spots in the wallpaper that were faded, except you don’t know what happened to make them that way.

Carlisle Street.jpg

Fall is already almost over here. The chill would have thrown us inside if the smell of beer hadn’t. We walked in, a honest to goodness jukebox playing, and were met with not a few stares. I’m not saying the needle skipped or anything, but if a record player was present who knows what would have happened.

Lillian’s was as warm as it was unwelcoming, the assumed locals crowded near the bar rail. A few housewives played pool in the back while the bartender, Lillian herself, held court with a whiskey bottle and the remote control. I think I should have known then, really. I mean, who still watches¬†American Idol?


Next Post: Lillian’s

Previous Post: The Arrival, Pt. 1




The Letter

The Letter

Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

TBH, I was going to ignore this the same way I ignore those e-mails that claim I’ve got a Nigerian fortune waiting for me.

OK, for real TBH, I totally followed through on one of those and lost some $$. BUT NOW, I ignore them…unless they seem really convincing. Then I go with it long enough to get a phone number and just text them memes at weird times during the night. And yeah, I look up time changes so I know when to best disrupt their schedule. CAUSE I’M THOROUGH ‘N SHIT.

But back to the thing I really thought I could ignore, and had done quite well ignoring. Until the party. (TL;DW–Some creepy ass wrote some creepy ass shit on my wall).

If you’re anything like me, you haven’t been back to your hometown since you were 17. If you’re even more like me, there’s a good reason for this. If you’re me, you can’t remember what that reason is. But you can remember waking up in a hospital some 500 miles away.

Those childhood nuggets safely nibbled on, it should come as no surprise that I’m not really “game” for going back. Mysterious circumstances, extended hospital stays, foggy memories–it’s all a bit Hardy Boys for me. I’m much more of a Mystery, Inc. kinda guy. You get it, right? I’m sure you do.

That’s what made the letter all the more ignorable. You haven’t heard from anyone in eleven years–I’m talking No One. No lawyers, no uncles, no youth soccer coaches who DEF wanted to try and pedophile my fine ass–and then you get a letter promising, among other things, a substantial family estate?

McVaughn Letter.jpg

Methinks, “No, thank you.” I read it. Did you? If so, we all agree that there was a major¬†The Shining moment in there, right? I’ll wait while you go back and read it.



My presence may be requested but it is withheld! With vigor!

Well, it was. Until some drunk asshole wrote “She Lives” in my room. Now I’m on a bus. What a time to be alive.


Next Post: The Arrival, Pt. 1

Previous Post: Bye-Bye, Brooklyn

The Arrival, Pt. 1

The Arrival, Pt. 1

Want to start from the beginning? Click here.

Listen and listen well, folks. Greyhound is No. Fucking. Joke.

The ride put aside (which if at any point I can begin to feel my ass again will become the focus of this post…the ride, not my ass. My ass should be the focus of every post) getting into town late last night was shall we say…quiet? Let me break that down a little clearer.

Remember when those hopefully-not-demons-but-instead-just-bored-kids were roaming around New Jersey in clown outfits for no apparent reason?

SIDEBAR: I understand you might not want to click that link, but I promise, if you do, you get to see a flustered (and let’s call a horse a horse) bloated Carson Daly try to talk about creepy NJ clowns whilst reading a teleprompter and using an unnecessary, oversized iPad.

You back? Did you watch it? It wasn’t even him so much, right? It’s like, “Who told you to wear that suit?” Anyways, remember those clowns!?! It was like that…minus the clowns. And also in Maine. I’m going for, like, a feeling, OK? It was a similar feeling. I imagine. Cause honestly, who goes to Jersey?

If you’ve been on Greyhound–first off, bless you–you know that sometimes it just stops at a Designated Area. This isn’t really a “place” so much as a “location.” These sorts of passenger exchanges usually take place in mad rural areas during time when there is still an acceptable amount of daylight happening.



Cut to me, Justine and Rich hopping off our bus on the side of the road at ten to midnight. Are you thinking, “Oh, fuck this shit.” ‘Cause you should be, and we were. But it’s November and no matter how lit you are, peeps still get cold.

After one of us thought Uber might work (Justine) and the other thought calling the cab company that was advertising via a sticker on a telephone pole (Rich) would work, we decided to hoof it. How far could it be?

Far. The answer is Far. Capital F.

At a little past 1 a.m., we finally made it to town. Once I’m more acclimated, I’m going to try and upload a map so you can feel my pain properly but for now, imagine ripping a Victorian dollhouse inside out like so many starfish stomachs and then sewing it atop a rocky cliff like the geography version of that scene from Silence of the Lambs. That’s kinda what Carlisle is like. Smell included.

EDITOR’S NOTE:¬†When I made this joke to Justine, she scoffed and said the town was both “quaint”¬†and “charming.” Rich has yet to say more than a few words at a time. Mostly they’ve been “Jesus Christ.”


Next Post: The Arrival, Pt. 2

Previous Post: The Letter








She Lives

She Lives

Fam-i-ly (noun):

1. a group consisting of parents and children living in a household.

2.¬†a freakin’ shit-show that abandons you at 17 and then starts to try and put their diseased lil fingers in your stew cause they’re bored or something.

I got those both from Webster’s, I swear.

If you’re too young to get this joke, I hatchu and LEAVE!

If you’re unfamiliar with November 15th, let me bring you up to speed. No, really, I insist. It’s the 319th day of the year (320 if we’re doing leap years). It’s the day that Georgetown University opened its doors to white heterosexual men and no one else in 1791. Oh, and of course, it’s my mother’s birthday. On the bright side, only 151,600 people died today, so we’ve got that going for us.

Birthdays are The Shit. Unless you’re one of those weird people who are like “Whatever, nothing special, let’s not set aside some time to celebrate each other.” For everyone else, birthdays are like your own personal Christmas, and you get one even if you don’t buy into the whole Jesus-as-Savior motif.

That said, even with all the goodies present, some people still don’t get to celebrate their birthdays. These people are called “Dead” and we don’t celebrate their birthdays cause that would be fucking depressing. We’re not all Fiona Apple. Some of us reach for peace.

So, when you wake up and it’s your dead mom’s birthday and you’re bummed but you’re also a grown ass man so you’re gonna handle your shit and move throughout your day the best you can, I’d say you have every right to get a little miffed when some jerk-off takes a dry erase marker and does this to your wall.


Kudos for using a dry-erase marker on a stick-on dry erase board, but the message outweighs the consideration of media here.

I don’t know what you’re thinking cause I’m not psychic like some dweebs out there, but I can tell you the possible explanations that ran through my¬†cabeza when I first saw it.

  1. Damn, someone is a total dweeb.
  2. At least they used one of the right markers. Wait…is that permanent marker?
  3. Phew, no. It’s not.
  4. Who the Hell? Rich? Is Rich still here?
  5. Checked. Rich not here. When did I go to bed last night?
  6. But still. WHO!?

And regardless of Who, why? I think these are fair questions to ask. I think these are fair questions to get answers.

Now, if I knew there was going to be some paranormal activity shit at the party last night, I would have set up cameras and made it a whole thing. I’m committed like that. Unfortunately, a good time was had by all and no cloven-hoofed demons invaded.

At least not yet. We’ll see if some show up when we get to Maine.


Next Post: Bye-Bye, Brooklyn 

Previous Post: Nada, yo. You’re at the start.