Unedited Scratchlings of a Beatlemaniac: Beatle Log Day FIVE.

Where: Docklands Fish & Chips
When: 2:31 p.m.
Drink: Diet Coke


I just got a pregnancy level craving for fish & chips.

I love gastronomy and the fancy stuff but you cannot beat thick, flaky, fresh-caught cod served with salt and vinegar.

Poor gluten-free Angie.

She’s a good enough pal to say “No, you go enjoy. I’ll go shop around a bit.”

So here I am with glazed eyes, greasy lips, and so many carbs floating in my system I feel HIGH. This is the English experience I remember from living here before: tucking into a corner alone. Eating and writing.

Connecting pen to paper was the only way my head ever made sense to me. Still is. Except now, sentences wake me up in the middle of the night.

But seriously (*squirrel!) would you look at this fish?!? This thing’s as long as my arm! And I’ve been away from England too long. I thought the mushy peas was guacamole.


I’m still suffering with some chest infection thingy. You can hear it my video up there. Christopher says it’s because I walked around with wet feet and bell bottoms upon arrival. (Converse Chuck Taylor’s aren’t waterproof, by the way.)

But I’m feeling marginally better today.

Angie channeled some divine healing powers and seriously saved my sick ass.

I could barely stand when we got home from the pub last night. My voice was completely gone and I had chills, sneezes, and shivers.

“Lay down, girl,” she sighed –tired but loyal– whipping out her little travel apothecary.

Girlfriend swirled a coconut and essential oil concoction in her palm then basically gave me a lymphatic massage. I moaned in relief while our hosts undoubtedly exchanged quizzical looks in the next room.

Whatever she did worked.

“Girl, you have some crazy trapped energy,” she told this morning. “I literally had to take deep breaths and widen my stance to stabilize while working on your palms! Then I was all lightheaded and buzzy and couldn’t sleep even though you’d passed out.”

It’s true.

All my stress and energy stores in my hands and feet. (Not sure what’s up with that.)

Anyway. Yeah. I passed the hell out. Slept like a corpse on tranquilizers. I know part of that is jet lag, but my body really needed rest. Still. I can’t be sleeping in on precious Beatle time!

So here I am, tempting pneumonia to ensure I’ve captured every morsel of this trip. Just in case you wanna know what Liverpool feels like in February:

Day Five, continued.

Where: Ziferblat, Albert Dock
When: 3:27 p.m.
Drink: Hot, milky tea

This place is rad, ya’ll.

Everything in here is FREE.


Comfy chairs, sofas, coffee tables, piano, games, blankets, wifi . . .


Coffee, tea, cereal, cake, cookies, muffins . . .



You just pay 8 pence (13 cents) a minute to be here. It’s clean, spacious, comfortable, and they’re playing Diana Ross. I got a bellyful of fish and am so happy I might burst — except it’s our last day.

I think we’ll hit the Tate Modern then go stock up on Beatle stuff. I’m gonna have one more cuppa tea and maybe another chocolate biscuit. I wanna ask everyone in here their favorite Beatle song, but Angie shot me a look that suggested maybe that wasn’t a good idea.

They have this awesome little thingy on the wall:

LOL!I need it all! 🙂

But eventually just settled on one.


Day Five, continued.

Where:The North Western Pub, Lime Street Station, Liverpool
When: 7:20 p.m.
Drink: Pint Bitburger


I’m sitting at the railway station, got a ticket for my destination.

The rock’n’roll rumor is that Paul Simon wrote Homeward Bound here at Lime Street Station and I’m just gonna say it one more time:


(Sorry, Mom.)

My mom gets mad when I cuss. But I do. I love it so much it commands the explicative. But they’d pronounce it ‘fooking’ here — with a hard K. Kinda like the steaming milk noise on a cappuchino machine.

Try it: fooKing.


*So, girls. What was the Beatle highlight of the trip?

Angie: “Riding around Woolton, Liverpool. Then John’s house at Mendips.”


Jennifer: “Learning Beatle history to a masterfully planned soundtrack. Like driving past the Penny Lane roundabout during *that* point in the song.” (Thanks again, Ian.)

Non-Beatle Highlight?

Angie: “Definitely that night at Baltic Fleet. That’ll never be replicated.”

Jennifer: “I agree. That was magical. Thank God I got video. Oh and those delicious accents!”

Just listen how they pronounce ‘Liverpool’ *swoon*

Best Liverpudlian Dining Experience?

Angie: “The Lebanese one: Bakchich. Mowgli for atmosphere, though.”


Jennifer: “That’s tough. I’m gonna say Mowgli. But that fish today was off the hook, too.”


And which Beatle tune sums up your time in Liverpool? You know, encapsulates the experience?

Angie: “And I Love Her. No, wait. I changed my mind. Something.”

Jennifer: “Probably In My Life.”


I feel like writing a letter to the City. Not to the municipal body but Liverpool Herself. Like writing a letter to a lover professing everything you adore and how you wouldn’t be the same without them.

But mostly saying thank you.

Just writing that made my eyeballs burn.

A world without Beatle music would find me a deflated bag of skin, gasping for air on the floor.

So yes.

Thank you, Liverpool.

On behalf of Beatle people everywhere, thank you.

Day Five, continued.

Where: Virgin Train, Coach B
When: 8:53 p.m
Drink: Pinot Grigio and Bottled Water

We’re quiet now.

Not much to say.

But the air’s full around us.

With memories.
A world minus George and John
and the things you feel in silence.

We came to celebrate 40th birthdays, but leave like teenagers. Teary. Giddy. Tired from late nights celebrating cute boys in our favorite band.

We’ll be in London in an hour.

“Let’s make lists of our top ten Beatle songs,” I sniffed.

“Okay,” she sniffed back.


We only had one song in common: Two of Us.

A lifelong friend who understands your intricate weirdness and embraces it without question may be the most valuable thing in the whole world.


Thanks for reading.
Slap me with some stars.
And say– which tag would YOU have taken from the wall at Ziferblat?


Unedited Scratchlings of a Beatlemaniac: Beatle Log Day FOUR.

Where: Baltic Creative, Unit 51
When: 9:18 a.m.
Drink: Cafe Mocha


What a weird morning.

This cafe came recommended but we had to walk through a long, desolate, industrial artspace to find it. The walk felt like something out of A Wrinkle in Time, void of humans in eerie morning light.

Just us, rows and rows of warehouses, crying seagulls, and the thump thump of a distant rave, somewhere in the periphery.






Weird, right?

We couldn’t find the address, and literally wandered hungry and confused for an HOUR when a motorized awning finally started rolling up across the street.


My belly sounded like rocks in a tumble dryer.

Shiny glass revealed an uber-trendy (I’ll go ahead and say) gentrified space and we ran for the doors.

This mocha tastes like heaven’s inner circle and the man who served it looks like Peter Tork. See him back there? 🙂


And would you just look at Angie’s breakfast?


Thumbs up, Unit 51!

Day Four, continued.

Where: Rococo
When: 1:48 p.m.
Drink: Iced Latte

Well. Today started off rocky.

The ONLY thing on our agenda this morning was church.

St. Peter’s Sunday service started at 10:30 a.m. You’d think calling a cab at 9:45 a.m. would give us plenty time to (get me to the church on time.) And you’d think “we’re on our way” means just that.

–Yet I stood on the curb (in the cold) like a damn fool waiting for Davy Liver Cabs who think “we’re on our way” means a 45 minute wait.

If you know me, you know I hate waiting and I HATE being late. Thank you Davy Liver Taxi ‘Service,’ whomever you are. You STINK.

The cafe staff —poor people; I stressed them out with my stressing out— finally called Delta Cabs and their “we’re on our way” meant 3 minutes.

I climbed in that cab with boiling blood, while the cabbie logged St. Peter’s in his GPS.

It was 10 freaking miles away, putting us in church at 11:27, a WHOLE HOUR LATE to the service. A pox on you, Davy Liver!

“I can take you one a bit closer,” he suggested.

My flaring eyeballs must’ve answered his question because he turned around and put pedal to the metal.

“I hope the music doesn’t screech to a halt when we walk in all late,” I growled as we slid around the back seat.

But that’s exactly what happened.

Even though it’s fairly gothic outside,


St. Peter’s offers a modernized service with screens up for song lyrics, etc.


And their sound system failed the second (I mean the second) we sat down.


The vicar told everyone it was an opportune time to “make peace” with our neighbors; so we immediately started “peace be with you-ing” with the cute, mostly elderly folk around us.

Our accents garnered lots of questions, and I was obligated to admit we were there for John and Paul, as well as Jesus. –which does sound biblical if you say it right. But we weren’t fooling anybody.

When I say why we’re here out loud, I realize what nerds we are,” Angie whispered.

They’re Liverpudlians,” I whispered back. “They’re used to it.”

“Everyone’ll tell you they went to school with John Lennon,” guide Ian warned us yesterday.

“My mum and Paul’s mum were friends,” smiled the lady in front of us.

My blood pressure eventually restored to normal and I wept through the whole rest of the service. I’m a weenie like that.

St. Peter’s Highlights:

* I received communion and got prayed over. That’s always nice.

* Children came forward and sang a song about how God loves all people. One of the lyrics went something like ‘He loves those that read books; those that feed ducks’

–and here (inappropriately) I burst into giggles. In Liverpool, see, “books” and “ducks” rhyme. (They pronounce it ‘dooks’)

Anyway, I couldn’t stop giggling. (Sorry, kids. Blame my fever.)

* And just LOOK what’s in their church programme today. Oh. No biggie. (I mean, SERIOUSLY!?)


* Lastly, a sweet lady with a personality like the teapot from Beauty and the Beast served tea & biscuits in the rectory. I got sugar, caffeine, AND Jesus, so now I just wanna hug everybody.


Day Four, continued.

Where: Lennon’s Bar
When: 7:00 p.m.
Drink: Half-pint San Miguel

Angie’s reading and I’m writing.



1. I’ve not been too well here. I thought I lost my voice screaming at The Cavern. But other symptoms: fatigue, slight fever, cough, and weak eyes suggest something a bit more sinister: a Liverbug.

Coupled with jet lag, it’s a cruel irony. But I’m NOT complaining, and will muscle on. Maybe it’s the universe saying shut up and write cos no one wants to hear you sing Beatle Karaoke. *sigh*

2. There’s an alarming trend of girls drawing in their eyebrows here:

Screen shot 2014-02-06 at 11.43.17

Not like Cholas did with Sharpies back in the day:


No. This is equally unsubtle.
But somehow, unlike the Cholas, I think they think this is a beauty statement.


One day they’ll look back at their painted brows –the same way we 80s kids look back at our giant bangs– and think oh dear.

My English step-daughter later informed me it’s called ‘Scouse Brow’; and yes, it’s a ‘thing.’

Scouse Brow, according to the internet, is “a dark, angular, pencilled-in brow shape said to be popular with Liverpool girls.”

So I’ll just leave that right there.

3. We’re the only people in this bar right now.

I always feel so sorry for DJs playing to empty rooms. Really he’s more of an iTunes song shuffler, but still. Feels like I’m sitting in my living room, really. Tucked in the corner with my journal and a Beatle-Monkee-Badfinger-Nilsson-ELO playlist.

I think we’d leave, except, again, I’m super comfy. Plus I know it’s raining out there and I really do feel like ass. We may head back to the Baltic Fleet tonight. Ohhhh but not yet! Mr. Blue Sky just came on!


Liverpool is ELECTRIC. A unifying energy runs through these people who really do claim and protect each other. Hard to explain, but easy to feel and observe. Angie brought up the excellent point that this energy was crucial to the Beatle phenomenon. I totally agree. Fans and critics ever refer to their cheeky, charming CHEMISTRY.

See for yourself:

This feeling is EVERYWHERE.

Only two more days in England. I don’t know what’s worse: That or being ill.

I’ll Cry Instead.


Thank you for reading! If you liked it, please take a sec to click the stars below! 🙂

Unedited Scratchlings of a Beatlemaniac: Beatle Log Day THREE.

Hey. This is Day 3. Don’t start here. Go to day 1. 🙂

Where: Kings Mill Dock Flats, Liverpool
When: 8:38 a.m.
Drink: Organic green tea (with honey).

Really, I should be asleep. I sound like a toad with a trach. Not sure why. I mean we did shut down The Cavern 6 hours ago. I didn’t scream for the band too too much. But like I just told my Airbnb host (cutie gay Spanish boy over there washing dishes), we experienced a LOT of temperatures yesterday.

then cold again.

The Cavern is a steamy, subterranean, rock & roll jungle about 40 feet below street level. The band jammed Beatles, Queen, The Who, etc; and we danced, smiled, cheered, and sang until the wee hours.

Some smiley Irish girl approached me as the band played Twist and Shout.

“You’re American, aren’t ye?”

“How’d you know?” This chick literally pulled me to the dance floor.

“Your hat!” she twisted, yelling in my ear. “Only Americans wear hats like that!”

“Texas, actually!” I shouted. Texans rarely say “I’m American.” We clarify, see.

And for the record, my mother-in-law bought this very special yellow sparkly hat on clearance for my ten year old in England. –I just stole it.

Soon we had a circle o’ Brits dancing around us to Surfin’ USA. And hours later, trembled up those steps with jet-lagged joints and hair plastered to our sweaty foreheads, resurfacing hot, giggly, and euphoric to rainy, see-your-breath temperatures.

Et tu, Jennifer’s immune system, whispered the wind.

Liverpool is coastal. So this air should technically be good for us. But here I am, sipping tea on 5 (4?) hours of sleep, with no voice at all. Today is super special, though, so I’m muscling through. But first, some notes on Airbnb.

Either you’re the type of person who can handle strangers in your home or you’re not. Our hosts are couple Ruben and Adrian. One Spanish, one Polish. Adrian greeted us upon arrival, welcomed us in their cozy flat, gave us a key, and told us to enjoy ourselves.

“Isn’t it weird how intimate yet normal it feels?” I asked Angie. Like, Hi, stranger. I don’t know you. But gimme a few bucks, come sleep in my house, and let’s share a toilet.

See. I think it’s great. But I’m innately gregarious and can make friends with just about anyone. Like Ruben’s over there, pottering around washing dishes, making coffee, just doing his thang in his pjs. While me, someone he literally met 30 minutes ago, is sitting on his couch in my pjs, writing these words.

It’s weird being the guest rather than host for a change. I should probably  — oh, hot damn he just made me a cappuccino!


Day Three, continued.

Where: Baltic Fleet Pub
When: 9:28 p.m.
Drink: Freedom Authentic Lager

Lord, take me now.


I’m so freaking happy. I may float up and bump my head on the ceiling. Someone pull my feet! Can you FEEL the FABULOUS energy in here?! The barman just told me this is the second oldest pub in Liverpool, and the only one with its own microbrewery. I asked for a pilsner and this giant frosty thing they poured me is delicious.


This atmosphere is magnetic, crackling with warmth and a thousand years of maritime pride. The solidarity among these people is palatable and I really do feel they’re privy to something special. It’s hard to explain. Like I could walk up to any hard-nosed leather jacket scruffy and know he’d be a gentleman. Not saying they’re all leather-clad scruffys here. They’re not.

Yes, Liverpudlians are definitely warmer than Londoners –not that I’m hating. You know I love me some London. But smiles are given way more freely here, even though the wind blows harder.


The Baltic Fleet is a 45 second walk from our flat. We decided to stay close to home after a 5 1/2 hour private Beatle tour today. After careful online comparisons, I chose the Fab Four Taxi Tour.

Did it exceed expectation? YES.

Our chauffeur, Ian, is a taxi-driver-guitarist-Beatle-enthusiast-expert, and I mean EXPERT. He took us Here, There, and Everywhere around this wonderful city. We laughed, cried, and squealed for hours! I consider myself a well-educated fan, and I still learned SO much today!

Update 6/25/17: Ian has since started his own Beatle Tour Company. 

Some highlights:

*Ringo’s entire street is slated for demolition. Cosmic forces and stubborn residents are delaying this travesty. And WHAT THE HELL, I say. That’s a Beatle house. You do not destroy history. You just don’t.


*Apparently, all the Penny Lane barbershops claim they’re the one Paul sings about. Really, it’s this one (even though it looks different now):


*Paul probably yanked more lyrics than Eleanor Rigby from these gravestones in St. Peter’s churchyard. Next to Rigby’s grave lie people named McKenzie AND Martha. Haaaaay White Album.


*Whomever’s living in George’s childhood home doesn’t keep the yard very tidy. That’s messed up, right?


*Ian supplemented his stories with well-timed Beatles music, making the tour a 4-D experience.

*His knowledge also forced us to hear lyrics in a new light. Like: Do You Want To Know a Secret. That song was actually for Cynthia Lennon, hidden away (pregnant with Julian) in Brian Epstein’s flat whilst John toured. Who knew!?

*I’m also deeply haunted by this picture Ian showed us at Strawberry Fields.


The top photo is Strawberry Fields, the orphanage that once stood behind these gates. As a kid, John Lennon scrambled over to play with the orphans. The bottom pic is the Dakota building in New York City. The buildings are eerily similar.

The city that birthed him.
The city that took him away.

Angie burst into tears and I joined. By the end of the tour, we were emotionally exhausted. But really, in the best possible way. Does that make sense?


Oooh, they’re singing (pirate songs?!) in the next room right now. It’s distracting and awesome. (I’ll investigate shortly.)

A side note: I feel so at home here, like something ancient tugging at my DNA. Christopher, what the hell is wrong with you. How could you prefer Texas to this magical mysticalness?

Things that do not suck:

*writing with cold beer by candlelight.

*Pete Best’s little brother giving us a private tour of The Casbah.



*The Casbah (energetically) felt . . . weird.

I didn’t get a ghosty, spirit feeling. But I definitely 100% felt wispy leftovers of what happened there before. Sweaty, hormonal teens packed under a low-ceilinged basement. Smoking, dancing, drinking, sweating, gyrating, French kissing in the corners, watching young John, Paul, George, and Pete Best jam raw music that would eventually change the world.


All THAT seeped into battered walls, trapped behind chipped paint and Lennon’s vandalism.

Licks of paint don’t take that away.

Being there gave me the dull, melancholy feeling of a magical, fleeting echo in time that will never ever happen again.

Those teens approach 80 now.

And sometimes walls do talk.


Thank you, Ian, for a glorious day. You just remember us as the most grateful fans ever, okay? Okay?


Tomorrow we’re attending an Anglican service at St. Peter’s. John was a choir boy there, and it’s also where he met Paul in 1957. Because if you’re in Liverpool and feel the need to praise the Almighty for the Divine union that was Lennon/McCartney, that’s where you go.

P.S. I just learned it’s ‘Sea Shanty’ night here at the Baltic Fleet. Lemme go check out who’s singing.

OMG. Can you FEEL it in here!?! Patrons stomped so hard, empty pint glasses shimmied across tables and crashed to the floor!

“It’s like the lower decks of the Titanic up in here!” Angie laughed.

She’s right! It’s AMAZING!

4:50 a.m.

Things that do not suck:

*The Baltic Fleet

That was maybe the best pub experience In My Life.

6:42 a.m.

Things that suck:

*Jet lag

Well. When you’re awake in the middle of the night and don’t want to get out of bed or make noise what do you do? —Watch Beatle videos on YouTube, of course!

Our host just got up for work. If he can hear through this door, he probably thinks we’re utter nut jobs watching A Hard Day’s Night clips in the middle of the night.

Oohh I just saw a big ole sparkly white light above the bed. Not once, but twice!

Liverpool ghosts, if you’re out there, I’m ready for you. Maybe I’ll see you at church.

Tomorrow Never Knows.

Unedited Scratchlings of a Beatlemaniac: Beatle Log Day TWO.

Hardcore Beatlelove.

Day TWO.


Where: The Cavern Pub
When: 6:56 p.m.
Drink: Heineken

Finally here! Arrived by train to a rainy, temperate Liverpool. By temperate I mean 50 degrees Fahrenheit. Someone please remind me not to wear bell bottoms in inclement weather. By the time we walked to our flat, I’d soaked water up to my damn knees.

I’m so grateful to be here right now absorbing everything Beatle with Angie. Liverpool is especially awesome because it’s a little Mecca of Beatle happy nestled in my very favorite country. Like a dollop of cream on my favorite cake.

We got a fab start yesterday, stopping traffic at Abbey Road within 3 hours of passport control. That, my friends, is dedication.


My old pal and ex-boss Thom bought markers for us to sign the wall at Abbey Road Studios (as you do) then led us on a quiet, respectful stroll thru The Beatles’ old stomping grounds in St. John’s Wood.


Angie said she was dressed like Run DMC.

Somehow, someway, we managed a normal bedtime and woke to Thom packing a 5 Star lunch for our train journey to Liverpool. Brie, Camembert, Stilton, crackers, 3 kinds of hummus, gin, tonic, Cosmopolitans, fresh mango cubes, pomegranate seeds, carrot cake, organic juice, cabernet AND pinot grigio, neatly arranged WITH an ice pack. I think there were olives in there, too. (You can take the man out of the service industry . . .)


The girls next to us on the train tried not to look jealous but they failed.


Two hours til Liverpool.
Was I excited?


I really can’t explain what it feels like (for me) to be in England. My soul exhales when I’m here. Just here. In this English air. In this English rain.

Yesterday on the London Underground, I felt I was back in the cradle. So comfortable. So familiar. Rocking back and forth in Mummy’s arms.

It’s a cruel irony being married to an Englishman who doesn’t want to live in England. What kinda b.s. is that. I suppose if you’re a badass mural artist with a waiting list you stay where you are. But still.



We’re in the Cavern Pub right now under dark lights, drinking beer and prosecco, and the band just started playing The Ballad of John and Yoko !

“Oooh you’re gonna have to drag me outta here,” Angie warned.

My real life smiley face is SO big. 🙂 My heart so full.

Beatle music
cold beer
and bestie
is pretty much an orgasmic combo.


Our Airbnb home away from home is Across the Universe (kidding) across the street from the Albert Dock. A Fab Four Taxi is picking us up tomorrow for a private tour of the Beatles’ childhood homes, Penny Lane, Eleanor Rigby’s grave, Strawberry Fields, The Casbah, and every other relevant spot. I’d say about 90% of people we tell our agenda to have secretly judged us.

God Bless Thom who may’ve secretly judged us, but took us to Abbey Road anyway. I think he feels guilty for not scheduling me to work the night Paul came to the Texas Embassy. (Kidding, Thom, you know I love you.)

7:39 p.m.

I just scored us a table right in front of the band! Wheee! Oooohhhh. Queen cover. Tonight does NOT suck.

7:50 p.m.

Here’s something I love about England: People mix here. There aren’t a bunch of trendy, gentrified bars so much as PUBS where people just go and hang to enjoy life (and beer). I love sharing time and space with humans of all variety. Truly. Though mingling with the older folk tends to be my favorite.

Things that do not suck:

*best friends
*Beatles music
*best seat in the house and people dancing in front of me


Time for dinner. Someone recommended Leaf on Bold Street.

Day Two, continued.

Where: The Cavern Club
When: 11:32 p.m.
Drink: Pinot Grigio

Okay, Leaf was yummy.


Walking back from dinner, we passed a GIANT portrait of the Beatles.

“You know you’re in Liverpool when . . . ” I pointed. Not that she could miss it.

“Let’s get a pic!,” smiled Angie.

But we had to wait for someone to walk by. A few minutes later, two heavily pierced, Mohawked biker dudes walked by.

“Excuse me,” I called. “Would you mind taking our pic, please?”

One nodded and took my phone. Angie and I backed up and did Charlie’s Angels poses in front of the portrait.

“Thanks!,” I said, taking my camera, examining his shot. “Hey!” I frowned, looking at a close up of me and Angie’s goofball faces. “You didn’t get the Beatles!”

“What do you want a picture with them c*nts for?”

Believe it or not, he said this sentence with a smile.

“Oh, no,” I replied. “You may not take our picture.”

I handed my phone to his friend, who snapped THIS pic:


We said thanks and trailed 20 feet behind them toward Mathew Street. The backs of their black leather jackets said Hell’s Angels England.

15 minutes later, we approached a little queue outside the Cavern Club– the famous basement cellar club located at 10 Mathew St.

Music thumped deep underground.

“What type of band’s down there tonight?” I asked the bouncer. Bald, earring, trench coat. You know the type.

“Just your sort, I think,” he smiled, nodding at my fuzzy yellow cap.

People handed 5 pound notes to a man in a booth in front of us. I wasn’t expecting a cover, but whatever. I dug out my wallet.

“Don’t charge them,” a male voice growled. The request was subtle. Not loud.

Angie and I squinted at a dark corner. And WHO should it be?! Meany biker man!

“Any friend of Brian’s doesn’t pay.” The bouncer winked, waiving us through. “Have a good night, girls” (pronounced gulls).

And now we’re listening to a band jam out The Who.

Things that do not suck:

* Turning 40 and still getting in for free.
* Liverpudlian accents. I don’t care what anyone says. They’re sexy.

12:36 a.m.

Why the bleep are people next to us drinking Coors Light!?!

Can’t wait til tomorrow. ❤

Unedited Scratchlings of a Beatlemaniac: Beatle Log Day ONE.

My bestie and I travelled 4,739 miles from Texas to Liverpool to celebrate birthdays, friendship, and a mutual lifelong love of the best band in the history of the universe ever. (Ever ). We regressed to silly, giggling, (occasionally) weeping teenagers in that cold, rainy, pulsing city


For 6 days I documented my stream of conscience.

Here is day one.


Where: United Airlines 787 Dreamliner, First Class Sleeper Pod
When: 3:04 hours to London
Drink: Dasani Bottled Water

You know you’re a writer when you can’t even take advantage of a sleeper pod on an airplane. First time in my life to lie flat on an international flight, but I can’t sleep because sentences are running thru my hair (hair?).

The thingy says we’re at 40,999 feet. So far it’s been badass. I’m also tickled that Angie forgot her coat. First stop: Charity Shop! But seriously, flying first class has been fun. They keep bringing us food. A three course dinner! I’m not kidding! Cheese plates, fresh salad, beef tenderloin, champagne, port . . .


Real food.
Real cutlery.
Real glass.

And I would say real expensive, but not really. Angie is a former employee of United, so we took advantage of her remaining flight benefits. Wheeee!


I think I’m the only person awake on this plane right now. By the way— there are less than 40 people on this whole flight. Insane. Another weird thing: the flight’s only 7 hours and 58 minutes. That’s even more insane. I’ve done this journey almost 20 times now and it’s always 9-10 hours from Houston.

Angie is fast asleep. Lucky. This makes 2 nights of bad sleep for me. I suppose I could watch another movie and order more champagne. By the way, props to United Airlines for their bubbly selection. Nicolas Feuillatte! Yummy! I might as well tell you I had port with the cheese selection, too, which I nibbled whilst watching The Martian. I LOVE watching movies after finishing the book.


Those people were way too young to be astronauts. And not hating, but Kristen Wiig wasn’t a good choice for Annie. I suppose I should be studying this airplane since my new book takes place on an airplane. Taking pics and whatnot. But all the lights are out. This looks like epileptic chicken scratch and I’m curled up in the same position I’d be in the “cheap seats.” And by ‘cheap’ I mean $1400 a ticket.

Why does travel have to be so fucking expensive. Don’t the powers that be know it’s good for our souls? And people would be more tolerant of other people and cultures if they could actually afford to go visit other countries?!

I’m rambling.

I’m tired.

And I can smell they’re prepping breakfast behind that curtain. Only 2:48 til London. My Motherland. Where Angie’s gonna freeze because she forgot her coat. 🙂 It really is funny.

Even though we’re in the middle of the sky, we’re seriously embarking on our own little Magical Mystery Tour. CAN’T WAIT. First stop: Heathrow.


*How the bloody hell do people sleep on planes?
*It’s weird hearing people’s intimate sleep sounds: gentle snores, and the little popping noises they make with their mouths (if they’re not gaping wide open.)
*Mah-jong is maddening when you’re dog tired.
* I wonder if Don McLean made up with his wife. I bet that’s why he didn’t sing “Castles in the Air” at his concert. All those lyrics about “save me from all the trouble and the pain” and not being able to “face that girl again.”

Dude. This pilot’s on speed. Our plane is arriving 45 minutes early. 6 hours and change from Houston to London. Crazy! Somehow, someway, I’ve got to muscle through to a normal bedtime.

Day One, continued.

Where: First Class Arrivals Lounge
WHen: 12:29 p.m.
Drink: Cafe Latte

Things that do not suck:

* The Arrivals Lounge at Heathrow Airport.


We had the option to slip into the First Class lounge upon arrival. We kinda just figured ‘why not.’ I don’t know anyone that steps off a plane not feeling like a baboon’s ass so we took advantage.

I thought it would be tea/coffee/couches/loos type thing but hell no! We got private shower suites. Lotsa contraptions. Lotsa hot HOT temperatures. I only suffered a minor burn, and the good news is I still genetically qualify as a female but GEEZ turn down the boiler a bit!

Now I’m sitting in this lounge waiting for Angie, having a coffee.


Next stop: London Underground, then Thom’s flat.

I just FaceTimed Christopher who issued another warning that if I come home with a picture of Paul McCartney on my ass, we’re getting a divorce.

Day One, continued.

Where: London Underground, Piccadilly Line.

She said ‘Cockfosters.’