Drama at the Chili Parlour

Been a few days; much/not much has happened. Saturday, drove all day and all night from St. Louis to Pittsburgh, stopping only for our first taste of that famous beanless Cincinnati chili, per drummer Dan's proselytizing/hometown pride. Out of all 300+ options - according to Dan, Cincinnati has the highest chili-parlor-per-capita quotient - we chose Camp Washington Chili. It was built a long time ago, possibly by George Washington himself, but was lost to road-widening in the 90's and rebuilt, retaining absolutely no divey charm, but the exact same sweet-ass chili. Thing is, there, they serve it over spaghetti, so it's almost like a hyper-meaty bolognese pasta.


chili remnants

The most thrilling aspect of it, though, was our waitress Nikki, and I hate to say you just had to be there. She totally wins Personality of the Year, with an entire 'nother personality's worth of personality to spare. So much so that we kinda wonder if she was an actress in intense character study for an upcoming Cincinnati chili parlor movie. Killer waitress, to boot. Everybody razzes her for her rainbow steez (e.g. "rainbow brite," "gay," "Skittles-bag-kicker"), but she caps 'em back with "picklehead" and "5-gallon buckethead." And now we've got her back. If you're ever looking for a hug, go see Nikki at Camp Washington Chili at the corner of Hopple & Colerain in Cincinnati, in the heart of the historic meat-packing district. But still, you had to be there.


Tim 'n' Nikki

Anyway. Sunday was Philly, the first show with A Place To Bury Strangers and All the Saints. Monday was DC. Rocked Little Ethiopia. Last night was Chapel Hill, after a record buying spree at Plan 9 Records in Richmond, courtesy RVA Magazine and the mighty Les Enfants Terribles blog. Times are good.

And one final show announcement:
We're headlining a London show, on Nov. 16. At the Borderline. Get tickets here.