Saturday we raced down I-95 (forget the scenic route, we were looking to make time) to Salem, Mass. The operative word here is race; I never knew Ellen had the Mario Andretti tendencies that came bubbling to the surface somewhere south of Portland. I had to remind her that she had “Precious Cargo On Board” since she was chauffeuring a mother of two.

Being the weekend before Halloween, every freak from the four corners of the globe had descended on Salem. It took two hours to pull into town from 3 miles away. So much for the quaint replica of Salem during the time of the Witch Trials that we innocently expected; the town had become Pepsi-fied. Yes, Salem’s “Haunted Happeningsâ„¢” were being brought to you by the Pepsi Generation, with signs posted all over town declaring “No Alcohol, Drink Pepsi.”

After one too many a Pepsi, we needed a potty and the local Port-O-Pot was not it. So we scrambled into the ancient Town Hall to use their facilities, only to stumble upon the 1st Annual Witches Reunion Craft Show. I am not making this up. Ellen and I carefully navigated the sacred circle (just a bunch of glitter and tulle thrown on the floor, but who am I to tempt fate?) to the sacred potty. Upon exiting the restroom, we thanked the witches and the sole warlock and quickly made our escape before any hex or evil eye could befall us.

After enduring the masses, swap-meet type booths, Peruvian pan flute singers (is this the official theme music of Salem?), kids crawling over the tombstones in the witches cemetery, and a carnival barker hawking the Witch Museum, we decided to get the hell out of Salem.

That night we skipped ambiance and decided to go where the locals do. After sufficiently stuffing ourselves on crustaceans of every variety, we went out for a beer. Three hours later I was revisiting my dinner as I spent the next 5 hours hugging the Porcelain God. It was obvious I had a bad crustacean, the question was, would I be able to make it home on the plane the next day? As Ellen played nursemaid, I finally rid myself of the last of my $16.95 lobster dinner and was on my way to a recovery.

But first, unfinished business. Of course I can’t go away and not bring back gifts (only the specific ones the kids have deemed worthy), so after five hours of heaving my guts out, I went the next morning before we left to get the kids something at the wee souvenir shoppe near the water.

With that mission accomplished (Maine sweatshirt and fishing boat replica), it was off to the airport to encounter the flight attendant from hell. This was no Susie Sunshine eager to serve, this was Lizzie Borden on a bad day. Carry-on luggage? How dare you! When we finally got situated I was able to crash (oops, not a good analogy to use when you’re in a plane) till we landed.

So Salem was an over-commercialized nightmare and I had a bad something-or-other; all in all, we had a blast. Ellen did meet her sailor and I did have my lobster; although it will be quite a while till I venture down Seafood Lane again.

While the Clooney is fine to look at, I wasn’t quite buying the grizzled-yet-poetic sailor routine. In fact, if you do require acting in order to enjoy your films fully, you’ll need to step over George on your way to the story. Just sign a message, drop it in his maw, and sit back.

Here’s the movie in bite size chunks:

Story:
Bunch of guys head out on a last ditch fishing trip late in the season (ominous late-season-storm alert) to make some much needed dough. Lots of ominous rolling clouds and shrouded skies. Lots of women crying beforehand, having premonitions, Lots of furrowed brows in the Channel Whatever Boston TV Weather Department. Ominous. Ominous.

Lots of bad luck stuff. Guy dragged overboard. Fridge goes out. Mean guy smoking tons and talking all mutinous style. Everything but a literal albatross shows up. The Clooney loses points when he ignores all this. Duh! Now is not the time for that stirring battle speech, son; put the pedal to the metal and motor on home from those Grand Banks before Davey Jones catches up.

Dénouement:
The oh, ah…. storm hits! What a surprise. What is surprising is that for such a total and complete cliché, it works. The stomach-churning horror of the waves is grueling to sit through. But offset by all the male beauty running around on deck.