The theme of Dollywood is some strange hybrid of Colonialism, butterflies and mining. Is mining prominent in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee? I’m not sure, but this is Dolly Parton’s head we’re in now. And it kind of worked. At the very least, it made us feel quaint as our pockets were being raped by Dolly’s minions.

Still, I expected everything to be lacquered in pink and Aquanet.

We let Henry walk alone most of the day because his McNichol Hair was looking more like McHomeless Hair. Even Chooch knows to point and laugh.

But what’s not visible to the eye is Dollywood’s underlying theme of terror. These employees are trained to be alarmist sons of bitches while keeping a tight Southern smile perched on their face and making me feel like I’m the star of my own personal Final Destination. I collected three precautionary examples from my day at Dollywood:

1. The train conductor: Henry the Elder and his apprentice in geriatrics, Bill, both seemed adamant about riding the scenic train. Bill especially — those flying elephants in kiddie land really messed with his equilibrium. And I think Henry just wanted to give his ‘roids a rest. (They had a pretty exhausting day and I believe they even sent out a few postcards bitching about it.) Plus, what better way to meet other old folk? They were lining up for the train by the gaggle. As the train was preparing for departure, the conductor’s voice boomed out of the speakers, imploring us to keep our arms and legs inside the train at all time and warning us quite gravely about the prospect of getting hot cinders in our eyes. Wait, what now? “This is NOT a reason to pull on the emergency rope,” the conductor continued. “I repeat, getting cinders in your eye is not considered an emergency. Simply tell one of us when we return to the station and someone will accompany you to first aid.” I was starting to want to get off the train. Instead, I pushed my sunglasses harder up the bridge of my nose and cursed myself for once again leaving my safety goggles at home. There was also a lot of doomsday diatribe going on about getting soot on your clothes. Bill happened to be on the phone during this and barked a fortuitously timed, “Who cares?!” just loud enough to make several passengers laugh. He probably had no idea, though, since he was lucky enough to not have to listen to the conductor’s spiel.
2. The Birds of Prey show: We had just sat down under the small theater pavilion for what I thought was going to be a mild exercise in bird education, but instead we were treated to an urgent command to REMOVE ALL FOOD FROM THE AREA, HIDE IT, COVER IT, GET RID OF IT, THE BIRDS ARE TRAINED TO COME TO FOOD. Drinks were OK to have, though. “What if the birds are thirsty?” Henry lamely joked. But still, I found myself shoving my cup of water further away from myself. And then one of the trainers added, “Some of these birds will be flying low over your heads. DO NOT REACH YOUR ARMS UP AND TRY TO TOUCH THEM.” I’m glad they told me that because it’s instinctual for me to want to put my hands near something with talons. (I often have to resist the urge to jam my hands inside a paper shredder, too. There’s just something about the prospect of having my flesh julienned that makes me feel jubilant) And then there was another plea to remove all food from the area, but what I heard was THESE BIRDS WILL PECK YOUR PATHETIC MEAT SUITS TO DEATH IN WAYS THAT HITCHCOCK NEVER WOULD HAVE IMAGINED. Suddenly, the threat of being aerially pissed and shat upon seemed like a day of motorboating J-Woww’s boobs at the pool.
3. The Tram: Isn’t it enough that we’re (I’m) already sad about leaving Dollywood? And now some dumb broad on the tram has to bring up what to do in the case of finding our car broken into, busted or stolen, so now instead of thinking happy thoughts about Dolly’s wigs and creepy awesome waiters, I’m now completely panicking about the state in which we’re going to find our car. Also, on the tram into the park, we were told that if we attempted to walk back to our car from the park and then changed our mind, TOO BAD because the tram DOES NOT PICK UP WISHY-WASHY WALKERS. Crawl back to your cars, lazy motherfuckers.

I have a pretty big fear of carousels that I don’t talk about very often. It mainly revolves around the disembarking of the horses/animals. I usually say things like, “No thanks, merry-go-rounds are for lamers” or “No thanks, I lost my virginity on a merry-go-round to a rapist in Boise; bad memories;” but for some reason I willingly was on board for a circular calliope-soundtracked jaunt. Everything was grand until it stopped and I found myself stuck. More like, paralyzed. Instead of attempting to slide off with grace, I over-thought the process, wrote too many mental blueprints, and wound up frozen with one foot on the stirrup thing (I am an avid horseback rider, you didn’t know?) and my other leg slung across the horse’s ass, clammy hands gripping the gilded pole like I was about to plummet to a stripper’s death. Henry took FOREVER to come over and help me, leaving me frozen in the most awkward, bestial position the Kama Sutra never endorsed and you can’t tell me that was an accident. NO, YOU CAN’T TELL ME.

Meanwhile, Chooch spent the whole ride heckling some little girl on a cat in front of him. Apparently, the carousel is as good an arena as any for some old-school shit-talking. Bill said the girl was giving it right back to him, which I’m sure Chooch could not get behind. At one point, I heard Chooch ask Bill how old he is, only to turn back to the girl and sneer, “Oh yeah? Well HE’S THIRTY-FIVE!”

I’m not sure what that proved, but Chooch sure seemed smug about it. I’m sure Bill was happy to have his age announced to all of the other riders. (There were like, 5 of us.)

Then Bill rode on a flying elephant, which surely rebuilt his esteem.

Bill was THIS HAPPY to be on a TRAIN in DOLLYWOOD. I couldn’t see, but I have a feeling Henry could have been found in the same position on the other side of Bill, probably daydreaming about jumping off the train to his uncertain death.

“The TRAIN? Seriously?” Meanwhile, he spent the whole ride barking orders for me to take pictures of every goddamn piece of scenery.

Some friendly motherfuckers.

Aside from all the old people, the park was pretty sparsely populated. This meant we could quite literally just walk on all of the rides, so since there were no lines to stand in, there were hardly any enemies to make. There was only one family that rubbed me the wrong way—they were the epitome of picture-perfect Christian family; the mom was even wearing a Cornerstone t-shirt and the dad had Flanders-hair. Even the offspring seemed tame and on short leashes. I bet they came to see the Smokies in their RV and have a ban on secular music.

I bet they sang hymns and wrote unironically in the prayer request book in the Dollywood chapel.

Henry and I partook in some swift nuptials* and then rode a ride about hillbillies perishing in a fire; both activities left a lot to be desired.

(*Jokes.)

We capped off the day with milkshakes made by the oldest women in the entire park. It took forever for them to make it, but when I started to complain Henry snapped, “That’s because they’re making REAL MILKSHAKES and they actually give a shit about doing it RIGHT so STFU.” God, the elderly sure do stick together. Kind of makes me look forward to getting old.

(I should note that it was one of the best milkshakes I’ve ever had. Old ladies pwn that shit.)

With the exception of the nervous breakdown Bill and I may have accidentally caused him to have by tormenting him when he wouldn’t ride the rapids ride with us, Chooch was pretty good all day. I guess I was too; Henry did a good job of keeping me fed and emotionally-stimulated. He even rode some shit with me! That almost never happens. In the end, it ended up being one of my favorite things we did in Tennessee, even though it was relatively over-priced. I didn’t get cinders in my eyes, soot on my clothes, shit on, pecked to death or car-jacked. I’d say that’s “winning” but aren’t I already enough of a douchebag?

Shit. Except that I forgot to buy a new outfit from Dolly’s Closet.

I. Open Air Nursing Home

The first thing I noticed when we walked through the gates of Dollywood was that there were a LOT of old people there. I get that it was late in the season and probably most kids were back in school, but I never would have imagined the park would have been packed by so many geriatrics. I guess they really wanted to listen to some bluegrass and eat some BBQ.

I think it was BYOB(utterscotch pudding).

Henry felt right at home.

I’ll be sure to punch this picture in Henry’s face next time he tries to sit down at a concert.

Even the people working there were older than Henry’s backed-up shit. I guess that’s how Dolly likes it. It’s nice to know that if I’m ever forced into retirement, Dolly will take me in. I’m not wearing a fucking bonnet though, I’m sorry. (Unless I can have it screen-printed with Jonny Craig’s face.)

This actually was a pretty nice change of pace, considering I’m used to gnarly carnies at the county fairs and ambivalent, lackadaisical college kids at Kennywood who act like they’re having to go beyond the call of duty just to make sure you’re buckled in. The old folks running the rides were excited about it.

Old Gramps over at the Lemon Twist was so happy to greet a new batch of riders that he acted like he was granting us entrance into the gates of heaven. I so badly wanted him to say, “Get stoked!”

I have to be honest and say that I was a little disconcerted about putting my life in the arthritic hands of someone who probably can’t even use a cell phone.

II. Sherbet

For lunch, we ate a place called the Backstage or something equally as lame, which had the distinct aroma of joint cream and barbeque. There was a man covering “Sweet Home Alabama” next to an empty table and I was ready to raise hell if we got seated there. We ended up being sat in a different room, full of old people and bus boys in checkered shirts.

Our waiter’s name was Sherbet (named changed to protect the innocent) and he spoke in a concerned whisper. I’m positive he has a collection of women’s tongues and rape poem-filled composition books under his mattress, but it didn’t stop him from being hugely endearing to me.

Or maybe that’s why he was hugely endearing to me.

“Your son’s meal came with a collector’s plate,” Sherbet whispered to me in such a way that I wondered if he thought Chooch would get mugged in an alley if word got out on the street that he was the new owner of a plastic plate loaded with butterflies. “It’s not dishwasher or microwave safe,” Sherbet continued, leaning down to assure his strangulated whisper seeped into my ear. “Otherwise, it will ruin the print on the plate and may even warp it.”

I have never before listened so intently to someone warn me about potential collector plate hazards. (This might be because I kept getting flashes of him lounging in his bed with a sex doll, smoking an e-Cig and wearing a garter belt.) In any case, I might never let Chooch eat from it. (The plate, not the sex doll). In fact, I might even buy a glass display case for it.

If I can even find it. It might still be in Tennessee.

Sherbet would kill me if he found out I might have lost it.

III. Birds of Prey

Admission for Dollywood was like, I don’t know, $60 a person or something ridiculous like that. In fact, Henry and Bill were dragging their feet when they found out the admission but I got all lip-jutty and whiny.

“Do you know how much it costs?” Bill said on Dollywood Eve.

“Yes, Henry and I had a debate about this,” I said.

“Debate? Is that what you’re calling that?” Henry said with barking laughter. I might have cried, broken up with him and slammed a door. So yes, “debate.”

But I got my way and was consequently the only happy person that Wednesday. (I don’t think Chooch cared either way; he’s such a failure in that department.)

“I was looking at the website and I don’t think they had all the rides listed,” I said when we walked through the gates.

“No,” Bill replied dourly as he studied a map of the park. “I’m pretty sure that’s all the rides that are here.”

Slim pickins, is what it was (I feel like Dolly probably says slim pickins), so we decided we better take in some shows.

The unfortunate part to that is there wasn’t much we were interested in.

But as it turns out, Dolly is a big bald eagle advocate; there is a huge enclosure on a hillside filled with bald eagles who have been rescued. Next to the enclosure is a little outdoor theater which holds several daily bird shows.

Now this I was down with, even though I knew it was something Henry would like too and that kind of pained me a little.

You guys, there were owls there. OWLS. Goddamn I love a motherfucking owl. They remind me so much of my cat Marcy! (So do hawks, eagles and vultures, as well.)

Doesn’t that look like Marcy!?

This one broad who was enjoying the bird show clearly loves beverage more than you do.
<
Who wears shirts like that? I know I don’t, because I don’t give that much of a fuck about any beverage that isn’t going to get me fucked up. Henry, however, probably saw this shirt and got a beverage boner. I mean, the man moves pallets of Faygo around a warehouse for a living.

I’m not going to lie, I got choked up through several parts of the show (birds of prey are cool, don’t hate) and even cried at the end. Although, my favorite part was when the bald eagle projectile shat on the handler.

[There is more but I don’t want to overwhelmed the Internet with all of my photos at once. Plus, I’m at work and getting INTERRUPTED. The nerve.]

Me: “Are the shows included with admission?” (As if I’d actually sit down for a blue grass show.)

Bill: “I should hope so. For $60, they better let us piss in the bushes if we want.”
***********

Dollywood was one of the few things I HAD to do while in Tennessee and there is no way can I do it justice by typing up a recap on my phone. So instead I’ll just share the photos I took with my phone and do it up proper-like from home.

Fuck yeah, country blouse things! All the Dollywood employees wore either checkered shirts or pioneer dresses. I should also note that the average age of these fine laborers was about 65. It’s good to know I’ll have a place to work when I’m old.

Get high on the Beatitudes, Dollywood’s premiere Twilight-mocking establishment. There was a shirt for sale that used the exact Twilight font, except upon closet inspection it actually said TheLight with a tiny “Jesus is” above it. Amazing.

So I really shouldn’t have been surprised that there was an actual chapel (offering Sunday mass!) nestled into the forestry of Dollywood’s simulated mining towns.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Henry said when he saw me lurking near the prayer request book. What? I was only going to write “Please God, bring Dance Gavin Dance back to Pittsburgh.” And for my forged entry for Henry, “Please provide me with the courage to find a hairstyle that suits my molester ‘stache, differentiate between ‘to’ and ‘too,’ & block the entire decade of the 90s from my mind.”

Thank God Dollywood has a random hillbilly graveyard.

Old people sitting in front of us on the Dollywood Express, poring over the daily schedule of shows.

“If we go to this one, we’ll miss that one,” the old wife sighed, dragging her finger along the schedule. “But we make the 5:00 show and leave a few minutes early to catch this other one,” she strategized, and it reminded me so much of agonizing over the Warped Tour set list.

Except this lady’s husband actually gave a shit.

Henry, Chooch, Bill and I were there from about 11:00 until the park closed at 7:00, and we were sincerely dragging by the end. Except for Chooch, who went on to be a hyper son-of-a-bitch back at the room until he finally passed out at 10:30.

Dollywood fucking ruled except that I didn’t hear “Jolene” once all day. We did, however, hear a very worthless Dolly cover of an equally worthless Collective Soul joint.

I never intended to have this many posts about the fair but what can you do when there is such Big Fun involved. Here’s the leftover photos that I didn’t have time to use but now I do because Henry’s work alarm went off at 4AM and I thought it was the Let’s Go To Tennessee alarm. Henry told me to go back to bed. Yeah right.

Neither peach nor dumpling.

Henry’s ex, but smilier.

Chooch does not support apostrophe misplacement.

The Cobra: the ride that made me lose it on the Jersey Shore girls. This was actually taken while it was broke down earlier in the day. Yet I was still determined to ride it.

What everything looked like to me while riding the Cobra. Quite possibly the fastest spinning ride I’ve ever ridden. No bueno.

This old man was infatuated with Laura’s Magnum Corn Dog and made a big production of asking her about it. Later, he tried to coax his wife into choosing our table, but unfortunately she sat down at the one next to ours. It was a little alarming.

Chooch was being a real fucker. I have no idea how the whole area didn’t clear out. His least favorite time at the fair is when the Old People need to sit down and eat. I sort of side with him on this, but I was actually starving that day too and was really focused on dipping my coconut shrimp in the strange marmalade that came with it. I wish I was eating that right now.

I think this is the first time we actually explored the rest of the fair, like the taxidermy tent. At the exit, there was some small stuffed animal standing erect (I actually didn’t pay attention to what it was, meer cat maybe?) but it had a sign that begged for hugs. When Chooch obliged, some old man on an oxygen tank rasped into a small microphone, “Oh, that’s nice. I like hugs.” Chooch made me do it next and the old man said, “Oh, I like your hugs, too” as my boobs smashed against the animal’s face. It was completely creepy.

Chooch got to build a toy basketball hoop (boring) which would fast become the bane of the day.

And fish. (Boring.) Henry got all Bass Master 5000 on him.

Ahhh, that guy to the left! Totally belongs in the Overlook.

Scooby Shack cost a dollar extra, and the sign says NO REFUNDS all big and boss-like. Chooch swore he would walk through it so I slapped two 1’s in the hand of a chubby old lady carny only to have Chooch peer around the first corner and say, “Nope. Too scary.”  Little bitch baby ran back over to Henry but I wasn’t trying to waste my dollar too so I walked through. Alone. I turned the first corner and then ran the rest of the way. It was fucking dark in there, you guys. And a little scary. I mean, I was in there ALONE. #excuses

So that concludes my account of the fair. I can’t believe summer is almost over. Think I’ll go cry about it.

But first I should probably pack some stuff. I’m getting really excited to resurrect my Henry and the Weeners series on this vaca!

Henry claims to be “too busy”* to deal with my questions regarding his day at the fair, so I guess I’ll just share my pictures of him without his thoughts and dreams.

*(This might have something to do with the fact that we leave tomorrow morning for a week in Tennessee and I have done exactly fuck-all to help prepare for this.)

Remembering what it was like to have his ex-wife at his side.

Had Henry cooperated, one of my questions was going to be if he ever took his ex-wife to the fair on a date, but then I realized that was a dumb question, considering that’s probably where he met her: in the Grandstand during the tractor pull after accidentally knocking over her empty can of Schlitz-cum-spitoon and falling into her Loony Toon-tattooed saggy tits. (Henry was really into redneck things in the days pre-Erin. Thank god he met me and now knows the wonder of Warped Tour, Jonny Craig, television programming for tweens and Christmas picnics in the cemetery.)

Why so happy?

Then I was planning on asking him what had him smiling so much all day. Was it because we were hanging out with our news friends Laura and Mike and he doesn’t want them to see that he’s really nothing more than a gruff. blue-collared killjoy? But then I realized that the origin of his happiness was probably a toss-up between going a day without a jock itch flare-up and his ex-wife getting re-married.

Looking for a rabbit to boil in a pot on his ex-wife’s stove.

So, this picture was a happy accident. It looks like he’s trying to have a Hulk Hogan beard. Now I want to play around with options for Henry’s facial hair. Suggestions welcome. Maybe something ginger-hued a la JONNY CRAIG.

No, seriously—-who taught this man how to pose?

Motherfucking Gumby?

Pedo Alert! Please put your non-descript shirted self back in your non-descript white van and vacate the premises.

Henry rode one ride all day! But it was just the Fun Slide. Our son was too embarrassed to stand in line with his own creep of a father, so he tried to encroach on the family behind him.

I wonder how bad this aggrivated his hemorrhoids?

If I knew I would get an answer from him, I’d ask him if the Fun Slide lived up to its name, but judging by the way he was walking like he had just got done straddling a bull (or his ex-wife), I’d say it did.

And if I asked him what his favorite ride is, he’d just say “the ride home,” so why even bother.

He’s just lucky I’m at work and don’t have time to churn out a Goofus and Gallant.

The strangest thing happened as soon as the sun set on the fair: the grounds became overpopulated with blowouts and Affliction shirts.

“I had no idea Westmoreland County was so close to the Jersey shore,” I said to Henry loud enough for hopefully some of them to hear, provided their ear drums weren’t perforated from too many nights of “beating the beat” at the club.

I guess faux-guidos are the new scene kids.

However, scene kids don’t often roam in packs of entire scene families, like these Jersey-knock offs were doing. I mean, I saw three generations of ridiculous mushroom-cloud mocking hair do’s! It was unbelievable. I realize that MTV didn’t invent this stereotype, but I have never seen such a fine flock of them in person.

In Pennsylvania.

Besides, it’s the COUNTY FAIR. I don’t go to these things to be blinded by bedazzled Ed Hardy t-shirts and assaulted by rigatoni-breath. I want to see red necks! Red necks fighting over chicken bones! I want to see broads with Loony Toon tattoos on their saggy tits! I want to see broads with Loony Toon tattoos on their saggy tits playing tug-of-war with their co-opted baby-daddy!

Grandpa Ronnie. You’re not pulling this off very well, bro.

And the little kids all had blow-outs, too. Jerseylicious parents, this is just wrong. Your son looks less like Pauly D, more like Eddie Munster. Get a fucking stylist, my god. I wanted Chooch to start a fight with that bastard.

There were DROVES of these people. I couldn’t stand it. Yes, I watch Jersey Shore, not going to lie about that. And yes, perhaps they have grown on me (but never Sammi Sweetheart; I keep hoping she dies in a tanning bed). This does not mean I’m OK with being engulfed by a veritable drove of hair gel- and bronzer-hosts while trying to enjoy an evening at the motherfucking fair. This does not mean I’m OK with being bombarded on all sides by their nasally Jersey dialect, husky cacchination and rowdy “Yeah buddy!”s as I try to buy a fucking ice cream cone.

Here, our own Henry wonders if this Sammi-wannabe is DTF.

And this CERTAINLY does not mean I’m OK with them line-jumping in front of me for a ride I have waited all the livelong day to stuff my ass onto. Perhaps one day I’ll tell you that story….

So this one time, I was in line for the Cobra, which I really wanted to ride and it was almost time to leave. The line was pretty long to begin with, but I remained steadfast and vigilant even though I found myself right smack behind a kid trying way too hard to emulate Ronnie, thankfully sans-steroids. He was pretty quiet for the most part until he turned to his left and saw one of his hoochie friends.

“LISA! COME RIDE THIS RIDE WITH ME! LISA!” he shouted in douche-drizzled cadence. And before I knew it, Lisa and her dual-compartment backside luggage of cannoli and fettucine alfredo were planted right in front of me. I let this go, even though she reeked of the cheap hair product scrunched into her black mane, because it had no impact on me not getting on the ride since she’d be sitting with Ronnie’s juvenile doppelganger.

However, the rest of the shore house joined her moments later, spilling out of the line like Atlantic Ocean garbage, and it happened without me even realizing it. (How, I have no clue because everything about these people screams LOUD VOLUME, from their club voices to their stupid clanging bangle bracelets.)

At some point, though, I did realize that two stuck-up broads with Sammi-straight hair had planted themselves between me and Lisa’s carb-lovin’ caboose. That was when I noticed their extended shore house posse commingling nearby.

I was pretty certain these were just kids and I had Henry’s voice reverberating through my head like some paternally obnoxious surround sound reminding me of the Golden Rule: Keep your hands to yourself. HOWEVER, I wanted to ride this fucking ride and I had paid my dues by wasting unlimited minutes absorbing the banality of these strange Italian offshoots. So I opened my big mouth and used my best condescending sneer to say, “Um, excuse me, but I have been standing in this line for fucking ever and where the hell did you people come from?”

I know I looked pathetic as a shit to these girls, too, probably more nerdy librarian than hotheaded scene mom, but I didn’t care. Here I was, some old broad, standing in line ALONE (they didn’t know that I actually did have a friend there with me at one point!), getting all Hall Monitor about line-jumping.

“Uh, I was standing here the whole time. I’m with her,” the Jersey Prom Queen replied in the most grating, punch-worthy lilt of all time, sidling up closer to her friend. She was totally not standing there the whole time, but there was really not much I could do short of putting my hands on her and getting thrown in jail. Over a CARNIVAL RIDE. (You can’t tell me I don’t have some semblance of maturity—look how I rationalized right there!) But I was definitely not allowing the other TEN FUCKERS put me back further in line.

“And these people?” I said with attitude bigger than my flesh innertube, Vanna White’ing my hand over to their posse, who were now staring at me with nervous anticipation (one of them was one of those fucking Eddie Munster-looking things and approximately 8 years old).

“Um, they’re not in line. They’re just standing there, ” she said all self-righteously, which is totally my schtick.

OMG I WANTED TO RIP OFF HER FIVE-INCH-WIDE RHINESTONE BELT & WHIP THE SHIT-EATING GRIN RIGHT OFF HER SPRAY-TANNED FACE.  It’s times like these that I should not be left alone because my hot-headedness tends to skew things. I need sane, mild-tempered people around me to describe to me what the situation really looks like. Janna used to always tell me, “You’re going to get your face shot off one day.”

Then of course I wound up with the seat in front of them so they got to snicker about the old lady who NARC’d on the line jumpers and then rode alone because she has no friends except for the alley cats she shares food with. (I didn’t actually hear them talking about me, but wouldn’t you?)

After the ride, I met back up with Henry and Chooch and told them about my mild confrontation, which I was still irrationally fired up about. Henry, his tone having an undercurrent of “Listen to how this sounds,” asked me, “You started a fight with kids?”

Oh well; at least I didn’t witness any Jersey Turnpiking.

Carnies are arguably one of the best things about the fair, especially if they will engage with you. I’m sure a lot of people will disagree with me though, like one of my co-workers who kept sayin, “NO, THE FOOD! THE FOOD IS THE BEST PART! to the point where I thought it was going to come to blows. Which is why I used the word “ARGUABLY.”

I mean, if anything, carnies make people like Henry feel more attractive, I’m sure.

One of these days, I am going to remember my pad and pencil and ask one for an interview. I’m dying to see their lair.

So without further ado, here is a collection of some of my favorite specimen from this year’s Westmoreland County Fair.

I. Cathy

A female carny is a rare sight at the fair and often easy to mistake for just another guy. But if you look past her hardened stare and voluptuous jowls, you can just barely make out the slight outline of breasts beneath her neon polo.

Her name is Cathy and she was not particularly fond of me after I had the audacity to lower the safety bar on my own after Laura and I boarded the Viking, a mini-Pirate ship knockoff.  When she saw my crime, her face became steeped with annoyance and disdain.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said in a carny-drawl remiss of any semblance of femininity. I believe I gulped a little and apologized, even though I wasn’t sure what I had done wrong. Cathy shook her head and continued past us to the rest of the riders who weren’t ballsy enough to try and do her job for her.

Luckily, the man behind us found himself to be a bit too rotund to fit comfortably in the seat; Cathy manually released everyone’s safety bar, allowing him to exit. This also afforded me a chance to have a do-over by keeping  my hands off the holy safety bar. Cathy seemed pleased about this.

Before the ride started, I heard her tell the girl behind me to keep her arms inside the ride. “You don’t want them to get chopped off, do ya?” she snarled. But then while the ship was a’rockin’, she stood below encouraging us to flail our arms and emote carnival joy.

“I don’t understand,” I yelled to Laura. “I thought she didn’t want us to have our arms chopped off?!” Meanwhile, Cathy stood down there by the gate, pantomiming being shot in the heart.

“You guys are killing me!” she screamed.

“Wooo!” I cheered, calling forth my best Ben Stein on the Thrill Ride impression in an attempt to appease her. I kept my elbows tight against my side and raised  my forearms  just enough to get my hands up near my face, in an effort to show enthusiasm without becoming That Girl Who Lost Her Arms At the Fair.

Later on, Laura and I were enjoying a casual jaunt on the Yo-Yo when she noticed that Cathy was over on the Viking, doing the same “You’re killing me!” routine. I felt extremely betrayed. I thought that was just for us.

Fuck you, Cathy.

Though I have to say she was pretty much the only carny who even tried to engage us, with the exception of an old, grizzled mountain man carny operating the Yo-Yo who grazed my left boob when he pointed out that I forgot to buckle the second safety belt. That right there is how the fair keeps me coming back.

II. H-h-h-hot Carny

The No-Name Yellow Ride was back in full effect at the Westmoreland County Fair. You might remember that I have an extreme hate-hate relationship with this mothershitting torture device. I think I even dubbed it the Aerial Pelvic Exam last time. But Laura was willing to ride it all so I felt brave and decided I couldn’t let her leave the fair without taking a spin on this stupid ride. WHAT KIND OF RIDE DOESN’T HAVE A NAME? The kind that wants to be able to skulk away in anonymity in the event of death.

“Can we ride separately?” I asked the young, bronze, supple, handsome, hot, OMGWANTTOSEEHISWEENER carny manning the ride. He gave a slight nod, which I interpreted as “Meet me behind the porta johns at sunset. Bring Saran Wrap, chocolate whipped cream and stirrups.”

That Old Tie-Dyed Bitty is like 80, walks with a cane, and STILL rode more shit than Janna and Henry do.

“I have a crush on him,” I admittedly all breathlessly to Laura, who was sitting behind me. She just laughed but I know that she agreed that if you look past the fact that he’s like, 16, HE IS A REAL CATCH.

For a carny.

I could tell he hasn’t been in the game for very long. His fingernails were clean and his trail of illegitimate children is probably pretty short. And even though he never smiled, I’m pretty sure he had all his teeth. I’m wagering that a wad of Skoal would have rolled out of his mouth had he ever smiled though.

I tried to fixate  on him to keep myself from expiring as the Yellow Ride pendulated us wickedly through the air. I have a vague recollection of Henry and Mike standing on the ground watching smugly as we pulled all sorts of petrified faces. After the thirtieth revolution, I pretty  much lost all will to even scream and resigned to hanging limply over the side of the seat as all the color and life drained from my face. I noticed that behind me, Laura had quit laughing, too.

In some countries, this is how they get people to talk.

Anyway, after the ride ended, I couldn’t unlatch my safety bar. And by “couldn’t” I mean that I didn’t even try because I wanted H-h-h-hot carny to rescue me. But then Laura bounded out of her seat and said, “Here I can do it!” while I was, in slow motion, shouting, “Nooooooo!” He was one car away from putting his hands within inches of my crotch.

Laura was extremely apologetic after that. I COULD HAVE BEEN PREGNANT WITH HIS BABY BY NOW. I would have made her the godmother, too. Good job, Laura!

It’s OK, because later, I made her and Mike accompany me while I photostalked him. Mike seemed a bit unsure about this, probably because Henry was like, right there (as if Henry expects anything else from me), but Laura was a good wing-woman. Probably because she has been reading my blog for so long!

I took this picture after we had been standing there way past the point of “casual pausing.” He looked right at me so I yelled, “RUN!” and then fled with flailing arms. Laura and Mike calmly retreated behind me.

After catching up with Henry, I tried to show him this picture but he just pushed me away and called me a child.

III. Amish Carny

SEE LAST POST.

IV. Bingo Carny

Unfortunately, I did not get a photo of Bingo Carny. We were standing right next to the Bingo tent while Henry was making the longest lemonade purchase of all time, right when a new game was starting up. The woman barking into the mic sounded apathetic and severely lacked the enthusiasm that Powers Great American Midways drills into their game carnies. (The Westmoreland County Fair is powered by Tropical Amusements and it fails miserably in the moxie department. Henry is annoyed that I know enough about the amusement industry to even draw such comparisons, but I could make a pie chart if you want.)

Anyway, the first ball she drew was O69, which she announced as such: “Oh?….69.” Like she was kind of surprised and into it at first, and then bored and unimpressed during it.

In other words, she sounded exactly like me.

And she just kept repeating it over and over, making Mike, Laura and me laugh harder each time. Henry just frowned because he is Big Adult.

After Henry got his fancy lemonade which took so long to acquire it should have been served in a bottle with a Mike’s label wrapped around it, we continued past the Bingo tent only to find out that Bingo Carny, who was definitely as old and worn-out as her voice, was a veritable magnet for facial piercings. Totally was not expecting that.

V. Lola’s Dad

Not a carny, but just some dad that I hated and couldn’t shake and just sleazy enough that someone should have jammed him into a neon Tropical Amusements polo.

Chooch was riding some dumb kid coaster which didn’t even come CLOSE to rivaling the Wacky Worm, and I was standing off to the side fiddling my camera like the pocket vagina it is. Suddenly, the left side of my body was jolted and paralyzed all at once with a booming cat call of “LOLA!!!!! LOLA!!!!” I visibly jumped and shirked back.

“Sorry,” the guy laughed as he noticed my alarmed expression. “That’s my daughter,” he explained, pointing at some random child on the ride. Then he launched into a new round of “LOLA!!!!!”s as if suddenly I would be OK with this.  I caught Henry laughing at this new uncomfortable situation I found myself in.

His voice speared my brain and conjured up visions of being hog-tied in the trunk of a 1988 Dodge Omni.

Of course, he happened to be everywhere I was for the rest of the day. Fuck you, and fuck Lola too.

[Up next: More random thoughts on the fair, the Jersey Shore Invasion, possibly a Henry interview (I have the pictures, I just need the cooperation!). I have a million more words to write. Hellllllp.]

I know, I know — how many times can I possibly go to the fair in one summer and expect anyone to give a shit about it? But you guys, it’s where dreams (and camel toes) are made. And the Westmoreland County Fair in particular brings me great joy because it is full of good memories and rides that hurt so bad, but like child birth*, I’m wired to forget the pain and ride them again and again. I was determined to make it back there, even though the usual suspects (Janna, Blake and Corey) were unavailable to accompany me (so they say). That’s OK – my new friend Laura and her fiancé Mike met Henry, Chooch and I out there because what better place for these new Pittsburgh transplants to get a feel for their new region than by hanging out with unclean carnies and having safety-debatable rides threaten to make Pittsburgh the last place they’ll ever live.

(* I don’t know why I used child birth as my analogy because even though I had a C-Section, I remember everything like it just happened 2 seconds ago, and my answer to doing it again is: FUCK THAT NOISE.)

Laura and I have only had the chance to hang out three times since she’s lived in town (and one of those three times was at my birthday party so that doesn’t count because I was too busy skating to the dulcet sex-tones of Jonny Craig to talk to anyone). But she’s basically my new best friend because she will RIDE things, you guys. I can think of no better way to get over the awkward “you’re new to me” feeling than by throwing caution to the wind and making some fucker-bitch ride named the Superman your christening stroll down Friendship Alley.

Because nothing says “Let’s be close and intimate friends” than being locked in a cage with an almost-stranger and having your bodies meld together as you’re hurled through the air by some shaky steel beam while having your flesh ribboned by the door of the cage, which could have made perfect confetti at our funerals if we had actually perished on that ride. (And there were times when the odds of that happening seemed pretty good.)

Every time we’d reach the ground, I’d scream out in vain, “OVER IT! Let us off now!” but the two carnies operating it never looked up from the pig carcass they were skinning.

It was a good ice-breaker though. I feel closer to Laura than ever, because we SURVIVED something together. We should probably think about getting a tattoo next. After awhile, I just stopped screaming altogether because the physical pain of being smashed against metal made it hard to even breathe.

At least now I know I’ll probably just pass out before a serial killer is finished slashing me.

Dear Tropical Amusements,

How about padding the inside of that motherfucker? Or at least advertise that it’s a BYOP (Bring Your Own Pillow) joint. I’m in less pain listening to Miley Cyrus cover Katy Perry songs while being masticated by Snooki’s vagina.

buy fildena online www.mrmcfb.org/employment/html/fildena.html no prescription

As Sincere as a Gerbil-Stuffed Richard Gere,

The Girl With the Permanent Waffle-Marks Along Her Right Side

Chooch found his own Wacky Worm at the Westmoreland County Fair: some stupid spinning-cup kids ride. The carny operating it had the closest thing to Amish hair this side of Lancaster, PA.

This kid was definitely teaching Chooch double negatives and words like “ain’t.” Oh wait, Henry has already been doing that for the last five years.

Whaddup, Jebediah? Read any good scripture by the light of the oil lamp lately?

[How about I’ll write  more when I’m not at work, being BOTHERED by people who think I’m here to do shit for them. I’m feeling overwhelmed because I have a million pictures and words to slap down all haphazardly like I do, but I’m leaving for Tennessee on Saturday and I’M RUNNING OUT OF TIME OMG. Blogging is so serious, you guys.]

Spending a birthday at the county fair seems like a great idea on paper: gut-churning rides, complimentary (if not downright sleazy) carnies, fried desserts (calorie counts are nil on birthdays, everyone knows that), the cacophony of laughing children and tractor pulls (forgetting for a moment that I hate children and anything with even the slightest redneck-tilt).

Yes, a perfect day!

But then you add in Henry, whose face threatens to crack a million different ways if even the slightest hint of a smile creeps upon his lips; Blake, who is apparently an 80-year-old retiree in an 18-year-old’s body, adverse to sunlight and complaining of back pain and lethargy all day; Chooch, who is a little motherfucking birthday killer-in-training who makes the day all about HIM HIM HIM; and Janna, who won’t ride anything aside from a carousel and a 20-second-long Haunted Mansion ride that Henry’s SAT score out-scares.

Not to mention the fact that these assholes weren’t constantly fawning over me and winning me plush Family Guy characters. IT WAS MY BIRTHDAY, NEED I REMIND YOU.

Blake and his new friends, planning their upcoming move to Florida.

Awkward Standing.

At first glance, I was like, “Aw shit, this fair might be pretty good.” I mean, it was run by Powers Great American Midway, after all, and I am obsessed with them. However, it was only about half the size of the Big Butler Fair, and I’ll tell you: That fair can spoil a bitch. Power’s light blue unit brought along some choice rides. (Is it sad that I know which “unit” PGAM deployed to the Fayette County fairgrounds? Maybe I look at their website too much.) And I saw lots of familiar carny faces, one of which was Kirk’s! I didn’t talk to him, though. What’s the point when my lame non-carny boyfriend was glued to my side all day?

But the layout of the fair sucked. And it was super muddy and smelled like sewage, but that was probably because Henry kept standing so close to me. Still: 100% better than the shitty Washington County Fair. (I go to county fairs a lot. It’s kind of become A Thing.)

You know you go to a lot of fairs when you start to recognize carnies, is all I’m sayin’.

Blake: Jeepers, it’s so hot! I think I’m dying! And I left my cane at the home and missed my 3:00pm dinner! I wonder if Dad has any individually-wrapped prunes in his pocket before I pass out.

Thank God Lisa and her husband Matt met us out there a few hours after we arrived. They joined us in standing around awkwardly, which is something that people need to master before even attempting to hang out with me. (I suggest going to a crowded store and standing right in front of a doorway or at the top of an escalator for practice. Do not move when you find that you are blocking foot traffic, and ignore the scowls you inspire. Only then can we hang out.)  Lisa was in a really good mood and I like to think it’s because she knows how delicate of a situation my birthday is, like the entire premise of Speed, with less bus more birthday cake, but actually Lisa is always pretty chill and somehow wasn’t completely put off by the foul moods of my companions who need to be reminded that SOME PEOPLE AREN’T LUCKY ENOUGH TO GET TO GO TO THE FAIR.

Fuck!

Within minutes, Chooch claimed Matt and I’m sure everyone at the fair assumed they were father and son after that. I’m sorry, Matt. But Henry and I were relieved to be off the hook for awhile.

***

A week before the fair, I was on the phone with Lisa.

“I hope the fair is a good one,” she said thoughtfully.

“Um, Lisa? Of course it will be. It’s run by Powers Great American Midways,” I informed her haughtily.

“I don’t know what that means.”

THAT’S BECAUSE SOMEONE DOESN’T READ MY BLOG.

***

Lisa and Matt agreed to ride the Orbiter with me immediately after they arrived. I was SO EXCITED. Finally! I get to ride something moderately extreme! But then we got in line and I saw it said “No single riders” and those asshole words are ALWAYS BEING SNEERED AT ME at fairs because I am perpetually single in this world of grinding traps of pleasure (amusement rides, not vagina dentata).  I looked at Janna who had accompanied us to the line and she said no before I even asked her. Way to tag along on something you’re not a part of, then Janna! So I had to run over to Henry and Blake, who had combined to form a Dildo-ic Duo while Chooch rode some stupid train operated by Kirk.

I hadn’t even approached them yet and I was already absolutely wailing about how Janna ruined my life and wouldn’t ride with me and Blake, while I was still approaching them mid-run, said no. Henry, however, said: “Fine.”

“What?” I asked in surprise.

“I said fine,” he sighed.

I guess he was trying to make up for the fact that he failed epically in the birthday present department once again. (Seriously, he got me a shirt that I already have, which proves that he doesn’t look at me. Ever.) This was the SECOND ride he rode on! (We rode on the Swings when we first got there. They made him sick.)

Oh, I was so happy! And the best part was that it took so long for the ride to get loaded to capacity, that Henry and I had plenty of time to talk about Jonny Craig!

Henry bitched about the Oribiter for the rest of his time at the fair. “I have cold sweats,” he kept complaining, though I’m not sure to whom because last time I checked, his mommy didn’t come with us and she’s the only person who gives a shit about him. He didn’t ride anything else after that, though I kept trying to con him into being my partner on the Skydiver, since it’s less commitment that being my partner for life. He kept saying, “We’ll see,” which everyone knows means NO.

After Chooch and Matt, Lisa, Janna and I had our turn at sliding down the Fun Slide, which I hadn’t done since I was a kid and good goddamn is that scary. Ascending the steps alone made me clutch my heart. I felt like there was going to be a religious cult waiting at the top to push me back down the steps into God’s eternal arms. It was like walking into the hospital on D-Day and wanting to run back out the doors but having 3 nurses pull you back in because “that baby’s gotta come out one way or another, sweetheart!” Longest climb of my life.

“I’m scared,” I told the Mexican carny who smiled, probably assuming I said, “Let’s go fuck behind that lemon cart you pushed across the border.” What? The Pennsylvania border, you guys.

Lisa thought it was the funnest thing at the fair, Janna had no comment, and I was just glad I didn’t slide through piss, shit, vomit, a chewed-up wad of Skoal or semen. And by “it,” I mean the Fun Slide, not Mexican carny sex. I know you were probably confused.

Things took a turn for the worse when I decided I was ready to eat something and made everyone halt and bow to my whims. I ended up getting a small bowl of haluski, which seemed like an OK choice as far as keeping my stomach lining primed and at the ready for vigorous riding.  (And yes, finally I’m talking about sex!)  Besides, it was either that or throw away 16 years of vegetarianism for some unidentifiable meat on a stick. There was some lame square dance bullshit happening inside the 4H building, so we all sat around and pretended to care about that while I ate. (Lisa really did care, though. She likes the simpler things in life.) This was about the time Chooch turned into the biggest prick of all the fair, and Blake did nothing but antagonize him which only increased Chooch’s crowd-drawing by 500%.

I attempted to not look like I belonged to the two of them by focusing my attention on the asshole inside the 4H building who was singing the most ridiculous square dance songs for these idiotic plaid-tastic children to clomp around to. I almost wished he had CDs for sale so I could buy one and break it in front of his face. God, get fucked with your pathetic farm melodies, douchebag square dance warbler.

In the middle of the Chooch & Blake: American Assholes show, there was an older lady sitting nearby (the blond Peg Bundy in the background of the above picture) who said about Chooch, “Boy he sure is cute” but what she meant to say was, “Damn, child. Your mama needs to put you in a cage because you are acting like one hell of a mother fucker.” And then to me, she said, “We just ate some fried Oreos for dessert. Boy they sure were good!” and what she meant by that was, “Bitch, why don’t you go to the other side of the fairgrounds, far away from me, and choke your bastard child on some fried Oreos, because he is being one hell of a mother fucker.”

Chooch flipped over a chair in response while I pretended that Janna was his mom.

The square dance brigade had some young child canvassing the area with literature. He approached me with his stack of white and green papers and said, “Would you like one, they’re free?”

“I want a green one,” I said with just the right drop of bitchy entitlement. He looked slightly stunned, like no one had ever bothered to make a color request before. While he shuffled through the stack in search of a green one, I said smugly, “It’s my birthday.”

Lisa and Janna were watching this pan out. Lisa looked mildly amused and Janna looked like she was bracing herself for the ‘splaining she was going to have to do to the kid’s mom by the time I was done antagonizing him. This is just how I talk to children: in a very demeaning, ironic way. They seem to like it.

Meanwhile, the guy who was inside singing the square dance “songs” promised “this next one” would “speed up.”

“You should join our square dance group!” He sounded nervous, slightly intimidated by me. Just how I like boys to be.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, as I folded up the paper. (The age limit is 20, by the way. THAT KID RULES FOR THINKING I’M NOT OLDER THAN 20.)

“This next one” still hadn’t “sped up.”

“Dylan!” a lady called from inside the 4H house. “Come dance to this last song!” Sure, maybe there was some plaid lass inside who missed being partnered-up with Dylan, but I have suspicions that this lady just didn’t want him near me anymore.

“Yeah!” I yelled in my best “I’m riding the Wacky Worm, motherfuckers!” impression and when he looked at me all startled-like, I gave him a thumbs-up and said, “Do it! Wooo!”

Lisa hadn’t heard the lady call for him in the first place, and admitted later that she thought I was just spontaneously excited, though she was confused why I was telling some young boy to “do it.”

Then I called Dylan my “new son” and Chooch got all upset. I win at parenting.

I have no recollection of Henry being anywhere near us that whole time.

Oh apparently he was off supporting his cocaine habit.

I told Dylan I was going to watch him, but that was actually the time we rose up as a group and went to the petting zoo. Fucking with children is the one true talent your God gave me.

Here is all I remember about the petting zoo: I relayed my birthday woes to a camel and then Chooch fell in a pig sty and Henry had to take him and Blake home.

Coincidentally, my night really picked up after that! Janna bought me root beer in a tin mug from an old broad who tried too hard to sway our decisions and Lisa and I rode the Gravitron with the cast of Jersey Shore. It was fabulous!

Lisa encourages me to take pictures of every little thing she does. She’s like Chooch, but grown.

The only downside to the Fair: After Hours (read: After the Douches Left) was that neither Lisa nor Matt would ride the Zipper with me. I was only able to ride it once, earlier in the day before Blake’s desire to drink a glass of Metamucil and take a nap got the best of him. We talked a little bit about music while trapped inside the Zipper’s jaws, but I could tell he wasn’t having too much fun.

Everyone is growing up but me.

Janna, Lisa and I rode this moderate thrill ride called the Tornado, which is pretty tame but Janna was still clutching her rosary and trying not to re-eat her haluski while Lisa manually spun our car around on top of giving Janna dating advice. My favorite part was when the ride ended and Lisa’s safety bar didn’t release. She pulled it toward her, hoping it would spring back, but it only made it tighter. I fetched the carny and then ran away to stand outside of the ride’s gate by Matt, who had been relegated to little more than a Purse Tree at that point.

The carny gave Lisa a hard time for awhile before manually releasing the bar for her. As she and Janna approached Matt and me, Lisa yelled, “And I love how Erin just ran away!”

Behind her, looking a gorgeous shade of gangrene from her jaunt on the Tornado, Janna irritably mumbled, “Yeah. She does that.” Possibly Janna’s way of suggesting that Lisa spends more time with me.

Janna bought* me a birthday ice cream cone from a girl who had been punched in the eye. Lisa opted for more scatastically phallic fare. Then we said goodbye to the fair and immediately upon leaving the parking lot, Janna’s GPS lured us out onto un-lit backwoods lanes and I’m not going to lie: It was scarier than riding the Zipper in a lightning storm with the cage unlatched. This was after Janna got raped by a bug.

(* This mostly happened because when Henry left the fair, so did my money.)

Happy fucking birthday to me, to me, to me.

Here, have some pictures of the fucking fair. I will write more later.

I have a love/hate relationship with my Lensbaby lens. Barely use it because it can mostly go suck one.

Maybe the only thing that didn’t piss me off all day. Although, he did try to spit on me.

Who doesn’t though.

Henry: Portrait of a Serial Birthday Killer.

The other birthday killer.

Miserable people.

Chooch and his new dad.

More later, if you can stand it.

Ahhhhhh! Old Folk approaching! Hide your hard candy!

Have you ever wondered what Warped Tour is like for a super old man who shuns fun and is the Poster Elder for “surly”? You’re in luck because my very own, personal Old Man let me ask him some questions about his day spent outside in 95+ degree heat surrounded by machine-gun drumming and exploding-node screaming.

But he had this girl by his side, so how terrible could it have been, right?

(RIGHT!?)

Erin, pen in hand: Why do you wear a bandanna to Warped Tour? Is it because you think it makes you look hard? (Because it doesn’t.)

Henry, sitting next to me on the couch and glaring: Because it was hot. [Thinks deeper.] And it keeps the hair out of my eyes.

Erin: So does a hair cut.

I really believe he wears a bandanna because he feels like it will repel scene kids. Like if they see some dildo approaching them with a cotton condom fastened around his head, they’ll think he’s security or a member of a biker gang, when meanwhile he drives a Ford Focus and looks like the treasurer of a washed-up Village People fan club.

Erin, pressing the issue because I know people care about Henry’s head toppings: And how do you decide what color to wear?

Henry, mumbling as he works the TV remote: Whatever matches what shirt I’m wearing.

Erin: Now did you learn that on the “Blue-Collared Beverage Warehouse Manager” episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy?

Henry, actually looking away from the TV for the first time since this writer has been asking questions: What? What the fuck are you talking about? [One corner of his mouth tugged up a bit, which constitutes as a SMILE in the world of bearded douchebags.]

Erin: Is it true you bought a graphic tee at Target specifically for Warped Tour so you’d fit in better and joke-block me of non-descript t-shirt fodder?

Henry: No. I didn’t buy ANYTHING for Warped Tour. [Scrunches up face in irritation, which most people would take as the universal visage for constipation.]

This is a complete lie. He bought sun screen and individually-wrapped prunes.

Henry, reaching in his Old Man Cargo Shorts for an individually-wrapped prune. Note his expression: It never changed.

Erin: What was your favorite band of the day.

Henry: [LONG PAUSE. I thought he was thinking but really was watching Good Eats.]

Erin: [Stabbed him in the ribs with elbow.]

Henry: What?! [Notices me scribbling down my own answer on his behalf.] What are you writing? Don’t write Dance Gavin Dance, because it wasn’t.

This means it was Blood on the Dance Floor. Scantily-clad scene posers get him every time. Jeffree Star and all that.

Erin: Speaking of Dance Gavin Dance, what are your thoughts on them?

Henry: I don’t HAVE any thoughts on Dance Gavin Dance.

Maybe not, but he definitely dreams about them considering their last album is on constant repeat in the bedroom.

Erin: Not even on Jonny Craig?

Henry: Jonny Craig is a douchebag.

Erin: If you had to spend money at one merch booth, which would it be?

Henry: [Seriously considering for entirely too long.]

Me, noticing the small puff-shapes his lips are making: Hello! You’re falling asleep!

Henry, jolting at my shrill voice: No, I was thinking. And the thinking is putting me to sleep. [I have to repeat the question.] It would probably be what you want since I get no say in anything.

What he meant to say was, “The first merch booth we come across that has booty shorts in my size. I hope it’s Blood on the Dance Floor or Black Veil Brides!”

Henry’s “I ain’t got my dentures in & I just spent the last of your money on a Powerade” face.

Erin: How disappointed were you that Craig Owens (singer for D.R.U.G.S.) darkened his hair?

Henry: A little disappointed.

It was the FIRST THING he noticed when Craig came out on stage.

Erin: Does that make him less attractive to you?

Henry: No.

OMG that means he’s attracted to him in the first place.

Erin: Why wouldn’t you stand near me during Of Mice & Men? Was it because you didn’t want to get your face melted off?

Henry: Too many kids around me.

Lies. Here are my top 3 reasons why Henry took 87 giant steps back away from the crowd:

1. He didn’t want his pedophilia to be that transparent.
2. He doesn’t love me enough/have enough upper body strength to keep bodies from falling on my head, which won’t matter if he’s a million feet away from me.
   
3. He’s embarrassed to be seen too close to me. (Because I cry during shows, but mostly because I’m ugly.)

Erin: When you saw that girl pass out right before Set Your Goals, why didn’t you spring into action? Isn’t that what they taught you in THE SERVICE or were you too busy trying to look like Erik Estrada instead of attending all the Be a Hero seminars?

Henry: [For real sleeping.]

Erin: [Repeats question, and by that I mean I kneed him in the nuts.]

Henry: [Started to “think,” then fell back asleep.]

Erin: HENRY, PLEASE!

Henry, waking up abruptly: I don’t know! Because there were already people “springing into action!”

Or! Because he left his balls with his ex-wife.

Someone for Henry to share his prunes with!

Erin: Any tips for other elders attending Warped Tour? And don’t say, “Don’t go.”

Henry, about to say “don’t go.”: Damn. Bring plenty of money so you don’t have to drink tap water. Leave your girlfriend at home.

Erin: And don’t forget your joint cream.

Henry, forgetting that he’s like 80 years old: What do I need my joint cream for?

Erin: What was your favorite part of Warped Tour and don’t say leaving.

Henry: But that was my favorite part. Probably watching all the people run when it started to rain even though they were in bathing suits.

Translation: Watching all the wet under-age girls run in bathing suits. See? Warped Tour’s not all that bad!

Erin: Least favorite?

Henry, with no hesitation: The heat.

Erin: What heat? Don’t men of your blue-collared ilk spend their childhood summers working in my rich relative’s yards for milk money? You should be acclimated to the heat by now.

Henry: Whatever, asshole.

Erin: If (Warped Tour founder) Kevin Lyman named a stage after you, what bands would you demand be on the lineup? And don’t say Judas Priest.

Henry: I don’t know.

Ew, I hate when he says that. Especially when his voice cracks in irritation like he’s some pissed off Peter fucking Brady.

Erin: Henry, I will kick you in the nuts.

Henry, clearly peaced out from the interview process like a little prissy Girl Scout: I don’t know what bands I would have!

This means he’s too embarrassed to admit to the Internet that it would be Creed, Nickelback, whatever nü-metal bands are still together, and a Carpenters cover band.

Erin: Are you looking forward to next year’s Warped Tour?

Henry: I never look forward.

****

Thank you for reading this lame interview. Clearly I need to find more interesting subjects. You suck, Henry. Learn some words!

The Pittsburgh stop of Warped Tour was exactly one week ago. I’ve wanted to write about it every day since then (even though no one reads the music shit on my blog*) but instead I’ve been floating around, basking in the glow, like Jeffrey Dahmer after masticating his first Hispanic rump roast. Even people at work have noticed a difference—I guess because my smile hasn’t been fake all week. It’s nice that I don’t get made fun of there for going to Warped Tour like I do elsewhere, you know, because I’m supposed to be “too old” for things like that. I have bitterness, can you tell?

(*I’m going to interview Henry about his Warped experience, which will probably be more appealing to people.)

I’ve had my ticket since last December, when there was a holiday pre-sale. That’s how 100%-without-a-doubt I am that I will be attending this thing every year. It’s my Christmas, that one day that gets me through. Henry and I have gone to a lot of music festivals together and I am known to miserably complain about the heat and the crowds, and we almost always end up breaking up. Coachella ’04 was so bad that I actually have large time frames of it blacked out in my mind.

However, Warped Tour is where Henry is pretty good about not being a puckering asshole because he knows how happy that day makes me. (Although this year we did have one or two snippy moments, but they were short-lived and stemmed from the fact that he wasn’t kissing the stage that Dance Gavin Dance plays upon.) And I never complain there. This year, it was already in the nineties at 10:00am when we were standing in line to get in. The heat index was over 100. Even just standing there, I could feel waterfalls of sweat cascading down my back. And I never stopped smiling and giddily elbowing Henry.

August Burns Red

I am a kid in many ways, but let’s face it—being in a pit is not something I can handle these days. I’m pretty content standing a ways back from the stage and aggressive kids, but there are certain bands that I break policy for and try to get as close as I can without putting myself in the line of fire. Of Mice and Men is one of those bands. Henry was originally right behind me, but by the end of their first song, I turned around and he was a few feet further away. By the end of their second song, I could only barely make out his bandanna in the crowd behind me. By the end of their set, I couldn’t see him at all and had to wait for the crowd to clear out.

“Yeah, this was close enough for me,” he said when I found him a few seconds later standing alone, out of sight of the stage, and looking aurally scarred.

I was smashed up against unlimited sweating bodies near the barricade and I know it must have been hot because the sweat never stopped dripping down my face, but the heat was the last thing on my mind. When Austin Carlile said “jump,” I jumped. I almost cried, I was so happy in that moment. Months of stress and tension melted away by Austin’s screaming. This is why I love bands with screaming: it matches what I already have in my head. The other night at work, I tried to explain to Barb the different kinds of screaming. At first she seemed interested, but by the end her eyes were glazed. I could talk about this shit for hours, which is probably why no one ever asks me questions about it.

I don’t hate anyone at Warped Tour, not even that Ginger kid right there.  I’m all Free Love and shit.

My legs were shuddering like sheet metal by the time Of Mice and Men were done. I felt like I was tweaking for real and I couldn’t quit smiling. This is why I keep doing this year after year. I had a conversation the other day on Facebook with an old high school friend who said he’s afraid of the day when he realizes he’s that old guy who shouldn’t be at the show. But for me, I don’t give a shit how old I am. As long as music makes me feel this way, I will keep going. I don’t care if I’m in a fucking HoverRound.

On the way to the next stage, I yelled to Henry, “And it doesn’t even seem that hot out here!” Henry looked at me with full-on incredulity as he panted like a dehydrated pitbull chained out back. What? I felt fine.

It was apparently hot enough for some of the local news stations to do the weather live at Warped Tour, though.

Always the most entertaining merch booth. Love Fueled By Ramen so hard.

If you’ve been reading this blog for more than like, a day, you probably won’t be surprised to learn that the band I was most excited to see was Dance Gavin Dance. I mean, I could have left right after they played at 1:15 and been OK with it. The first thing I do every year after I finally make it through the gates is rush to find a schedule to make sure I don’t miss my favorite bands on the tour that year. I will never, ever in a million years forget the sense of loss I felt at the 2007 Warped Tour in Cincinnati when I ran over to the Inflatable, only to see that Chiodos (this was back before Craig Owens’ head burst open like a pinata stuffed full of fame and megalomania) was the first band to go on at 11:00. It was, at the point, noon. It was also the point where I completely wrote off Christina’s sister, whose fault it was that we didn’t get there on time because she spent a thousand minutes in a fucking WALGREENS before we officially left that morning.

And this is why I go with Henry now. I don’t fuck around when it comes to Warped Tour. I know what I’m wearing the night before. I know when I’m waking up. I know what I’m eating for breakfast and when I’m leaving. And Henry is pretty good about complying with all of this. I will not go with anyone else. I do not cater to anyone else. I run a well-oiled machine that no one wants to fuck with.

Anyway, back to Dance Gavin Dance. Everything else I did that day was planned accordingly around their set time. I mean, I put them even above D.R.U.G.S., Craig Owens’ new band, and we all know how much I love Craig (although that love has been starting to wane lately). The thing with Dance Gavin Dance is that they’re not instantly palpable to most people. Adults, especially. Henry hates them (though I think he’s grown immune to them over the years). They have a screamer, but they’re not really all that heavy, musically. They have an extremely underrated drummer and guitarist. They’re definitely not metal, and lately they’ve kind of veered toward the prog-rock scope of things, with even slight hints of funk here and there. They’re kind of frenetic, which I think must appeal to me on a subconscious level, because it feels like what my brain would sound like if it could talk: schizophrenic. How else can I explain Dance Gavin Dance?

Oh yeah. Jonny Craig, provider of clean vocals and a million scene teen-heartthrob fantasies. If it were up to me, my entire bedroom would be covered in Jonny Craig posters, but it’s Henry’s room too and I actually do have a small ounce of respect for him somewhere. (You’d never know it by the way I’ve made him keep all of his belongings in boxes stored in the attic, basement and garage since he moved in with me in 2002. He claims this is convenient for him because when he eventually leaves me, everything but his clothes will already be packed, and he doesn’t really have much of those considering I’ve thrown 80% of his sock collection in the garbage.) A ginger has never been so hot to me before, but I blame this solely on the fact that he has a voice specifically designed to hit the g-spot and he’s a huge douchebag. That love/hate thing is hot. And really, what girl doesn’t secretly wish to be treated like shit.

Sometimes I worry that Jonny’s voice is going to get me pregnant.

(I just literally spent the next 6 minutes staring through the computer screen, thinking about Jonny Craig. These things happen when Henry isn’t here to keep me in check.)

Um, OK. So Dance Gavin Dance played on one of the stages under the ampitheater, which was hugely displeasing to me. Those stages are hard to get close to because there is very little empty space before the seating starts and I definitely don’t like the sensation of being trapped, so Henry and I grabbed seats a few rows back. I wasn’t able to get any pictures but I also wasn’t really worrying about my camera considering I was barely able to keep myself upright when they started playing.

There is one word that Jonny sings that inexplicably makes me fold in half and crumble into a pile of pheromones and Erin Luvs Jonny notebook graffiti: “Wonder.” I have no idea what it is about the way that word slides off his tongue, but I grip Henry so hard every time and smother my annoying sex sounds into his bicep, while he shrugs away from me disgustedly.

Can you sense a theme here?
Dance Gavin Dance disgusts Henry.
Erin disgusts Henry
Erin listening to Dance Gavin Dance drowns Henry in a barrel of his own filthy disgust.

I tried to get Henry to fist pump during “Turn Off the Lights, I’m Watching Back to the Future,” but he fought me. In the end, his pocket-stuffed hand won. We had a brief argument afterward because I was mad at him for not paying attention to them (he kept looking over his shoulder during their set, which is the rudest) and he was all, “I STOOD UP FOR THE WHOLE THING DIDN’T I” and I guess that’s progress considering he’s old and prone to collapsing spontaneously. Every time Jonny would talk between songs, Henry’s mouth would creep into that same exact disgusted sneer that I know so well. Jonny and I must definitely be meant to be if we both inspire the same look of appallation from Henry.

“I think his eyes got closer together,” Henry yelled at one point. And: “I don’t like how he keeps touching his crotch.” That’s because in Henry’s eyes, Jonny Craig is a predator. If it wasn’t 1,000 degrees, Henry probably would have protectively draped his arm around me.

Never before has a man made me want to vomit and swoon in tandem. Oh, Jonny Craig. You’re so sleazy but with 6 condoms, a before-and-after dip in a Purell pool and doctor’s proof you at least don’t have AIDS, I would 99.9% do you. (And then pray I don’t get pregnant with a ginger baby.)

I never hold my breath when making my friends listen to them, because no one my age ever does and it’s always the screaming that does it. But just try and focus on Jonny’s clean vocals. This is one of my favorites:

For the rest of the day, I would periodically rest my head on Henry’s shoulder and murmur, “I can’t believe we just saw Dance Gavin Dance. I miss them now.” He would give me that sneer, of course, but I know deep down he was all, “OMG I JUST SAW JONNY CRAIG. KEEP YOUR COMPOSURE, HANK, YOU OLD DOG YOU.”

Terrible Things were not terrible. Coincidentally, I used their album ad in Alternative Press for the letter “T” day at Chooch’s school. It was a picture of a boy and girl having a tea party. (With a burning house in the background.)

Would have bought Henry a pair for Christmas if he hadn’t DRANK ALL MY MONEY.

It started raining after 5 and everyone fled for cover. Henry and I stayed at the front of the stage and continued watching Sharks. It’s just rain, you guys. These people complained all day about the heat and had no problem getting drenched at the misting stations, but when nature provides relief? OMG run. The rain only lasted for about a half hour and it cut the heat for the rest of the day. It was perfect.

Bands we saw that day that no one cares to read anymore about:

• Go Radio (good way to start the day.)
• Grieves with Budo (high point of the day!)
• August Burns Red
• Of Mice and Men
• Dance Gavin Dance
• Big B
• Sick of Sarah
• Sharks (so good)
• Peelander-Z
• A Skylit Drive
• Terrible Things
• Stephen Jerzak
• Larry and His Flask (more Henry’s speed than anything else that day)
• D.R.U.G.S. (Henry was upset that Craig dyed his hair darker. OK, Us Weekly.)
• Moving Mountains
• Middle Class Rut (Henry had this moment of excited realization when they played their radio single)
• The Wonder Years
• Set Your Goals

Set Your Goals came on at 8, and they were the last band we saw that day. During their set, I looked at Henry and started crying. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, knowing it was because it was almost time to leave.  I feel like I wait all year for this one day and it’s over so fast. (If you ask Henry, he will say it’s the longest day of the year.) Being there makes me so happy, breaks down my walls, lets me live. I can’t believe it’s been a whole week now. I wish I could go to every single one.

Oh, and I’m totally getting married at Warped Tour. Just as soon as I find a groom. MAYBE IT’S YOU.

When I launch a new obsession, I of course want to share this with my work friends. For example, the Wacky Worm. I was hoping it would become a wide-spread sensation, culminating in a department field trip to DelGrosso’s, which is a semi-local amusement that has A PERMANENT WACKY WORM, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. Naturally, the Wacky Worm hysteria flopped as far as pandemics go, although Barb very thoughtfully brought me a DelGrosso’s brochure she saw in a State College hotel over the weekend, so that was progress.

Most of my work friends smiled and let me go on about the Wacky Worm, except for Glenn. What you need to know about Glenn is that he is little more than a better-dressed Henry. He makes the same faces at me that I get from Henry on the daily: those judge-y smirks and annoyed frowns. I’m pretty sure he thinks I have a mental handicap that went undetected during my interview.

I’m used to this treatment at home, so it’s OK. Glenn and I are still friends.

Regarding the Wacky Worm, I believe Glenn’s reaction was, “WTF is wrong with you?” And then when I showed him a picture of it and asked, “See? Doesn’t it look awesome?” he very dryly said, “No. Not really.”

He was equally unimpressed with my Wacky Worm t-shirt design. “Does it come with a helmet?” he asked with a very Henry-iffic smugness.

“Obviously that means you want one,” I provoked.

“I’m pretty sure people would get the wrong idea if I wore that,” Glenn laughed.

“Why, because it’s pink?” Sometimes I’m not that quick.

“Uh, no. Because of what it says.” He even used the same “I’m talking to a child” tone that Henry has patented.

Glenn should have just kept his mouth shut, because from that moment on my mind was in full-blown revenge mode.

Yesterday at work, I had Barb and Nina stall Glenn near my desk so I could take a covert picture of him. (Although I don’t feel I was very covert about it. We made eye contact at least four times but he didn’t seem to catch on. Probably because he’s used to me huddled at my desk, laughing alone and looking suspicious.)

This morning, I made a new Wacky Worm graphic. I’m printing a bunch out and plastering them around Glenn’s desk. (This is why I don’t ever get important shit done.)

Nobody puts Wacky Worm in the corner.

[ETA: It is now the end of October and Glenn still proudly has his Wacky Worm postcards taped to the front of his desk like they’re pictures of his kids.]

Pretty much everything this week will be “[       ]: Warped Tour Edition” because I just lived my favorite day of the year last Friday. So either pretend you care or come back next week, I guess. I know, it sucks. But I’m just so happy, you guys!

Waiting for the doors to open. I make Henry get there super early every year because I have anxiety ever since the time in 2007 I relied on some douchebag (read: ex-bff Christina’s retarded sister) to get there on time, which we did not and I missed motherfucking CHIODOS, whose set time was the same time the doors opened. I still have horrible flashbacks to that day.

Of Mice & Men are one of the few bands I’ll fight to get up front for at my old age.

One of the cool things about Warped Tour is walking past a stage and being pleasantly surprised by the hiphop you hear. Grieves with Budo were a high-point of the day.

As close as we could get to A Day To Remember, but I didn’t care. Having 90% of the crowd at one stage just opened up a bunch of other opportunities for us.

See this post to see how THAT worked out.

I keep wanting to write my actual post about Warped Tour but then I get sidetracked with watching videos from it on YouTube. I’m in denial.

I have mucho to write about Warped Tour, much to everyone’s chagrin! I’m also trying to weasel an interview out of Henry. We’ll see how far I can get with that.

I wish my arms were really that skinny.