Mike Gets High

How high can you get??

Mike Explores the Coast

Mike sees the Pacific Ocean for the first time and has a field day...in his head. Miss you.

Mike's Ugly Sandwich Habit

Mike has a thing for very large sandwiches. And it's a beautiful, beautiful thing. Please help him.

Fail

So it’s been a few days. Hard to blog when a good portion of this country (Pacific coast this means you) doesn’t believe in the importance of social media. I mean, is it too much to ask to camp on a cliff overlooking the Pacific coast and cozy up to some freakin wifi? And we all know how helpful AT&T is with their…well with their whole general nothingness. The biggest fail of this whole road trip has been, unequivocally and without fail (but major fail) the one and only iPhone. It might seem like the ultimate road trip buddy, but all those cute little travel apps don’t help a lick when your phone is completely dead and even if it didn’t die yet, AT&T only remembered to put up cell towers in the original 13 colonies. Then again, who’s the dumbass that decided to rely on a freaking satellite to follow me around the country rather than pick up a good old fashioned—uh, what’s the word—map. That be me. I’m the dumbass. And without my travel buddy, Mike, who’s budding career as a drag star I’m hoping to hear about, my stupidity is greater than the sum of its parts.

Having left California and now sitting in a casino/Super 8 in Fallon, NV—I must make up for lost time. I’ve had a lot of time to think about Mike. I’ve had even more time to make videos in his honor. I present you with, The Best of Mike….

-- JEFF

p.s. that’s a picture of me at the casino buffet eating my feelings…and lots of food.

Herbs the Word

Perusing the Chinese herbs in a Chinese shop in Chinatown. I ended up with Japanese herbs. What the hell.

Overheard in San Fran

Some quotes from an afternoon spent in San Fran:

“What does the beef brain taste like?”

“Never had it myself.”

(Location: Farolito Taqueria in the Mission District of San Fran. I received a delicious burrito that did not consist of beef brain.)


“Yo behave! The cops are out!”

(Overheard when I was enjoying my delicious pork burrito in a cement park in the Mission District.)


“Art fail.”

(I stated thusly after attempting to go to a third art gallery in the last 24 hours. All three were either closed, nonexistent or, well, just bad. Who do you have to tickle around here to see some goddamn free and amazing art?!)


“Your omelet empanada is ready!”

(Overheard sitting in La Boheme Café in the Mission District. Quoted just because it sounded amazingly delicious.)


“Sorry.”

(That’s what I said when I knocked over my herbal tea at said Café upon being distracted by the cry of “omelet empanada!” from the kitchen.)


“….”

(The response I got from the man who had to clean up my herbal tea. At least I didn’t break the glass.)


“Move your computer.”

(The first words the man said to me as I sat and watched him clean up my herbal spillage for five minutes.)

“Sir, can you please leave.”

(The words that I wish were said to me upon leaving the café, because it would just be awesome. Alas.)


“What the f*%$ does that mean?!”

(What I said to myself when I saw the sign for “Comedy Traffic School”—pictured above. And, yes, that is a letter “e” that is not entirely visible. It actually says, no joke, “Comedy Traffic School” followed by an 800 number. My brain hurts. Where the hell was that when I was 16?!)

More to come. The day is still young.

-- JEFF

Missing you more

These gals ain't got no shoulders

Missing you

The GG bridge is the nearest shoulder to lean on

Where are u more??

The second to last photo I have of Mike

Where are u?

The last photo I have of Mike

The Break Up Part Deux

I miss him. I’m alone in a strange, gay city. There are different towns named after different countries. Being in San Francisco is like being in a big, scary Epcot Center. It’s got me spooked. Where’s my travel buddy. Where the shit is he.

I contact my lone contact in LA: my brother. He says Mike was spotted doing drag along Santa Monica Blvd during the wee hours. Evidently, he survived the night at The Viper Room. I hope someone was at his side when he got his stomach pumped. But I’ll never know. I’ll never know cuz I’m stuck in this wacked out, adult version of Epcot Center. (Isn’t Epcot Center the adult version of Disney World? Hmm…)

There is no humor here. Hunter Thompson said it best about San Fran, something like, “When you look out over the bay, you see big scary monsters.” That’s it. That’s it in a nutshell.

Guess I’ll pitch my tent in the parking lot of Candlestick Park alone tonight. Might ask my neighbors in the RV if they’ll help--though I could have sworn they were cooking the squirrel that was roaming around the bathhouse early this morning—not that speaks to their ability, or inability, to pitch a tent—just saying.

Where are you Mike? Did I not allow you to express yourself? I hope the Sunset Strip—ah screw it.

-- JEFF

p.s. if you’ve seen Mike roaming the streets of LA in drag,, please contact this number:

1-800-HELP-DRAGQUEENS.ORG

The Break Up

I’m sitting here with a $3 gin and tonic (the best damn $3 G&T I've ever freakin had) at a random happy hour in San Francisco, typing furiously because the blog calls—or more aptly, because people called up Mike to complain about the lack of blog posts. And, as the self-proclaimed better half of "Hit The Road Jeff (and M*!%$)," it is my duty to fulfill even those who might be reading this blog for Mike’s sake. Well, here’s the kicker Mike fans:

He’s gone. I left him in LA. We had a huge major fight and it went like this:

“Yo Mike, you a friggin douche-nozzle.”

“Right back at ya.”

That was it. And he was gone. Lost in the glitz and glamour of the Sunset Strip. There he was, one moment doing coke off the tile floors of The Viper Room, the next, passed out on the bathroom floor, claiming he saw the ghost of River Phoenix. Madness. Madness everywhere.

But in all reality, when I left Mike for good, passed out in the Viper Room bathroom, I was sad. I mean, I’ve spent a full three weeks getting to know the guy. And, you know, I never really liked him. Ever. Good riddance I tells ya. LA is for hookers (see previous post) and boom operators. And Mike wasn’t even a good boom operator if you know what I mean—lololloloolooLohanballslololololol.

I sit, alone, in a San Francisco bar, consuming their happy hour. Gin and tonic. Gin and tonic. Like a sweet and sour song. Good night LA. You have claimed yet another casualty. I spit in your general direction.

-- JEFF

My Night as a Hooker

After a stop at the 7-11 somewhere along Santa Monica Blvd around 2 am after the bars closed, me and my LA entourage (more like my brother Chris’ LA entourage) part ways. Chris has to gallantly drive his “ex” home, who is none too fit to drive. I, without car, make the walk back to Chris’ place with my other buddy Chris. Why do walks in LA seem longer than an equivalent walk in New York? I think it has entirely to do with attitude, as in, “Pfffff, where’s my goddamn car!” But that’s another post entirely. So, we make the 20-blockish walk down Santa Monica while Chris (not my brother) gallantly chugs from a 7-11 brand “Gameday Light” beer--right alongside the ever-busy Santa Monica Blvd on which, less than 24 hours prior, we drove through a “Sobriety Checkpoint.”

We arrive at my brother Chris’ place where I’ve been crashing these few nights, and I part ways with the other Chris……..by making out with him. NA NA NA NA JK JK JK JK JK RIM SHOT--that’s not how I became a hooker. That designation came after Gameday Chris left.

Now I find myself standing near the corner of Santa Monica and Gardner. My brother’s place is just a few doors down. I don’t have keys, so I must await his arrival. So, naturally, I gravitate toward the building on the corner to chill and surf my iPhone. I lean up against whatever business establishment resides on said corner and bury myself in the fruitless world of iPhone internet.

People come and go. Some drunk, some not. Some stoned, some not. Some ugly, some not. I’m not really paying any attention, so I’m just assuming all this. I do, however, start to notice that the same guy has passed my corner a few times now. (Why am I calling it “my” corner?) He walks to my corner, then considers crossing the street, looks about, then decides against it. He paces back and forth—he does a lot of pacing—and then crosses to the corner across from me. I’m determining all of this with my face still buried in my phone; I’m trying to look up the recap of the Bears game, but I’m intrigued. This guy fails to continue along his way when he reaches the opposite corner. He lingers there, again, pacing. His antics finally garner a look up from me. I quickly look back down. He was definitely looking at me. Goddamnit. Did I mention that my brother lives in the heart of West Hollywood? The unofficial—though it might be official by now—gay capitol of LA? This guy thinks I’m a hooker. And now he’s coming back across the street.

I make sure I’m so clearly surfing the web and not surfing for anything else that my eyeballs are touching the filthy iPhone screen. But peripheral vision strikes again; I see him reach my corner and begin to pace, I’d say, 5-7 feet from me. He glances over his shoulder a few times to try to catch my eye. Why haven’t I left at this point? Why haven’t I moved on? I wish I could say it was because I suddenly realized that I was meant to be a gay hooker, or that I suddenly had a semblance of interest in men, but that’s not the case unfortunately. This was just too damn funny and, well, weird. Was he going to pay me if I connected with one of his glances and accompany him wherever in gods name he had planned? Or was this to be a mutual understanding type deal, a tale of forbidden love? Was this what they call “cruising”? Either way, watching this man squirm only feet from me as I do nothing, literally nothing, except stare at the Chicago Bears football score on my iPhone is worth the price, or no price, of admission.

This goes on for twenty minutes, no joke. It’s a game of chess. Gay chess. Where the hell is my brother? I’m very impressed with my ability to stay absolutely still as this man hovers around me, bouncing from my corner to the other. I liken it to what I would do if a shark, albeit a very small and unthreatening one (is there such a thing?), were to find me in the shallow end of the pool. This was gold. (Sung in that annoying preschool voice:) HE THINKS I’M A HOOKER! HE THINKS I’M A HOOKER!!! I think during the 20 minutes I may have made accidental eye contact with him twice—enough to drive him stir crazy but enough to keep me at peace with my sexuality.

Finally, I’m bored with this stupid shark. When he crosses to the other corner for the final time—I say “final” because I’m about to leave—I make my break. I pocket my iPhone and walk halfway down the block to my brother’s apartment. I take out the keys that I had all along—ha ha ha I’m a dick--and open the door. But then the thought: did the shark follow? Did he mistake my abrupt departure for blood in the water? I lock the door quickly behind me, but it’s glass and I don’t even want to see his unintimidating silhouette in the doorway whatsoever. So I dart around the corner and up to my brother’s humble abode. My night of as a hooker was over.

My pimp is gonna be realz mad.

-- JEFF

p.s. That's a picture of a dude holding up a Zac Efron poster at the Sunset Junction music festival. Zac wasn't there.

Update

Off to Sunset Junction music festival today in the nation's capitol (Hollywood) to see...musicians I guess.

Cuppa Joe

Jeff's doppleganger (Chris) grabs his routine cup a Joe. But something's gone terribly wrong...

Location: West Hollywood, CA

Grand Canyon

Jeff sees the Grand Canyon for the first time...and Mike considers his mortality.

Enjoy.

To Look, Or Not to Look

Let's talk a little more about pee.

I've been using many a public restroom on this trip and have some more bones to pick.

The big question: is it kosher to look at your evacuation as you evacuate ?  Or are you supposed to stare at the tile wall?  This becomes monumentally more important when someone is at the urinal next to you, when your evacuation is only inches from his evacuation.

I notice that I do a combination of both.  I unzip, then monitor the situation as if it needs monitoring, then move to the tile inches from my face.  I am uncomfortably aware of the dude next to me, who is probably going through the same mental conundrum that I am: to look, or not to look.

When I move my eyes to the wall, I find temporary relief from the awkwardness of it all.  I think the dude next to me feels the same.  But that relief is only short-lived, because then we both become aware that we are staring at f@#$ing tile and doing this only to cover up our insecurities about the whole thing.

You might think that bathrooms--(I think "bathroom" is the more appropriate term given that, as I've pointed out here, there is no rest to be had in these rooms and that one is more likely to bathe their child in the sink or something)--you might think that the bathrooms with the little dividers in between that create 'mini' stalls would be of comfort, but they are not.  You can see over them.  And I'm not tall.  THIS is when looking down and carefully monitoring your evacuation seems to be the better choice, because looking at the tile gives you access to your neighbors evacuation in your peripheral vision.  And now, thanks to the dividers, his evacuation is perfectly framed in your periphery.  This whole damn conundrum comes down to the curse of peripheral vision.

Solution: close your eyes when you evacuate.  And sing yourself a quiet song.

Then again, maybe it's all in my head...

-- JEFF

Worst Joke Ever

Just outside the Grand Canyon visitor center a group has gathered away from the canyon edge to look at a f@%*$ing deer.  I walk up and make the astute observation, "It's licking it's butt."  Which it was.  The man to my right says to me, "You know why it's doing that?"  I shake my head.  "Because it can," he says.

I laughed.  And I'm not sure why.  I guess he wants to lick his own butt.  Can't say that I do.  

Revelation: it was a joke.  

Worst joke ever.

p.s. That's a picture of me faux peeing all over the Grand Canyon.  Now THAT'S a joke.

Zing.

-- JEFF

The Book of Jeff

Travelling west on 160 in Arizona, headed to the Grand Canyon.  We've passed several hitchhikers and did not open our doors to them because we are bad people.  But it made me wonder: if hitchhiking is illegal (which I'm told that it is), and a cop approaches one of these guys, couldn't the hitchhiker be like, "Listen dude, I was just stretching!"

Revelation: he would probably still be arrested.

Deer Struck

I live in fear of being hit by deer. Caveat: when I'm in a car, obviously. If I were afraid of being hit by deer outside of the car, then we'd have problems. Though, the whole point of this is that I do have a problem: fear of being deer struck.

Is it irrational? I don't know the statistics. Or the odds. But it's no way to live. To be rolling down the highway, in the passenger seat, thinking that deer are waiting by the side of every inch of highway, waiting to go kamikaze on you and your vehicle--though I suppose when the deer finally cashes in on the suspense he/she/it's been building and takes the leap, he/she/it's making a claim that it's no longer your vehicle--it's f#&^%in his/her/it's.

Help.

-- JEFF

Local: Durango, CO.

The Book of Jeff

Has anyone ever seen falling rock?

Revelation:

Nope.

Local: 12,000 feet above sea level. San Juan mountains. Sliverton CO.

Brew and a View

Nothing cures a hangover like a scenic drive through southern Colorado. Boulder took me for a ride last night...sooo I’m gonna keep this post short and sweet as I haven’t an ounce of creativity left in my body this afternoon…in fact…I just rewrote this sentence 6 times and this is the best that I came up with. I have to say that even though I woke up feeling under the weather…this drive through mountains, canyons, and other terminology dealing with nature has put me in high spirits and in awe of its splendor….(insert some text from an inspirational Blue Mountain Greeting Card with a blaring MIDI track and animated soaring birds)

The view looked much like this painting I did before I left…..available at Brooklyn Bagel and Coffee Company on 8th Ave between 24th and 25th street…(yes I’m shameless but mama’s gotta find a way to pay for the trip home!) More to come from the Grand Canyon or basically when my headache goes away.

-MIKE

A Day at the Fair

Our day at the Lake Villa fair in Lake Villa, IL (aka Lake Villa Days.) Stupid meter: 10.

Coffee Shop Jitters

Revelation:

Coffee shop employees don't want you in the shop if you don't buy anything--caveat: even if your friend buys something.

Mike wanted some coffee. I wanted to use the internet. I wanted to use the coffee shop solely for their free wifi, like using a woman solely for her body. We stop at some crudely labeled "Coffee Shop" in Black Hawk, CO--where casinos and mountains unite.

Mike orders some sort of iced thingmajig and I sit down to plug in. I'm already nervous. I feel the tension mounting. This coffee shop employee--a man--does not want me here. I'm comforted when Mike sits down with me. He gives me some cred. I feel like Mike and his iced beverage are warding off serious mind bullets from this employee.

But Mike leaves. He runs to the drugstore down the street. Now it's just me and this coffee shop dude, who doesn't want me here. But I'm determined to get what I didn't pay for, though the surfing has become less enjoyable. I'm a non-paying customer. I'm a parasite. I'm THAT guy. I'm a leach. I'm a loser. I'm a thief. The coffee man has made me feel this way.

Resolution: stick it out like a stubborn mule. Never cave. Iced thingamajigs are overpriced anyway.

-- JEFF

Location: Black Hawk, CO.

Fast Food Debate #3

The last chapter in the epic fast food battle on wheels. Enjoy...

Pulled Over in Kansas

We got pulled over the other day on I-70 somewhere near Lincoln, KS. And we got it on tape...

Mountain Lions -- The Real Sheriffs of Nederland

Today we tried to get lost. I think I prefer to be found.

After a night of camping just outside the small town of Nederland, CO—we find ourselves, yet again, with no plans for the day. I think it’s a good idea to ask the campsite host for some recommendations for off-the-path day-hikes nearby.

He’s busy shuffling wood in the back of his pickup truck next to his large RV. The exchange goes as follows:

“Hi there, excuse me!”

No response. I’m about ten yards from his truck.

“Hey, hey, excuse me!”

Still no response. I step to the side, making sure I’m in his eyesight.

“Hi! Excuse me!”

He looks up. Can’t tell if he was just playing dumb the first two times or if he has a hearing problem.

“Hi,” he mumbles.

“I was just wondering if you could give me a recommendation for an off-the-beaten-path day-hike within an hour or two of here.”

“Off-the-beaten-path eh…”

He looks off into the distance.

“Well, all I can think of is Pickle Gulch. Just a few miles from here. Not a lot of folk know about it. You hike up the trail and there’s an old gold mine I think. Never been.”

“That sounds great.”

“Yeah, you head down 119 toward Blackhawk and then you’ll come to Pickle Gulch road. You wanna turn onto it, and then you’ll see two paths. The one that goes up the hill—you don’t want that one.” He smiles. “That one leads to a man who don’t take very kindly to tourists.”

I nervously laugh.

“The other, though, that’s the hiking trail. That’s about all I know for off-the-beaten-path. The rest are full of, well, people.”

He grimaces. I take it he doesn’t take to kindly to tourists either, even though he’s making a living off of them.

“I have to warn you, though,” he continues. “You need to watch out for mountain lions. I have to tell you that.”

“Right.”

“She’s had them up there—the lady who owns the place. I just feel I have to tell people that. Be careful.”

“Okay.” She’s had them up there? What does that mean? Does she just keep them around the property, throwing them food like Betty White in Lake Placid?

“A couple from Wisconsin—I told them about Pickle Gulch and told them about the mountain lions and bears and they were like, ‘mountain lions and bears?’ And I was like, ‘You’re in the Rockies now. They’re around.’ You’re not in cheese country anymore, you know?”

I know. In fact, I’m completely aware of the wildlife situation going down up here in the Rockies. I know to not keep food in the tent so bears don’t come lurking. I know not to be stupid and jump off a cliff. I’d like to think I’m more aware than you’re average tourist. And I know there are mountain lions. But just the way he said it—coupled by the fact that the day before Mike and I overheard a man talking to a woman in the grocery store about a recent mountain lion incident. Or maybe it was how he preferred mountain lions to bears…

“The sheriff the other day—“

They have a sheriff. Wow. We are not in cheese country no more.

“The sheriff went for a jog and he had that feeling that he was being followed, you know?”

No. I’ve never had that feeling.

“And he turns around and he’s being tracked—by a mountain lion.”

Okay, a mountain lion with balls to track a sheriff…

“The sheriff, he didn’t have his weapon on him. So he turns around and just makes himself big and scary, ya know, to scare him off.”

Big and scary. Check. I can do that……………..Not.

“And the mountain lion ran off. Put a scare in the sheriff for sure. Those mountain lions, they’re sneaky—“

(Can’t remember if he said “sneaky” or “creepy.” Both are appropriate I’m sure. Or may it was “creepin,” as in “They be creepin around.”)

“You just got to be careful. I got to tell folks that,” he finishes.

“Well thank you.”

“You have a good a good day now.”

Sure will. Absent of mountain lions.

Oh, and that conversation we overheard in the grocery store? The man was definitely talking about how he prefers mountain lions to bears…wtf?!

-- JEFF

Made in South Korea

Realization - Who needs a Jeep when you’ve got a Hyundai! This car is slowly becoming my best friend and fulfilling the void left by the absence of Norbert. Who knows, maybe in 5 years I will grow tired of this vehicle and give it to a fat family in Staten Island……we’ve seen my track record. My humor conceals the agonizing pain, sorrow, and shame.

Loc-o-Real: Off-roading in a compact car on the side of a mountain in the Colorado Rockies

-MIKE

Dorothy's Hometown

Realization - If America sat down to have dinner, Kansas would be bringing nothing to the table. There are only two things that Kansas has bred in the past 50 years…..1. Well-Rounded Miss America contestants….2. A star vehicle for the talented Michael Landon (Little House on the Prairie took place in Independence, Kansas)…and even then….Highway to Heaven was Michael Landon’s best work. My mother was obsessed with Michael Landon and very sad when he died….I think that’s why I’m named Michael…actually I should ask her that. God, Kansas can’t even keep my attention for a whole blog post….more from Colorado. Apologies to our huge following in Topeka.

Loc-o-Real: Anywhere in Kansas….its all the same…except Lawrence, Kansas which is home to the University of Kansas. Jeff and I visited and I kept yelling “Chelsea…..Chelsea..” to any blonde girl that walked by hoping to run in with my Walmart companion. Mind you…KU has 28,569 students. Another realization, apparently they are allowing 12 year olds into undergrad programs by the looks of the new batch of students walking around campus.

-MIKE

Realization

It’s been a while since I’ve posted…..driving from Indianapolis to St. Louis to Salina, Kansas to Boulder, Colorado….left me with little time to post and a sore driving leg….let me catch you up to speed with some realizations from across this great nation!

Realization - With very little knowledge of this phenomenon, I entered a world I simply was not prepared for….the world of DCI (Drum Corps International). Friends, family, and avid hitheroadjeffandmike readers…..let me break this down for you. Picture it….Lucas Oil Stadium, the home of the Indianapolis Colts, packed with thousands of screaming fans decked out in their favorite teams’ attire….but….these fans are not screaming for Mr. Peyton Manning…oh no…they are cheering for trumpet solos and effeminate color guard boys who are breaking the hearts of 19 year old fat girls everywhere. Seriously, I can’t describe to you the scene…here’s the worst part…I’m totally hooked. I want to take off next summer and travel the country following my DCI favs…..the Cavaliers, Santa Clara Vanguard, the Phantom Regiment….count me in! I mean…when the Madison Scouts took their place on the field, the drunk guy behind me was screaming… “Give us that f-ing famous wall of sound!” …can’t beat it.

Loc-o-Real: Indianapolis, IN…site of my DCI cherry being popped

-MIKE

Fast Food Debate #2

Jeff and Mike continue their epic debate over fast food on the road...

Revelation

Cops who pull you over just to have a conversation are lonely. All they want to do is come along on your road trip. But they're not invited. So they're sad. And they just might want to see if you swing.

-- JEFF

Location: Lincoln, KS

Update

Just got pulled over in Lincoln, Kansas. Video to come...

Fast Food Debate #1

Jeff and Mike cope with their cravings by having a good ol' timey debate...about fast food.

Alienated

What's wrong with this picture?  Well, other than everything.  I'll tell you.  Moments after this picture was taken, the three of us--Mike, Jen, and yours truly--traipse into the local watering hole in Lake Villa, IL.  Correction: before we even reach the entrance, we see through the window that entire tables are turning around to look at us.  They are literally doing double-takes--and I don't throw around "literally" like a lot of people do.  They were literally doing double-takes, meaning they turned around to see us once, turned back to their company, and then turned around again to make sure they didn't just see aliens.  Or did they?  From the looks we were getting, one might think we were aliens.  Or dressed like them.  Upon closer inspection of the photo, however, I can see where the mistake might have been made.  

What do aliens wear?  Evidently, they wear fanny packs, bright blue v-necks, skinny jeans, plaid button downs, and faux hawks (possibly frosted).  Evidently, they pose when they're photographed and have a generally cheery disposition (when they are not being photographed.)  Guilty as charged.

We make it through the entrance and walk up to the bar.  I wouldn't be kidding if I said an old phonograph was playing and the second we sat down at the bar, it screeched and the music ceased.  (Notice how I didn't use "literally" that time.)  

We sit down, order a round, and observe the middle-aged local with a beer gut that Lou Pinella would be jealous of.  He's squirming.  He don't like no aliens up in these parts.  Just to toy with the room, I start talking a little alieny...and with a lisp:

"Jesus christ, who do you have to squeeze around here to get some fierce tunes up in this shizzle!"

We notice that the double-taking party has upped and left.  Off to pastures with less aliens.  

I take a sip from my alien cocktail (a.k.a. Murphy's Irish Red) and unzip my fanny pack to get the three bouncy balls I purchased from what I thought was a gumball machine at the Lake Villa fair.  They are of all different rainbow-like--I mean, alien-like--colors.  Everyone is very nervous for me.  The bartender sees me roll them on the table.  Lou Pinella pretends not to notice, but he is noticing harder than everyone else.  Even Mike and Jen are on edge.  

I roll them back and forth between my fingers, like an alien might.  I have alien powers.  You can hear a pin drop...or a bouncy ball.  I reach for my Murphy's.  Mmmm...tasty alien drink.  I take one of the balls and hold it above the bar between my alien fingers.

"What would happen if I just let 'er rip through the bar, in turn, smashing every piece of glass up in this joint?"

It's a rhetorical question.  We'd get kicked out, confirming everything these people think they know about aliens.  That we're here to scare the piss out of them.

I put the ball away.  We delicately sip the remainder of our alien beverages.  Then we scoot.  Lou Pinella pretends he doesn't notice that we're leaving.  But he's pretending harder than everyone else.  I stand up and do him a solid; I drop one of the rainbow-splashed bouncy balls at the foot of my barstool.  Kazaam.  The bar will never be the same.  It be alienated.

-- JEFF

Double Mantis

Jeff spots a praying mantis next to the car at a gas station in Somewheresville, IL. Mike hides because it's so beautiful.

Realization- East or West, North or South, Mountains or Valleys..... It matters not where you are in this great nation, for one credo reigns true.... Children are horrible.... They are selfish, annoying, and vile creatures placed throughout the land to punish the innocent.

Loc-o-real: A Super 8 Motel outside of St. Louis circa 6 am when the children decided to scream for an hour straight..... Don't worry... I will be collecting my already promised discount at checkout

-MIKE

Revelation

Pulled off the road to avoid the monsoon of the century. Now sitting in a filthy, smoky Super 8 motel room--last room available. A young boy, probably ten, is banging on a room door. Evidently, his parents or caretaker thought it was a good idea to lock him out at 3 am. He leaves to wander about the hotel. Mike sees a prostitute exit a room down the hall. A rush to judgement? I think not. So the question remains:

If the person you're feeling up has fake titties, is it considered necro?

Revelation: no, unless the person is dead inside.

-- JEFF

Location: Troy, IL

Stand-up Across America: Costco

Jeff stumbles into Costco and finds that they sell caskets...

Realization

Realization- being the new face of walmart does not guarantee local fame, discounts, or respect (even if you stand in the home decor section begging to be recognized.... Just sayin).

Loc-o-real: various walmarts throughout Pennsylvania, Illinois, and Wisconsin

Revelation

Have you ever gone into a public bathroom with the intention to urinate, but mid-urination you realize that you need to poo? Do you find it embarrassing that after you zip up, the stranger next to you watches you walk into a stall and shut the door? Is it better to walk out after your zip up, then re-enter after the stranger leaves? Or does the stranger sympathize?

Revelation: it’s unfortunate for all parties.

-- JEFF

Location: public bathroom, Stevens Point, WI.

Realization

Realization - The New York State Education System failed miserably in their curriculum requirements regarding familiarization of a United States Map

Loc-o-Real: Wisconsin, which I thought was west of the Mississippi

-MIKE

Realization

Realization - Little known fact….. Midwestern housewives originated the edgy, frosted tip, dyke haircut that is prevalent throughout much of Park Slope and the East Village.

Location of Realization (Loc-o-Real): Mount Prospect Public Library, Mount Prospect, Illinois

-MIKE

Revelation

Have you ever peed and pooped at the same time? Revelation: after the initial euphoria, I find the spray to be too intense and I suffer.

-- JEFF

Location: public bathroom in Wassau, WI

The Lake House: A Lifetime Original Movie...not the Sandra Bullock one....we be on a budget

Lake Minocqua, WI……Nothing says Great American Roadtrip like a family vacation with the Blims! Living in Chelsea has made me a tad bit cautious of the phrase “water sports”, but the Blims assured me that water skiing, tubing, and kayaking were the only sports they had planned. Mama Blim had to stay back in Mt. Prospect but Papa Blim, Jeff, Chris, Erin, Chloe (the dog), Jason (Jeff’s childhood friend), and myself took Minocqua, WI by storm. We apologize for lack of posts the past couple of days but the internet does not agree with North Woods Wisconsin…..rightfully so.

Above you will see a sketch of the Lake house…...who actually sits and sketches out in nature? As I sat there sketching, I felt like Meredith Baxter…formerly known as Meredith Baxter-Birney…in a bad Lifetime Movie. The plotline could have been something along the lines of a divorcee who goes to her childhood lake house to rediscover her love for herself and get back to the hobbies she had stifled to appease her abusive husband that raped her in said house…and after her sketch is complete she goes into town and reconnects with her high school sweetheart…they fall in love over a Tom Collins at “The Thirsty Whale” and then after 10 years of a blissful marriage…he rapes and kills her. A Lifetime Original starring Patrick Duffy as husband number 1 and Michael Gross (from Family Ties) as husband number 2.

Perfect weather, Commandeering of boats, Bratwurst, Tyler Perry’s Madea Goes to Jail and Mosquitos create a recipe for relaxation and thus a vacation within a vacation. One major realization that came to fruition in Minocqua, WI was my personal loathing of all things associated with the act of being wet. I can sit on a boat and drink a Point Beer with the best of them, but water sports just aren’t for me…..the Chelsea or the Lake Minocqua kind. I did get some bonding time in with Chloe the dog…and joked that I would be taking her to a fat family in Staten Island to befriend Norbert.

Oh before I forget, several of our viewers have been upset about the lack of shout-outs headed their way. Of course I speak of my mother and sister so here is the shout-out. Mother, why didn’t your parents own a lake house in Minocqua, WI?…it’s a lovely town full of tradition and stereotypes associated with coming of age movies. I had to deal with the ridicule of not knowing how to water ski and drive a boat…things that the Blim boys and Jason had learned to do at age 3. They had to teach me about tubing and new hair growing on my body…..so the moral of the story is….let’s just rent a lakehouse because I’ve never realized more than the past few days that I am a city boy thru and thru. Oh and Maggie (my sister) …..how hilarious that I went to get something out of the glove compartment after traveling a couple thousand miles only to discover that you own a GPS…I probably should’ve asked about that important piece of information!

Star-gazing, water ski pyramids (don’t worry… there is a video), a bottle of Jack and just being AMERICAN are a great way to end your first week as the new face of the Discovery Channel. The worst way to end your week……tipping over one’s kayak and submerging one’s body into a Native American lake whilst listening to India.Arie on their trusted cellular phone device. I fear that my posts may become even more difficult and less frequent…unless….Uncle Ben’s rice performs a miracle and absorbs the moisture out of my technological life source.

Also, from here on out…….I’m going to be doing a series of mini-posts called Realizations. Many self-discoveries and cultural observations will make an incursion into the blog (Jason….I used the word). Stay Tuned!

-MIKE

The Remember Game

I challenge you--the next time you see old friends--to NOT play the ‘remember game.’ You know of what I speak.

“Remember when you derpdyderpdydumdumderpdyderp?”

“Totally. And then you timtumtimtumdoopdydoopdydoopded!”

“Yeah! God those were the days…”

It can be fun, bringing up memories past. Or it can appear that way.

I spent a good portion of this past week seeing ‘old friends’ in Ann Arbor and Chicago. And Mike, observing it all, paid me a high compliment:

“You don’t really play the remember game with your friends.”

It’s hard not to. It’s hard to generate new memories with friends that you haven’t seen in years. But it’s worth trying.

Can you see an old friend and not even bring up the past at all? Can you live entirely in ‘the now’ with an old friend? I find that whenever I dig into the past for conversation it’s often out of fear, fear that I will lose this friend. It may disguise itself as good times now, but it really seems to happen in order to cement a friendship and make sure that we are still really, really good friends. Bad medicine, I say.

It is possible to generate new memories with old friends. All it takes is action. Instead of having a drink and just musing over the past, this past week I found myself going for a run, getting gussied up to go dance, discussing new movie ideas, trying new tricks on water skis (video coming soon), and making plans for the future (like babies)—all with old friends.

My friend Eric offered up a gem: we should legally have to change our names every seven years. I like that idea a lot. You are not bound by what people think of your old self. It’s an opportunity to free your self of any associations with that old name, an opportunity to reinvent yourself entirely. Obviously, you don’t need a new name to sever ties with the past, but it’s a fun idea nonetheless. I think my new name would be Harvey Shamunaburger. But I think I’d rather change my name like every couple hours, rather than every seven years.

The ‘remember game’ has its place and can be a healthy practice for sure. I just GOTS to be wary of how I use it. On the car ride home from an awesome couple days waterskiing in northern Wisconsin, I found myself playing the remember game with my friend Jason. But there was something different this time around. There wasn’t a lull in the conversation that preceded it. There wasn’t an air of nervousness surrounding our exchange. I wasn’t searching for something to cling to in order to hold on to something from the past. It was simply a fun memory that vibed with the fun we were already having.

“Did you see Paranormal Activity?” I ask Jason from the front seat of the car.

“No.”

“If you thought The Blair Witch Project was cool, then you’d probably dig it. Some of the images are still haunting me.” (Note: I’m not sure why Paranormal Activity has come up in two of my recent posts. Maybe something did latch on to me in Gettysburg.) I turn to Mike. “Didn’t I see Paranormal Activity with you?”

“Yeah. And you didn’t even like it.” (Maybe it’s time I change my name again…)

“Really? Huh. You remember when we saw Blair Witch Project in that hotel on a band trip?” I throw out to Jason.

He laughs a good hearty laugh. “Yep!”

That was the extent of it. The conversation didn’t delve into days of yesteryear. It was just an anecdote amidst a conversation of my unfortunate haunting. And I like it that way. Not the haunting, but using anecdotes from the past to simply color greater conversations of ‘now.’ Ironically, I think it’s the only way to truly keep friends anyway, by generating new times and letting go of the importance of the old.

Stephen Rumtumscallion. How about that for my new name?

I give it two hours.


-- JEFF

Super Sirius

Super Sirius Cinemagic

Listening to the "Cinemagic" radio station on Sirius radio while driving is possibly the greatest thing ever.  You have an ever changing, masterfully scored soundtrack to your life everytime you get in the car.  Currently, Mike and I are tearing through I-39 in Wisconsin to the soundtrack to "Hot Fuzz"--you know, that British cop spoof that you've probably never seen. 

Exterior, day - Highway somewhere in Wisconsin.  A 2002 Hyundai Accent flys down the road.  It's actually an undercover cop car.  Jeff--50's, graying--speaks in a barely audible voice over:

It's hot.  Too hot.  No air conditioning in this damn car.

"Yeah there is."

Damn it, Mike.  Don't turn it on.  Not yet.  Doing 60 in a 75.  A 1996 Ford Mercury flanking us on the right.  We change lanes.  Gotta stay ahead of this damn Ford Mercury.  Why?  I don't know.  Just feels right.  The old school conversion van in front of us is making a run for it.  Not so fast mothaf#$&^@.  With no cruise control to speak of, our car jumps forward.

"Sorry."

Damn it, Mike.  We can't draw attention.  Can't let the conversion van know we don't got no damn cruise control.  Have to keep the mental edge.

Sign says 'no U-turns.'  I don't believe it.

"Make a U-turn!"

"What?  Why?"

"JUST DO IT!"

"No."

He won't do it.  Fine.  We'll just commandeer this 8-wheeler roaring past us.  Just another day in the life of an undercover road cop.  A woman once called me a vigilante.  I told her she was pretty hair.  I meant to say she has pretty hair.  It didn't end well.

Suddenly, I feel bored.  The wind has been sucked from my sails.  Where'd the edge go?  I hear faintly:

"Well, when I was writing 'Hot Fuzz...'

Has it all been a dream?  Is my life one big rouse?  Things I will never know...

Then Mike reaches for the radio and switches to the "Broadway" station.  Damn it.

Exterior, day - Highway, somewhere in Wisconsin.  Jeff--30's, fabulous--cracks open a Fanta.  In a voice over:

Life on the road is super fierce.  I'm super serious.

Serious radio is super serious.

Where the fierce are we?

But seriously, Sirius radio is super serious.  Especially when you have road rage.

-- JEFF

The Lady of the Lake...

Lake Villa, Illinois..... home of fun slides, bratwurst, backyards for days, and Jenilee Houghton.  To think that we almost had Jen come to Chicago to meet us, thus missing out on this gem of a town, comforts me and solidifies that the sweet lord baby Jesus is protecting us on our journey.  Much of the day trip is too hard to describe so be on the lookout for the edited video of our day at the Lake Villa Festival (done masterfully by jeff... Co-creator of hittheroadjeffandmike.com)

Fried foods, Midwestern sluts, jeff on a kiddie ride, and the three of us making our way through a sea of piercing judgement from every direction.  We want to thank Jen for offering up her home and her festival..... it was AMAZING to see her.

While at the festival, we were introduced to a new competitive "sport"  that is sure to be on the roster for the 2016 Olympics. "Firehose pressured water moving steel barrel" (working title) consists of thick calved, angry girls rolling up their jersey sleeves and aiming firehoses at a steel barrel in a classic game of water pressure tug-o-war.  Jeff and I will be starting a zogsports team the second we get back.

We will be back with more, but we have to get up early for the Wisconsin lakehouse with the Blims!! Plus I have to digest this bratwurst...

-Mike

The Real Gettysburg

Tour-guide-in-training Jeff relates the fascinating history behind some of Gettysburg's most unsung landmarks.

Glenn Close and Close Calls

More updates before we hit the road to see the “nicest bitch you’ll ever know, JENILEE JUBILEE!”.

Ann Arbor, MI…..home to the University of Michigan which is apparently a major plot point of the movie, “The Big Chill”. How do I know this?…..well once again I called my father to tell him of my whereabouts and figured that he would be excited since I was going to see the massive football stadium at U of M. My father is a huge college sports fan and apparently all things Glenn Close related. Right after I revealed my morning was to take place in the location of Ann Arbor, my father excitedly interjected his love for “The Big Chill”. Confused, I asked him what made him bring up such a random movie to which he conveyed his huge disappointment that I was unaware of the plot points of such a great film. You lose some, you lose some.

We met up with some of Jeff’s old college buddies who were incredibly welcoming and some of the greatest characters I’ve ever met. I could watch these gentlemen debate anything and everything…just be on the lookout for their “laugh a second” movie. Dominics, the law quad, Ashley’s, big 10 burrito…..everything thing a college town has to offer…plus the nostalgia of Glenn Close artifacts. A huge thank you to all of the Michigan peeps for their hospitality!

We wake up in Ann Arbor and apparently Jeff and his friends are really healthy and decide to go for a run…I was of course invited but remembered when I jogged a ½ mile in 2006 and couldn’t walk for days so I decided to go to a coffee shop and lay on a lawn pretending I was a hipster law student….much healthier than this running craze.

Off to Chicago…..saw jeff’s friend perform at an improv show at Second City…stuffed my face with deep dish pizza like an unfortunate tourist and proceeded to vomit in the bathroom of a Geno’s pizzeria like a bad Lifetime movie starring Tracy Gold. Remember the final episode of Growing Pains when she just pushed around the pizza in an empty Seaver household….we all knew her secret. I actually had to wipe my tear-filled eyes after my incident with the porcelain throne so that jeff and eric would not know my shameful secret. How did Tracy Gold do it all those years?

Late night arrival to the thriving metropolis of Mt. Prospect, IL….home of Lee Dewyze and the BLIM boys! Just woke up from an amazing night’s sleep in a beautiful suburban household bedroom…adorned with trophies, Cubs paraphernalia, and a cute little pup. More to come soon as I am getting ready for my day with Ms. Jen Houghton!

Go Shorty Go

Rackin up the miles one hot beat at a time...

A Tale of Two Burgs...

Due to my unflinching control issues…ie…not letting jeff drive for even one mile on this trip, I have found it quite difficult to keep up with the blog when I am constantly behind the wheel. Hours before we left I signed a “no phone zone” pledge to stick to my daily Oprah diet, thus preventing me from instantaneous updates concerning life on the road. So whilst I sit on a couch in Ann Arbor, MI….I will give all 7 of you reading this an update on the past few adventures.

Harrisonburg, VA….named after hittheroadjeffandmike.com co-creator Mike Harrison…also home of James Madison University….What can I say about my alma mater township that I called home for 4+ years…(it was actually 5 because I was a fifth year senior…or as I like to think of it….a victory lap of education). I do not miss the day to day life in the burg, but must say that turning off I-81 at Exit 245 (insert joke here) is like snuggling up under an old, comfortable blanket. We tried to start the day off classy and completed a beautiful wine tasting at Veritas vineyards where the conversation ranged from 401K plans…to poop. At exactly what age is it no longer appropriate to discuss the details of your bowel movements? I realize that there is also an age where it is appropriate to return back to poop talk just for health issues and war stories of one’s lifelong poop endurance, but there is something amazing to be said about a good ole poop caucus when you’re almost thirty. Many friends (old and new) came out for the summer night in Harrisonburg. Dave’s Taverna, Clementines, Artful Dodger, Fox Hills Apartment party, fried oreos, papa john’s pizza…such a great night but again we will be hitting the road soon so I will keep it brief.

As I sit in the hotel room in Harrisonburg, I think back to the nights events…..sitting in the backseat of Lawton Tufts’ car…in the Dave’s parking lot….at 8 pm…taking a shot of Southern Comfort….or SOCO….then driving to a party in Fox Hills…walking in and stealing a shot of Tequila…then walking out and stealing the two Papa John’s pizzas that this girl had just ordered with Daddy’s Credit Card…..maybe I feel a little too comfortable in the burg. Either way, I had a blast and want to thank everyone that came out to wish us well on our last stop of the Virginia tour.

Camping in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania…..what a freak show. This town is one of the strangest places I’ve ever been and nothing like the movie. Sidenote…I called my father to let him know I was in Gettysburg which we had visited when I was a child due to my father’s affinity towards all things American history and life altering obsession with Jeff Daniels movies…..I also called to ask who had won…I couldn’t remember…details, details, details. Instead of engaging in a light conversation about the road trip and thanking me for my call, he launched into a full campaign on why Martin Sheen was terribly miscast as Robert E. Lee….this casting has apparently been a heavy burden on my father since 1993. Anyway, the town is beautiful and rich with history. Word has it that something big happened here years ago…something so big that people still walk around dressed in wool uniforms in the middle of AUGUST just to play the “remember when?” game.

As we were driving through the auto tour of Gettysburg, I received a phone call that the Walmart commercial was finally completed and ready for viewing. You see kids, I did a little thing that we in the biz call “selling out”. When Walmart calls, you answer. When Walmart waves a check in front of you that can pay for a road trip with your friend jeff, you climb onto that commercial, capitalist bandwagon and ask them how high they need you to jump. Sooooo….without further ado….here is my first commercial as the new face of Walmart.


That’s my little update from the road…well the couch actually….I will deconstruct the night we enjoyed in Ann Arbor, MI from another couch across this great nation.

General Meade's Creepy Spider Monkeys

Gettysburg: A Modern Day Ghost Story

Gettysburg is not viewed best after dark.  No way, no how.

After a random night in Harrisonburg, VA hanging with more of Mike's JMU friends (my god, how many friends does he have?) we sat in a Harrisonburg cafe with no plans for the day--our first schedule-free day thus far on the trip.  Musing over my egg salad bagel, I had the highly questionable idea to drive a few hours northeast to Gettysburg and check out the nightlife: the not-so-alive-and-more-like-dead kind of nightlife.  Gettysburg happens to be the most haunted town in America, at least, according to my iPhone. 

We arrived before dusk, checked in to a campground, and started the car tour around the battlefield.  We had loose plans to do a formal, $16/head ghost tour later on in the eve, where you sit around in some dead person's house and listen for creaks.  But these plans were quickly put to rest.

Dusk came and went, and Gettysburg was--mostly--asleep. Naturally, we thought it was high time to hit up the cemetery.  We parked the car about a 1/4 mile down the road and made the trek to the gates.  The gates to the cemetery were partly open, giving the impression that peak hours were long over.

The gravestones were fenced off.  We could make out their silhouettes behind the tall iron fence.  Uneventful.  Not a ghost to be seen.  What the hell.  We carried on down the road until two bright head lights came around the bend.  It was a cop.  He had his window rolled down.  We approached the car.

"Park's closed."

"Oh, okay.  Which way out?"

The cop pointed behind us, clearly the way we had just came from.  I wasn't fooling' anybody.  So we turned around and headed back.  The cop shut the gate behind us as we exited the cemetery.

(Note: The cop was certainly trying to make us into a guilty party, but the clock said 9:30, and, from what we were told, the park closed at 10.  Somebody just didn't want us to be there....)

We jumped back into the car and intended to finish the auto tour before the clock struck 10.  There was one section of the tour that we had not driven yet, a little loop that was unlabeled and branched off from the main road.  I pointed at it and thought, "Good idea."  We turned off the main road and circled the loop, which appeared to be just a parking lot near the visitor's center.  But I spotted a trail.  "Really good idea," I thought.  By now it's so dark that we whip out the flashlight that we purchased only a few hours prior.  Mike spots the gate that could potentially lock us in this part of the park with the clock approaching 10.  

"Is this a bad idea?  I'm just worried that we'll get locked in."

I pretend I don't hear him.  Getting locked in is the least of my worries; we make one phone call to that friendly coper and he can have us out in no time.  He seems good with gates.  Plus, I was replaying the most recent episode of "Ghost Hunters" in my head.  Those guys are ridiculous.  It really is "Jersey Shore" meets "Paranormal Activity."  Why are these guys so angry at these ghosts?  Are ghosts obligated to throw shit across a room when the lights are turned off?

(Note: I'm about to switch to present tense.  I think it might be a more effective way to relate the following events.  Then again, I'm just too lazy to edit my first draft, but not to lazy to write this disclaimer.)

"I will be nice to the ghosts," I think, as we leave the car for the trail.  We come to the trailhead via flash light.  The sign reads "To Meade's Headquarters" with an arrow pointing to the left.  We start down the trail.  It's quiet except for the screeching cicadas, so it's not quiet at all really, just void of human noise, except for our footsteps, so not void of human noise at all really.  We don't talk,  I just flick the flashlight off and on randomly, revealing just how dark it actually is around us.  I walk through a few spider webs and that's annoying.  We walk a couple hundred meters in all
 and eventually reach the road.

"We should probably go back to the car," I say, my thoughts now leaving the supernatural for the practical.

"Yeah," says Mike.  It's settled: we turn around.

I take one step and stop.  The temperature has dropped, noticeably.  I look at Mike.  He felt it too.

"Do you notice how cold it is right here?"

"Yeah."

We walk a few more paces, and I feel the temperature fluctuate from one step to the next.  There is no breeze to speak of.  These are small climate changes from one step to the next. 

"Does this sort of thing happen in...well...in real life?" I ask.

"I don't think so."

"I mean, this is new, right?"

"Yeah."

The only thing I can think of is that it's a lot like encountering a 'cold spot' when you're swimming.  If I had to guess I'd say that the temperature dropped a solid 7-10 degrees.  

"We shoud probably go back to the car," and I thought, "Immediately."  We retrace our steps and the 'cold spots'  seem to expand.  The entire trail now feels cold.

"It's much colder this whole way," says Mike.  

I swipe away a few more cobwebs.  Super annoying.  We continue on, picking up our pace a bit.  But these damn cobwebs.  They just won't go away.

"Do you keep running into--"

"Cobwebs?"

"Yeah," i reply.  I look at Mike, he wipes at his arm.

"But they're not..."

"No."  No, they were not cobwebs at all.  I shine the flashlight.  There were no bugs attached to these cobwebs, nor any tangible, silky substance.  What the hell.  We walk faster and the sensations intensify; my arms and wrists and legs are being touched/brushed with "cobwebs."  My heart is in my throat.  What the hell is this?!  Something's or, dare I say it, 'somebody's' silky, viscous fingers were tickling and f*&*#ing with me.  It's hard to describe it as an unpleasant feeling; but you walk around in the middle of the battlefield of the bloodiest battle in American history after dark and feel anything other than nothing, you bet your ass it's unpleasant.  So with ghost spiders crawling up my arm I try to keep my sanity by having a conversation with someone I know is alive:

"You're feeling this too, right?"

"Yeah, it feels like silk."

"I felt them on the way over here but I thought it was just a cobweb."

"It's not cobwebs," as if that needed to be stated again.

I stop Mike and have him hold the flashlight up to my arm.  I can't take it anymore.  The invisible spider monkeys have reached their peak and I am full-on being groped.

"Do you see anything?!"

"No.  No, there's nothing."

"It's going up my arm.  Now it's on my wrist.  And my hands."

"Nothing."

Jesus.  Time to stop trying to figure this shit out and get back to the car.

We reach the car, and the silky spiders have faded--mostly.  But 'mostly' is not good enough when it comes to a potential haunting.  I'm still feeling a tingle here and there as I buckle up.  I can't help but think of "Paranormal Activity" again and how that dude tells the chick that it doesn't matter where she goes, the demon will follow.

"Are you still feeling them?"

"No."  

Lucky.  Guess the demon has found a liking to me.  Not okay.

"Drive," I say.

"It's not quite 10 yet.  Let's park up here and try this other trail to the back of the cemetery."

"Nope.  I'm good."  And I was good.   That is as close as I ever need to come to thinking that I made contact with the third realm.  As we turn onto the main drag, the spiders seem to have dispersed.  Maybe it was all a dream.

"Nope, it wasn't a dream."

Thank, Mike.

It goes without saying that we did not do the $16/head ghost tour led by some uninspired college kid collecting drinking money.  We park in downtown Gettysburg to find the nearest bathroom.  On cue, a handful of outta-towers, aka touristas, are being led by a college-aged kid dressed in a mock Union uniform with a satchel which he slaps and shouts, "Donations are encouraged and accepted!"  

It seems the story would end here, but no.  I rush into the local pub to use their facilities; not sure if I had to drop a deuce because of General Meade's creepy salad fingers or because of the pint of strawberry cheesecake ice cream i had earlier.  

Into the bathroom and enter the stall.  Don't worry, I'm not about to describe to you the quality of my poop (it was pebbly.)  I intend, instead, to tell you this: as I'm cleaning up shop, I hear the faucet go on.  Somebody is washing their hands.  I think I hear the hand dryer too.  I pull up the ol' shorts and open the stall door fully expecting to find the 20-year old from Jersey City who stopped us on the street earlier to find some green before he goes off to the Marines the next week.  Well, Pauly D. wasn't there.  Nor was anybody else.  There was no one else in the bathroom.  No one.  Now, I even will admit that this could have been just a case of poor attention on my part and that somebody had done their business, washed their hands and left, making  all the appropriate sounds at the appropriate volume, and I just did not notice.  I was, without a doubt, on edge and out of sorts ever since I got felt up.  But I must report that I do not recall hearing the appropriate sounds in the appropriate order that would tell my brain that there is another breathing human entering and then leaving the faciities.  Color me spooked.  

The bathroom episode aside, something weird was going down on General Meade's trail.  I tell myself that the brain does funny things.  Being in Gettysburg is a trip in broad daylight, let alone after hours.  There is the undeniable feeling of walking on sacred ground.  Couple that with some funny sensations that feel exactly like REAL, honest-to-god cobwebs moving up and down your extremities that caused both Mike and I to wipe down our arms, and you might think that something is up.  I say go to Gettysburg and check it out yourself.  I, on the other hand, never need to do it again.

We check out of the campground the next morning.  From behind the desk, the campground staffer asks me:

"Did you go ghost hunting last night?"

"No," I tell him.  And I don't know why.

Happy hunting.

-- JEFF

Jeff The Wine Taster

Jeff gives his rundown of all the various notes and palette colours and flavor roids that Veritas Winery has to offer. Warning: much pretention.

Mike at the Monument

Mike has an intimate moment with the Washington Monument at 12:30 am on a Monday. I guess technically that would be Tuesday morning. But we at hittheroadjeffandmike.com aren't pretentious like that. Enjoy.

The Real FMS

FMS is a real thing. You suffer from it. Your children suffer from it. Your doggie suffers from it. FMS, or “Fear of Missing Something,” or FMS as Mike likes to call it, is a real thing. It afflicts millions. And it afflicts me when it comes to sandwiches.

Truth be told I had never heard of FMS until yesterday when the road-tripping gods shined upon me once again, as Mike introduced me to two more of his friends and I was welcomed into their beautiful home; Nathaniel and his wife Brett got a good thing going on there in Charlottesville, VA. I was privy to it for a pleasant Tuesday evening. Lounging in their spacious living room, the conversation turned briefly toward FMS, a term which Mike has been using for years evidently. FMS seems to cause people to stay out much later than they would like, or attend events that they don’t really care to, or, I’m guessing, leads to Lindsay Lohan-sized drug habits--all driven by the fear that they will miss out on something earth shattering. But my FMS kicks in like a crazy person when I’m standing in front of a chalkboard painted with 30+ varieties of deli sandwich.

You might have heard of Little Johns. You might not. It’s not Papa Johns. Or Jimmy Johns. Little Johns is this serious little sandwich shop in the heart of UVA’s campus in Charlottesville, VA. I’ve been there before, years ago when I was starring as Beefy Sailor #2 in UVA’s summer stock production of South Pacific (and I don’t mean beefy as in oonka choonka, I drink roids and look kinda good beefy--I mean beefy as in I had never heard of the term “freshman 15” and had no intention of learning it). I would frequent Little Johns for the late night, post show, post keggar, post theme party, post matinee meat fix. Their sandwich menu was extensive. And overwhelming. It remains so to this day. So overwhelming in fact, that it becomes an exercise in sadomasochism.

On this Tuesday night, years later, after enjoying the company of newly weds in a newly wed household with a newly wed dog (the dog wasn’t married, just saying), I find myself standing in front of Little John’s terrifying menu once again. I must strategize. I’m guessing there are over 30 variations of deli sandwich to choose from. I feel the FMS build up in my chest and creep down to my stomach. It feels a lot like stage fright. Strategy numero uno: speed-read. I glance over the menu, skimming over the names and sandwich contents, thinking that if I don’t think about it that I might make the best decision, bypassing my racing mind for my the needs of my gut. But that loses out when my brain realizes that I’m skimming over the menu and not giving each individual artful sandwich its due; it’s kinda like when the eye of Sauron doesn’t notice that a hobbit and his fat friend are blindsiding him. So the eye of Sandwich caught me.

Now I begin to labor. “Knockwurst, onion, tomato, herb mayo, bacon, American cheese, angel semen,” or “Steak, cheese, cheese, cheese, cheese, mayo,” or “Pastrami, Salami, Gorlami, and Guido.” I break my gaze for a second and take a necessary breath. I remember that my eye paused momentarily at “The Onion Wheel” when I first skimmed the menu recklessly. My eye slowed there, so that must mean something right? Anyone who’s read Blink by Malcolm Gladwell knows that there is scientific evidence behind the instinctual, often first thought, decision. So, with shaky confidence, I walk up to the meat man and say, “Onion Wheel please.” He makes it, but not enthusiastically. He either doesn’t enjoy his job—which I cannot understand, because he gets to feed eons of drunk college kids EVERY NIGHT—or he knows I went down the wrong road. But I pay for it and dive in.

It seems tasty as hell. But there’s no joy, not even in the first bite, because there are at least another 29 sandwiches up there that might be better. FMS takes the lead. What if I ne’er return to Charlottesville? What if this is the end all be all of Little Johns for me? Am I content to go out with The Onion Wheel? Thoughts turn to my deathbed. It seems very possible as I swallow the last bite of oniony sandwich that when I face my god and say to him, “I chose the Onion Wheel,” he will say, “Wrong.” So FMS has now shifted towards full-blown FOD; you know it, Fear O’ Death. Could have gone with “The Ranger,” a triple-decker with bacon, pastrami, cheese, knockwurst, you name it. Now I need to take counter-measures and psychoanalyze myself. (Btw, Mike is staring at me from across the table like I’m a crazy person. Can’t say he’s wrong. But I’ve seen the look before. Got more important things to deal with. FMS is waging a war on my mind.)

So where was I? Ah, the psychoanalysis…so was I actually dissatisfied with The Onion Wheel? Did it not pleasure my buds of taste? A few moments ago I thought it was tasty as hell. I documented it as such a few sentences ago. I know that any other balanced soul, especially a drunk collegiate one, would say it was a damn good sandwich! I mean, how can you go wrong with a little turkey, pastrami, onion, tomato, deli mustard, herb mayo, muenster cheese, on a toasted Kaiser roll? The answer is FMS. There were 29 other sandwiches that were probably better, if not 5x as good. I try to cope by killing off the corn chips that came with it, as well as half of Mike’s. But I’ve had corn chips before. And they’ve never given me FMS, or, as the horrifying realization comes, Fear of Missing Sandwich! It’s like I’m in a political thriller where some A-lister puts together the conspiracy that Jon Voight is inevitably behind. They knew all along; Mike, Brett, and Nathanial all knew that FMS is actually Fear of Missing Sandwich. I’m doomed.

Listen God, or Abe Lincoln if you’re up there, I chose the Onion Wheel and I intend to face the consequences. I want to make peace with my decision. I thought it wouldn’t be too heavy, and the crunch of the onion sounded appealing.

MY SON, THE ONION WHEEL WAS A COP-OUT. IT WAS A SINGLE WHEN THE MENU WAS FILLED WITH TRIPLES AND EVEN A FEW 4-BAGGERS. YOU CHOSE WRONG, AND NOW YOU SHALL BLOAT. YOU SHALL BLOAT THROUGH THE NIGHT, TOSS AND TURN, AND PAY THE PRICE ON THE TOILET IN THE MORNING FOR YOUR DECISION. AND, YOU GET THE ADDED BONUS OF A MENTAL PRISON. THE WORLD WAS YOUR FOOD-GASM. NOW IT IS YOUR FOOD PRISON. I AM A VENGEFUL GOD, AND I SHALL MAKE SURE THAT YOU NE’ER RETURN TO LITTLE JOHNS AGAIN TO RIGHT YOUR WRONG. AND IF YOU DO EVER RETURN BY SOME MIRACLE, YOU SHALL FIND THAT THE ENTIRE MENU WILL BE OF THE ONION WHEEL AND THE ONION WHEEL ONLY. THIS I DEEM UNTO YOU. GO VEGAN.

And thusly god spoketh to me about my eating habits. I miss Abe.

-- JEFF

Charlottesville has everything...

You know those friends that are huge dog people, but they also have an affinity for horses? I hate having to go to two different stores come christmas time just to create one great gift to cover all of their animal-loving needs. Why can't it all be simpler? Downtown Charlottesville has answered my prayers with the "Dog and Horse Lovers Boutique"....Now I know where to one stop shop for all of my creepy, animal obsessed friends who need a new saddle and a new leash for their equine and kanine "children"!

-MIKE

OPEN THE CAROUSEL!!!

The grass roots campaign of the decade, "OPEN THE CAROUSEL", has reached Dowtown Charlottesville, Virginia! The campaign trail started in Italy when one strong-willed woman named Katie Blalock stood up for the oppression of Carousel lovers everywhere. The word quickly spread to the states culminating in mid-May with a large rally in Dover, Delaware led by fallingstarz.net co-creator Rachel Ralston. We didn't want this blog to become to preachy or politcal, but please contact your local congressmen and women and demand that they "OPEN THE CAROUSEL, OPEN THE CAROUSEL...."

Turk the Baby-Eating Dog

Charlottesville, Virginia….home of Dave Matthews, hippies, the cavaliers of UVA, and Nathaniel and Brett Baker (our hosts). When we arrived, the Bakers had quite a difficult task of raising the spirits of two weary travelers….for you see…..Jeff and I had just journeyed from Northern Virginia with our eyes set on ONE goal……and that holy grail was called THE BAVARIAN CAFÉ. An authentic Bavarian eatery that served sausages, puff pastries, and sausage filled puff pastries. Located 18 miles out of Charlottesville in the middle of BFE, Va seemed the perfect stop for authentic Bavarian fare. Minutes before our arrival one could wipe the sweat off my brow and drool from my mouth in anticipation of this glorious meal….but…..as we entered the parking lot, we were met by a horrific sight that still conjures up a physical reaction of rage and disgust as I type this post. BAVARIAN CAFÉ was CLOSED on Tuesdays!!!!! NOOOO…Jeff and I let out a long scream that eventually landed on the same pitch. I feel like we have synced cycles since we are in the same car…much like ladies and their periods…..so first off, I would like to thank Nathaniel and Brett for immediately cheering up two very disappointed souls.

Great house, great backyard, great conversation, and great baby-eating puppy named Turk. We took Turk to the Downtown Mall for some exercise and good old fashioned baby eating. He is still a fun loving puppy and was approached by a father that clearly wanted to sacrifice his child in an effort to assimilate his baby into dog culture. The father left said baby to Turk’s disposal and as the baby shat and peed in fear…Daddy Dearest assured the child that Turk was giving love kisses and not sizing up his next baby delicacy. Honestly, it was so great to see Nathaniel and Brett and even Charlottesville for that matter. I didn’t often venture to this town from JMU, but it still has an air of familiarity and peaceful vibe that I truly enjoy.

The Bakers have lived here for a few months and are already friendly with all of their neighbors….am I an unapproachable and pretentious bastard? I don’t know any of my neighbors and we live in the same building. I know one girl on the 4th floor of the building because she was locked out and needed to charge her phone. I later found out that she was a stripper at SCORES and now she pretends to not know who I am when we pass each other on our block…or when I see her in da club.

After dinner at a great brewery, we went back to the Bakery (cute name Brett calls their house, yet I can‘t say I wasn‘t slightly excited that we might be going somewhere to get pastries…) We talked, enjoyed wine, and ended up watching their amazing wedding video since I was unable to attend this past January. Sitting there watching those two, being in their home, appreciating their hospitality, loving their baby-eating puppy…I definitely got teary eyed. I think that this road trip is already proving to me exactly how lucky I am that I have accumulated some of the most generous and loving friends through the years, who just happen to be overall great people.

This morning we are finishing our posts and prepping for the trip to JMU and some wineries along the way. Jeff is currently going for a run….I asked him what that is. I remember I did a push up once in 2005 and it did not end well, so instead of a “run” I will be sitting on this back porch and soaking up this view and deafening silence as I read my celebrity blogs and Degrassi forums. More to come soon.

-MIKE

Exit Through The Lincoln Memorial

Lincoln’s Memorial is best viewed after midnight. No joke. Something you will never hear on your $30/head bus tour of downtown Washington, DC. There I am, basking in the glow of Lincoln's statue at 12:30 am on a Monday, waiting for the man to finally stand up. The lone overweight security guard standing watch next to me poses no real threat if I want to heed my impulse to jump over the velvet ropes and slap Lincoln’s stone knee and scream “YOU FROM ILLINOIZE!! IZE FROM ILLINOIZE TOO! WE SHOULD BE HAPPY FRIENDS!!” Such are the thoughts I have at 12:30 am, stumbling from national monument to national monument here in the great non-state of DC. Not drunk, mind you, just dead tired from a seven hour drive (of which 0 minutes I drove) from NYC to northern VA to meet up with Mike’s old drinking buddies.

And by drinking buddies I mean these fellas diem-ed some carpe during their college years under the guise of a leftist organization called “Exit 245.“ Mike refers to Exit 245 as a collegiate a cappella group. I tell him he’s a liar. Let it be known, there are undeniable cultish tendencies within this group. We met these “Exit” types at an undisclosed location, otherwise known as Spider Kelly’s in Clarendon. I was disappointed to find the “Exit” types to be quite friendly in nature. But it is interesting to note that there was very little discussion of music at this supposed “a cappella reunion” and lots more talk of past debauchery (more food for my theory that these were a bunch of leftist fascists.) So I exited the “Exit” scene with, unfortunately, many a good conversation under my belt. Suspect. Suspect I tell you. Lingering outside Spider Kelly’s just before the stroke of midnight, we made the reasonable decision to see what Obama was up to in that house of his…and Lincoln of course. Obviously Lincoln wasn’t up to much cuz he be dead….or is he? So we got in the car and made the effort.


In all seriousness, I can’t imagine a better way to see DC’s landmarks than after midnight on a Monday. The Washington Monument was as phallic as phallic can be, lit up like a penis-shaped Christmas tree made out of stone; the Vietnam Memorial was totally unreadable at that hour but still spooky; and Lincoln spoke to me in tongues. Not kidding. And the security guard knew it. He was in on the joke. The madness of it all, I tell you. But another attempt at seriousness: I spent a good time walking through the WWII Memorial thinking about how my grandfather was there only months before being honored by the likes of Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks for his sizeable service back in the day. Then we visited Lincoln…

The security guard flanking me on my right. The urge to leap at Lincoln creeping upon me like a seizure. I quell it. And then…it happened. My conversation with Lincoln:

“Hi Abraham. Can you hear me?”

“I’m here.”

“Oh, so sorry to disturb you.”

“I’m never disturbed. Always here.”

“Good. Good. That’s good. We can always count on you. You’re real honest.”

“Thank you Captain Obvious.”

“The name’s Jeff. Not Captain Obvious.”

“You’re a tease.”

At that point, the security guard made a move for his flashlight so I snapped my photo and left. The conversation was brief.

We treaded down the stairs and rode back to Gavin’s place (Gavin is a former member of “Exit” and, with his wife, make arguably the best host and hostess I ever had the pleasure of taking advantage of. I mean, Gavin gave us a freaking tour of DC’s finest at 12:30 am. And he had to work the next day. Like a real job. This a cappella thing might be for real. So, note to future host and hostesses: the bar has been set.) Thinking back, I can imagine that the tour would have been far less peaceful during the peak tourist/business hours of a typical DC weekday. Thank you captain obvious.

Lincoln has spoken.

-- JEFF