I HAD TO LEAVE THE HOUSE WITH WET BANGS. This was unacceptable and I spent the last twenty minutes before departure stomping around the house, bellowing death threats to that fucking asshole kid who doesn’t even deserve a license, let alone to be driving a HUMMER. I HATE HUMMERS. HUMMERS STEAL MY POWER. At one point, I even growled, “I wish that kid would have DIED” and Christina gasped, “Oh, Erin! No.” I looked at her, scowled, and said, “Oh please, you know I could say worse.” Then Henry, who might as well be up in a bell tower for all the neighborhood snooping he does, asked from his post at the front door, “Did you even SEE this?” pointing to the Hummer’s carnage. “NO,” I screamed. “If I see that kid, I’m going to freak out on him! I HAVE WET BANGS BECAUSE OF HIM!” I mean, I suppose it’s better than a wet back. Or wet tail. Don’t hamsters die from that shit?
WET BANGS, GAME OVER.
By the time I packed my overnight bag IN THE DARK (dude, it was overcast that day), my street had turned into a hotbed of activity. Cops had both ends blocked off, and when I was forced to drive up on a curb to leave THE STREET ON WHICH I LIVE, the cop who was blocking that end turned and gave me a “What do you think you’re doing?” look so I yelled, “What are you looking at, retard??” which made Christina cower.
Ten minutes later, I realized, “Oh fucking goody, I forgot my wallet at home. I can’t wait to go back to my street. Maybe fucking Fox News will be there by now!” Since I couldn’t get past the roadblock, I made Christina jump out and run down the block (to clarify, I told her to run, but she only power-walked), where Henry met her at the front door with my wallet and, according to Christina, a smug look that read, “She’s all yours!”
I calmed down after being on the road for an hour. And it’s really remarkable that I was able to maintain that calm, considering that Christina is like a talking doll full of stupid remarks and obvious statements. But somehow, after not having money for the toll booth man and me flipping out because I saw mountains that looked like looming ocean waves, we made it to the Holiday Inn on Genessee Street. Thanks to my speedy driving, we had plenty of time before the show to eat greasy food at Max’s Overpriced Grill and run amok through the stinky halls of Holiday Inn like children who were getting to stay at a hotel for the first time ever because Mommy needs to be three states away before Daddy gets home from work.
The Mountain Dew Dilemma
For whatever backwoods reason, we arrived at the venue (a fucking SKATE PARK, hello adolescence) an hour before the show started and attempted to conform to our surroundings. The odds of us blending in are relatively slim, considering we probably had about 13 years on most of the kids in line, and no braces. I was hoping to just stand there, quietly hate on others (there were these two frumpy groupie-types who really needed a lesson from my hand), and avoid any type of conflict that could potentially draw attention to us.
Then I remembered that Christina was with me and she was born with this grating inability to just…BE. However, she was kind of being subdued, aside from blantantly photographing the kids in line with us, and forcing photo ops where I look like I’m giving birth to a porcupine.
And then the Mountain Dew can happened.
Some kid had inadvertently tossed his empty can of Mountain Dew as he walked past us. The can rolled to a stop near my feet. Christina picked the can up and set it upright in the exact place the can had landed. When I asked her what the point of that was, she replied with a shrug that she didn’t want people to think I had littered. “So, by setting the can upright, that reclassifies it as non-waste?” I asked. Considering this, she picked the can up, then proceeded to stand in the middle of the walkway, holding this piece of hot refuse, and looking like a soccer mom caught with dripping anal beads. Seconds ticked away and she continued to just stand there, frozen, looking left to right and holding this can like it’s an HIV-positive knife from a crime scene. People were watching by now, thanks to Christina’s over-exaggerated way of life; I could feel their eyes on us as they waited to see how this was going to play out. “Just put it over there,” I hissed, pointing to a corner. She then made a big production of setting the can down and walked away with her eyes darting all around. I half expected her to shove her hands in her pockets and whistle cartoon music notes.
Next – PART II: Managing to not commit suicide during Emarosa’s too-short set, making underage friends, and quite possibly the most mentally disturbing moment of my life.