I finally designed my Wacky Worm (a/k/a The Caterpillar) t-shirt! I bought a nice gray t-shirt today at Target so now Henry has to do the rest. I SLAVED OVER THIS FOR A WHOLE 30 MINUTES!

I know Janna and Corey will probably want one, too.

Christmas is just around the corner, you guys.

(Henry is not impressed.)

Life had been pretty rocky for the last few days for me, just all kinds of stress and relationship doubts that culminated into a four-day crying spree.

Something had to give.

I figured if anything was going to put a smile back on my face, it was the Big Butler Fair. And it ended up being the best day ever. Henry even held my hand! And he didn’t bitch once when I thrust my purse into his chest so I could run off with Corey to ride the Zipper and the Freak Out. The weather was perfect (although Janna complained constantly about how she hadn’t been that hot since she was stuffed in that mobster’s trunk on a particularly steamy August afternoon back in ’06).

We were still in the parking lot and Chooch and I were already cheering and tugging on Henry and Janna’s arms, in a feeble attempt to hurry them up. The motherfucking fair, you guys. THE MOTHERFUCKING FAIR. If that can’t make a bitch smile, then she obviously has just had to have her lips excised due to making out with Snookie.

Corey wasn’t going to go but he did! It could have been because I laid on the guilt via text. We were halfway there when he texted me back and said he decided to meet us there after all. AND HE EVEN BOUGHT THE RIDE-ALL-DAY WRISTBAND.

Secretly Siblings. Seriously, get a load of their twin mouths. Something was making them all disgusted and it definitely could not have been me.

This broad made me feel so patriotically inadequate.

One of the things I love about fairs is that walking down the midway is akin to sashaying down a catwalk. Those carnies working the games really want to take that $5 out of your pocket and they will flatter you senseless in an effort to achieve this goal. If you’re a woman, they will have you feeling like the prettiest piece of pork this side of the Demolition Derby.

Even with melted remnants of my waffle ice cream sandwich (not as great as it sounds) on my flesh-intertube-covering t-shirt, these snaggle-toothed, dart-holding guardians of balloon-walls made me feel deceitfully attractive. Until I later went into the restroom and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my hair whipped and knotted into a natural straw hat upon my head and eyeliner smeared under my eyes. I whined to Henry that I looked like  I just had a train ran on me in the middle of a barn by a gang of chubby chasers. In other words, I said, “I look like shit.”

“No, you look like you’re having fun,” Henry argued. Yeah, having fun competing for Ugliest Broad at the Fair.

But then I ran into the girl who actually did win the County Fair pageant and I felt much better about myself. I opened my mouth to start heckling her, but Henry was five steps ahead of me (he always is) and was quick to point out that her mom was right in front of us. (They were wearing matching dresses. Jesus.)

Corey got roped into riding the Sizzler and Tilt-a-Whirl more times than Tracy Gold throws up in a day, which is awesome, because those two rides make me, well—-they make me throw up more times than Tracy Gold does in a day.  Corey said during the ride that Chooch was talking about what it would be like if our cats rode the Sizzler. Apparently Willie, Marcy’s daughter, would be “really pissed.” Later, we were all on the ferris wheel together (not Henry though, he’s too scared), and Chooch mockingly sneered at Corey, “Ha-ha, I won!”

“How do you win at the ferris wheel?” Corey said, slightly annoyed at losing something he didn’t know he was playing.

I’m just glad they have conversations with each other now.

Chooch’s “Ask Me About My Zombie Shirt” shirt impressed the MC of the freak show so much that he granted Chooch free admission. Henry still had to pay though, and was all annoyed because Chooch wouldn’t stop long enough for him to get his $3 worth. I don’t know what that entails—looking for a glory hole behind the Fiji Mermaid?

Meanwhile, Corey and I rode the Zipper, which is absolutely my favorite carnival ride. I love it so much, it’s borderline compulsion when I see it. Somehow Corey has never been on the Zipper. And how do you explain the Zipper to a virgin rider? Normally I would say it’s like sex in a plane crash, but I didn’t want to say that to my BROTHER, considering we were about to be pinned down together inside a cage, with his right foot completely smashed.

Here is Corey’s review:

Before riding it: It doesn’t look that bad.

While riding it: OMG ARE YOU KIDDING ME THIS RIDE DOESN’T FUCK AROUND.

After riding it: Wait, where am I? How was that even legal?

Seriously the best ride. And it allows me a good three minutes of vocal exercising for my forthcoming screamo release.

Sizzler, Take 87

I run from Henry  all the time, too.

Did you know at county fairs, there’s basically no height requirements for the bumper cars? This is perfect if you’re Britney Spears or some other random, unfamous mom who enjoys putting her baby in vehicular peril. Most amusement parks want kids to be 46″ before they get the thrill of whiplash. God. Safety much?

Chooch can’t get with bumpy wit’ it at Kennywood, but he’s free to drive recklessly (or navigate, at least) at the county fair!

Looks pretty, right? So majestic? Too bad it’s the biggest cock-sucker of all the land. Fuck you, Skydiver.

Additional things to note about me, specifically when I am at carnivals:

• I won’t ride ferris wheels unless it’s the kind with big round seats and an enclosed top.
• I do not play games (except mind games with Henry, of course).
• Food is my last priority.
• I put my own happiness above all others.
• My self-esteem is just low enough to find myself flattered at the hands of lecherous carnies whose main objective is to take my money.
• It’s going to take more than some broad wearing bunny ears to get me sit down for a round of Bingo.
• I am completely mesmerized by carnival lights, to the point that I blindly walk into the backs of strangers.
• Deep-fried [insert random dessert-food here] always sounds like the Best Idea Ever until I cave and eat it, at which point it never fails to be my sole post-carnival regret.

“Thank God we won goldfish.”

Henry won two goldfish at ping pong ball toss, which he generally fails at, as he does with most things in life. I wasn’t too thrilled about this. Carnival fish never live long! Still, I accepted ownership of the gold one when Chooch so generously gifted it to me.

The very next day, the gold one died while Chooch was at his cousin’s house. I was pretty upset and worried about how he was going to react when he came home and discovered this. However, it took him about four hours to notice, at which point he sighed with relief and said, “Oh it was just yours that died! Thank God.”” And then, considering this for half a second, he began to heckle me over the loss of my fish. What a little fucker. Of course, his is still kicking. He named him Roger, which does not follow suit with our previously weapon-named fish. (RIP Switchblade, Grenade and Machete.)

I love the county fairs so much that I’m in the process of compiling individual photobooks of pictures and my blog entries for each one, because I get cheered up anytime I revisit them. (Henry thinks it’s a waste of money.) I hope I never outgrow that feeling.

Until next year, Big Butler Fair. :(

Where’s Henry? Oh, just standing alone.

Ever wonder what it’s like to be Old and Joyless at the county fair? Me too, so I decided to interview* Henry  to get the geriatric scoop.

*I tried to accomplish this unbeknownst to him, but as soon as he answered the phone, it went something like this:

Henry: What.

Me: [throaty giggles]

Henry, with apprehension: What did you do?

Me, in a robotic cadence: [more giggles, staccato with giddiness] Can I ask you a few questions?

Henry, senses heightened: What? Why?

Me, still giggling & speaking like a robot with a dick in its throat: What is your favorite food at the fair?

Henry, sighing: I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.

Me: WAIT! THIS IS IMPORTANT!

Henry: [Dial tone.]

The rest of the interview was conducted both over text and in person when he came home from work, only because he kept hanging up on me every time I called him.

Henry slides his glasses down, grandpa-style, and Googles “fastest way to kill yourself at the county fair.”

Me: Is it true that you don’t ride anything because you’re worried the wind will rape your perfectly feathered hair?

Henry: No, because it makes my stomach upset. What the fuck?

Henry engaged in his favorite activity at the fair: eating. This typically occurs  only after he takes care of feeding his son and girlfriend.

Me, via text message this time so as not to chase the subject away with my giggles: Seriously, what is your favorite part about the fair, and don’t say “Leaving.”

Henry: The food.

Me: Can you be more specific and maybe answer in complete sentences using lots of descriptive words?

Henry: No. I don’t trust yoi [sic].

I feel like it must be hot sausage, his favorite food I mean, because that’s what he got on Saturday and also in 2009 at the Westmoreland County Fair. Clearly I’ve been collecting evidence. He also got french fries molested with a sublime bourbon glaze, most of which I ate though.

Henry is never in on the joke.

Me: I understand that you ran into an “old friend from work” at the fair. Were you surprised that your so-so personality made enough of an impression that he remembered you?

Henry, walking away in a huff after reading the above and below questions: No, and you’re an asshole.

Me: Did you ever covet his wife? I mean, you seemed so excited to tell me that she’s a traveling horse vet and I know how much you’re into pony play. So…?

Henry: [see above response.]

It’s true! Henry has a friend who considers him a friend back! They’re even friends on FACEBOOK so you know it’s real. They talked about really boring Old People things and all I kept thinking was, “I could have ridden the Caterpillar three times by now.” So now I hate that guy. Whatever his name is.

Henry will bitch about how much of his Faygo paycheck is spent at the fair, yet he sees no problem with throwing away next month’s rent on carnival games. Yay, $45 for two goldfish! There goes dinner for next week.

Me: About how much, approximately, of our son’s college tuition did you give to the carnies? And I’m talking about just the games, not the reacharounds:

Henry: Um, about fifteen bucks. OK, maybe about twenty.

Great. I could have bought a CD with that.

Me: What is your favorite carnival game that you like to pretend you’re good at?

Henry, sounding extremely annoyed to the max: I don’t know. I don’t want to do this, you know that.

This means he knows deep down he’s not good at anything.

Henry poses pretty and only smiles when he thinks no one is looking. His smiles usually occur when I am far, far away.

(This is also a widely unknown yoga pose for truckers.)

Me: Would you rather, and this going to hurt your heart so be prepared, give up Mountain Dew for life or trade your collection of non-descript t-shirts for ones with….logos and designs?

Henry, after making me repeat the question because I was laughing too hard and we’re now doing this from separate rooms: Give up Mountain Dew for life.

I do not know what this has to do with the fair.

Henry, in the middle of saying: “No.” “Stop it.” “Grow up.” “You’re an idiot.” “Get that pine cone out of my ass.” Pick one.

Me: It has been proven that the Caterpillar is the Best Ride In the Whole Fucking World. So why wouldn’t you ride it?

Henry: Because it’s a KIDS RIDE and I’m NOT A KID.

You got that right.

Me: Please tell us, best to your memory, what you were saying in the above picture.

Henry, in a tone becoming increasingly high-pitched with irritation: I don’t know! I don’t even know where that was taken! [I then remind him it was when we were making a mess with waffle ice cream sandwiches] I don’t know! Probably something like, “Wipe [Chooch’s] face off!”

Henry is the official beverage-holder at the fair. This prevents him from honking Tazmanian Devil-tattooed biker breasts, tugging his mouth into a frown.

Me: If you had to fight someone for the last piece of whatever your favorite carnival food is that you’re being so secretive about, would you rather it be one of the octogenarian ticket booth workers or one of the goody-goody 4H brats? Do you need me to tell you what “octogenarian” means?

Henry, rubbing his eyes tiredly: I don’t know. The octo—-[unable to pronounce it]. The ticket booth workers!

Henry tries to reflect on a time when he could still ride carnival rides, but comes up short. He’s just too old.

Me: Why don’t you ever smile at the fair? Is it because your moustache is too heavy?

Henry, from upstairs: I’m busy.

I then asked Henry to summarize his day at the fair. This is what the Man of Many Words had to say:

It was a good day. Today sucks because you just ruined everything.

Presumably because I had the audacity to make him talk to me. This took 4 hours to extract answers from him, but if there’s anything you want to ask Henry about his big day at the fair, leave a comment and I’ll see what I can do!

I have an obsessive personality, so it really shouldn’t surprise anyone that after riding the Wacky Worm (or, for those in the know, The Caterpillar) for the first time at last year’s Big Butler Fair, the hope that it would return in 2011 was one of the few things that kept me from hanging myself with a hobo’s necktie over the winter.

Who the fuck is this kid in the red shirt and why isn’t he cheering? You’re on the Wacky Worm; get stoked, motherfucker!

As soon as Janna, Chooch and I had our ride-all-day wristbands slapped on (so proud of Janna for sucking it up and going all-out! Henry, however, remains a pussy) I suggested we take a preemptive stroll around the fairgrounds. I was trying to stay cool about it, but the truth was that my pulse was quickening due to the fact that the Caterpillar was not in the same spot it was in last year and I couldn’t even begin to imagine a day at the fair without it. Especially since I spent an hour the night before coaxing and bribing Chooch to want to ride it. (He punked out last year and in that moment, I was no longer looking at my son, but at a 40″ failure. And you better believe I let him know it! And you better believe Henry lectured me for letting him know it.) So while I pretended to be interested in the money-guzzling midway games boasting oversized Rastafarian bananas as prizes and the joyful beam on my kid’s sweaty face as he rode on some kiddie truck ride (which was actually pretty awesome and I should have went on it too, why didn’t I go on it too?), I was actually craning my neck to see overtop tents and pendulating cages of death, in search of just one glimpse of my beloved Caterpillar.

THANK GOD IT WAS ON THE OTHER SIDE, YOU GUYS.

“Why do you keep laughing like Pee Wee Herman?” Janna asked me, herself laughing quite nervously as we embarked on the first of many frivolous journeys.

“I don’t know, I’m just having so much fun!” I answered a little defensively, like I now needed to prove I wasn’t going to whip out my penis and coat the Caterpillar with my gooey joy.

Corey met us there an hour later and immediately joined the fan club. I think we rode it like, 18 times, with no promise of ever slowing down. I’d still be riding it right now, if I could. I think The Law Firm should have one in the building. As a stress reliever. You know. Fuck yoga.

Unfortunately for Corey, who is six-foot-alot, he was unable to join us in raising the roof each time the Caterpillar cruised down the hill.

“I’ll for sure break my wrists,” he announced when he realized how low the track was above us.

I let him believe that that’s what would happen, when I really know that his arms would most likely get gruesomely divorced from the rest of his torso. And it would still remain the best ride ever.

At one point, I noticed that older kids started lining up for it.

“That’s because they hear you screaming and now they think this ride is fun,” Henry mumbled.

“Um, it is fun,” I corrected him.

“No, you’re just an idiot,” he sighed. How would he know when he wouldn’t even ride it? What the fuck, Henry. It’s because he was too scared. TOO SCARED OF EXPERIENCING 60 SECONDS OF SHEER DELIGHT.

It might actually force him to crack a smile, possibly even tack on a few more minutes to his miserable life, god forbid.

So instead of joining us, he stood off to the side like some purse-toting pedophile, while all the other moms stood nearby and encouraged their respective children to cheer each time the caterpillar carried us past. Of course, this made me carry on even louder, like I was single-handedly trying to bring back the Arsenio;  sometimes I would even shout Henry’s name and then point at him so everyone would know we belonged together.

He was really enthused about that.

This guy and another younger Mexican were the official Wacky Worm operators of the day, and let me tell you—they tired of me real fast. I mean, REAL FAST. I was about as amusing to them as border-crossing and I’m certain they mistook me as mentally challenged. Or on drugs. Why? Because no one has that much fun on the Wacky Worm? Damn right no one has that much fun on the Wacky Worm!  I am the champion of the Wacky Worm!

Anyway, I’m glad he decided to fuck with the ride’s foundation while Corey and Chooch were on it, and not me.

Furthermore, why wasn’t I on it that time?! I have no idea. I’m sure I must have had some sort of reason to willingly pass up a joyride on the back of my beloved Caterpillar, but the only thing I can think of is that’s when I was giving a blow job to the Dunk-a-Clown under the bleachers during the tractor pull.

Let me try to walk you through the glory that is the Caterpillar (or Wacky Worm, whatever you feel most comfortable, as an adult, calling it). It’s like riding in Jesus’s lap (that can go either way you want, holla to the religious porn addicts) as a caterpillar ascends you up to the Heavens, far away from all the grouchy grown-ups, while tiny angel-dusted kitten paws knead biscuits of lost childhood memories on your belly, and all of a sudden you remember what it felt like to score that coveted Scratch n Sniff sticker you needed to fill the page and to not have bills to pay and a house to make sure isn’t exploded by your kid and a boyfriend who might have even been the same age as you, and it feels great. Great like freedom. You absolutely want to ride it 87 more times. Caterpillar, take me away.

I got to do something that I missed out on last summer: riding the Caterpillar at sunset. Nothing is better in life than riding the Caterpillar at sunset.

We never got to ride in the front seat, though we came close on our second-to-last go-around but the dumb bitch in front of us in line caught wind of our plans and pushed her way to the coveted front spot. Or it could have been that her beer-bellied dad was hollering, “GET THE FRONT, GIRL. GET IT!” when the carny opened the gate.

I tried to get Henry to act as a placeholder while we were on the ride. You know, have him stand alone in line, saving us a spot in the front; but he refused, mumbled something about not wanting to be the only adult male in line for a kiddie ride, at which point I had to argue that Powers Great American Midways mistakenly lists the Wacky Worm under the “kiddie ride” section of their website when they obviously meant for it to be under “spectacular rides.”

The next morning, Chooch came over to me and said, “Thank you, Mommy.” The fact that he said this earnestly and with no hint of sarcasm gave me pause.

“For what?” I asked hesitantly.

“For making me ride the Caterpillar yesterday. It was so awesome.”

That was my proudest moment as a parent.

***

Since I’m friends with Powers Great American Midways on Facebook (laugh all you want, it’s informative!), I know that they’re affiliated with the upcoming Fayette County Fair which is happening on my birthday. You better believe I’m going! I went to the PGAM website and filled out the contact form with a very pressing question:

This inspired Henry to sigh heavily and say various interpretations of disapproval, such as: Don’t send that; Get a life; You need help; Get the fuck over it.

They haven’t responded to my pressing inquiry yet. Until then, I will just watch my video continuously until Henry takes the Internet away from me:

(Henry thought I pushed that girl out of my way at the end. I promise you I employed great restraint not to. Also, I apparently wasn’t holding Janna’s phone properly BUT WHO CARES IT’S THE FUCKING CATERPILLAR YA’LL. Henry really wants me to stop calling it that. It’s apparently a completely different ride.)

Last year, the Big Butler Fair was so much fun, I went twice and wrote five separate blog posts about it. It was hands-down one of my favorite days of the summer. This time, Henry is going with me so I’m keeping my hopes at sea level.

For old time’s sake, here’s a compilation of all the posts from last summer. They’re some of my favorite memories ever, you guys! I quite sincerely wish my job was to write about county fairs.

The Caterpillar

OMG my favorite ride at the fair!

Kirk vs Andrew + Awkward Soup-Slurping

This is where I had not one but TWO boyfriends and also, I slurped soup awkwardly.

Where I Turn Religious

I was given a Jesus keychain and was almost convinced to jump off a waterfall.

The Ride Round-Up

Here is where I tell you about the rides and which ones can suck a dick.

The Butler County Fair: Revisited

I went back with Henry and Chooch, who were sad puppies because I had the audacity to go without them the week before. Coincidentally, one of my friends just alerted me to the fact that the Big Butler Fair has literally every single one of the photos I took from last year on their website. Yes, even a very unflattering shot of Alisha, who I no longer speak to. I’m sure she would be just tickled to know this.

Now that I think about it, I can’t imagine why Alisha and I no longer speak.

Please pray that Henry doesn’t shit his sour grapes all over my hopefully fun day.

Creeper gon’ creep. We broke up at least a dozen times during the day so he was pretty free to ogle all the pre-teens sausaged in ill-fitting swimsuits. Go get ’em, tiger.

Henry didn’t smile once all day. Even when I showed him the awesome (and I do mean awesome) Skyrocket photo, his lips sort of twisted around his teeth like copulating worms under a nest of bristling moustache whiskers, but then ended up in a snarly frown.

Things Henry hated that day:

• Being at Kennywood
• Being at Kennywood with me
• My childlike wonder
• The sound of my contagious laughter
• Riding the Log Jammer
• Riding the Log Jammer with Janna
• Getting wet on the Log Jammer
• Getting wet on the Log Jammer with Janna
• Barely missing the senior discount
• Spending money
• Spending money on games
• Losing money on games
• Being a disappointment to his son as he lost money on games
• People in wheelchairs
• Carrying my purse
• Being Henry
• Being alive
• Not being able to listen to Dance Gavin Dance
• My face
• His hair
• Not finding anyone with worse tattoos than his
• Checking me for menstrual stains
• Having all his Potato Patch fries disappear
• Having to sit next to me on two whole rides
• God
• The word “Daddy”
• The word “Henry”

Moments before I took this picture, Janna was staring off into the horizon, smiling a smile similar to the ones I’ve seen on the faces of Mormon missionaries when they’re talking about God and pretending they don’t notice their bodies are enveloped in heavy wool during summer. She gets like that sometimes, all sorts of winsome and benevolent, like a walking flesh vessel of Little House on the Prairie episodes. She’s pure, I’m prurient. For example, earlier that day, when I spotted an albino, I laughed lasciviously to myself and then tweeted about it, whereas Janna’s heart probably exploded with candied compassion as she considered sharing her sunblock with him.

When Janna got on the Paratroopers, she accidentally sat down on the safety latch and cried about it for the whole ride, which made me cry tears of amusement. Janna is so entertaining to me! I’m actually surprised she went on the Paratroopers at all, since it’s kind of hardcore for someone like her. I was able to con her onto ONE thrill ride all day, my beloved Aero 360, but first I had to sit there and watch her (slowly) eat a strawberry parfait. I kind of wish she had puked it up on the ride.

I rode my other favorite thrill rides alone, while Janna sat on a bench like my mother, waving to me while I was in line. I didn’t mind it too much until I was in line for the Volcano (f/k/a the Enterprise) and the ride attendant asked, “Single rider?” like it was so obvious.

“Was that you who was with me when we had to walk down from the top of the hill?” Janna asked as we stood in line for Phantom’s Revenge. Janna had to walk down the rickety, vertigo-inducing steps of a steel coaster and never TOLD ME? I swear that broad has a goddamn secret life. Furthermore, how can she not remember who she shared such a harrowing experience with?

“Um, if that was me, I wouldn’t be standing in this line right now,” I pointed out incredulously. I hold grudges, and I’m pretty sure if a coaster ever broke the fuck down while I was on it, our relationship would be forever done-zo. This created a discussion of what would happen if it broke down in a spot where there weren’t steps.*

“I don’t know,” Janna pondered. “I guess they would call the fire trucks.”

God, she’s so stupid.

“Or a helicopter,” I suggested. “With Punjab hanging down from a rope.” And then I couldn’t stop laughing about that, because Annie always makes me laugh. That ginger trollop.

*(Henry the Rational Bubble-Burster was quick to point out later that it wouldn’t just stop anywhere else other than the first hill. Which has steps.)

Wishing for a new daddy. That’s what Craigslist is for, son.

My new boyfriend! Ruffle-collared is a huge upgrade from blue-collared, and people can still tell me that my boyfriend needs a haircut, except he probably won’t sass me when I stick up for him. Win/win.

Chooch won a stuffed monkey within 20 minutes of being at the park. Of course it became everyone else’s responsibility. He left it on the Whip and didn’t even realize it until a half hour later. Good thing it was one of those few times I rose to the occasion of motherhood and remembered to grab it as we got off the ride. This fucking thing was a germ dumpster by the end of the night. Chooch rubbed him against every garbage can we came across, kicked him on the ground, dropped cheesy fries on him, dropped him on the carousel and made Janna dislodge herself from her horse in order to fetch it (which made me double over with laughter even though it totally wasn’t that funny, according to Henry, who didn’t laugh at ANYTHING ALL DAY).

Anyway, I dubbed the monkey Bane. I should probably throw him in the washing machine. Oh, who am I kidding? Henry will do that shit.

$2 down the drain.

You know it’s been a long-ass day full of ethnically-correct bandaged blisters, hurt feelings and salty regret when the kid willingly leaves on his own.

We go to Kennywood every year on Father’s Day, not because we love Henry, but because it’s been statistically proven to be one of the least crowded days of the season. Chooch and I were so excited that we spent the two days preceding watching Kennywood videos on YouTube. I had Chooch convinced to try some of the bigger rides this time, but unfortunately he was still about a half inch too short, which was devastating (more for me than him, I think). I’m trying to groom him into my future riding partner since apparently everyone else is too old and susceptible to whiplash to ride anything that spins faster than the carousel. Again, devastating (more for me than them).

Janna met us there, and I think she purposely was a little late because she knew the first ride we’d go on was Garfield’s Nightmare, which used to be cool when Garfield had nothing to do with it.

Now it’s just this commercial monstrosity that makes me cry tears of nostalgia. Too bad Janna ended up taking Chooch on it twice in a row at the end of the night when Henry and I were in line for the Skyrocket.

Building up a resistance to whiplash.

I think love for Potato Patch fries is inherent for any child born in Pittsburgh. It’s not something you even have to tell your kid about, they just automatically know that they crave it and eat most of it while your head is stupidly turned.

That and a piece of pizza is all I ever eat at Kennywood.

Oh, and ice cream! These are the best ice cream cones at Kennywood. I always get crushed peanuts on mine, so Chooch has really failed me in that department. The cone comes with a cherry speared through the top by a toothpick and Chooch used to give me his when he was a baby but I guess he’s too big to share now. I didn’t get a cone this year. I feel like every time we go to get one, Henry starts a fight with me so then it ends up with me crossing my arms like a ten-year-old DJ Tanner and saying, “Just forget it. I don’t want one now.” Usually I cave, but this year I was so over it. Plus, Henry told me I was fat, so who wants to ice cream after that, you know? (He will argue that I’m mincing his words as usual, which is why I’m about to invest in a TAPE RECORDER to keep in the pocket of my trench coat at all times.)

While we were eating, Chooch realized that he had a blister on his foot and started whining at appropriate Chooch-levels, which in turn made Henry bitch about how “If your mom was a real woman, she’d have a Band-Aid in her purse” because I never have anything in my purse other than crumbs, pennies, iCarly pocketbook filled with concert tickets, assorted lip gloss, an issue of Alternative Press and a fake finger.  I never have hand sanitizer, tissues, medicine, first aid amenities. That shit’s for grown-ups. In fact, earlier that day, I had to text Janna and ask her to bring me some “just in case” tampons, because I forgot to stick some in my purse.

“You should ALWAYS have them in your purse!” Henry yelled, when I tried to make him buy me some at a 7-11 down the street from Kennywood. Anyway, Janna isn’t a bitch like Henry, so she brought me two and then we had a clandestine tampon hand-off, which wasn’t obvious at all as we stood in the middle of a walkway with people bumping into us.

However, on this particular day, I DID have a Band-Aid. And boy did that ever put a clamp on Henry’s flapping maw when I extracted it from my purse. Except it was an ethnically correct Ebon-Aid that Jason gave me when we were visiting the Alternative Press office last month, and of course we were sitting next to a black family so Henry actually moved Chooch to the other side of the table, I guess so they wouldn’t see that Chooch’s wound was about to have soul. Because I’m sure they would have cared.

The Saddest Father

Chooch and Janna were still eating their ice cream cones by the time we walked over to the train. I wanted to go inside the little station and get in line post haste, but they were eating so slow. The train is literally the lamest ride in all of Kennywood, but for some reason I was jumping around in anticipation like it was really the line to stone Fred Phelps with Gaga CDs. I finally threw my arms up in disgust and went inside by myself. Henry coaxed Chooch to eat faster and they joined me on a bench in the waiting area soon after. But Janna, we all just just abandoned her outside of the train station. I could see her, roaming around, dutifully eating her ice cream, and for some reason, this made me break out into this really obnoxious giddy bray that I do when I’ve lost all grip on reality and just can’t contain it any longer. Henry hates this. He’s 100% immune to laughter, it’s not contagious for him at all.

And then Janna, who still had some of her cone left, walked right past the ride attendant and joined us on the bench.

This made me laugh even harder, Janna smuggling in an ice cream, and I was trying to smother my laughter into Henry’s arm. He kept shrugging me off him and the other people waiting for the train started to wonder if maybe I had a medical condition because I was crying at this point. Janna sat there, enjoying the rest of her ice cream, waiting for the train.

When the train came back to the station, I shouted, “GET THE BACK ROW!” while racing over to claim it. Everyone else who was waiting got up and calmly began to board, because it’s just some stupid scenic train. No one ever rushes for shit like that. Not even church ladies.  There was enough room for all four of us, but Henry opted to sit alone. I can’t imagine why.

I think I just like the train because it goes past the river and allows me the opportunity to make gagging noises and remind everyone how much I really hate the river.

Hold on, I just peed a little.  This was before Janna hit her head. I have no idea what was happening but it brings me great joy.

Then Janna hit her head getting off the train and I sincerely almost pissed myself from laughing so hard, at which point Henry legitimately scolded me like a real life father and reminded me that it’s not nice to laugh at my friends but I really feel like he wanted to laugh at this one too. “That’s enough, child,” I believe is what he said. God, go parent some other girlfriend. I’m laughing right now, actually, remembering the look on Janna’s face, like she hadn’t noticed that she might need to stoop down a little before attempting to exit the train. In fact, the next day, I remembered this at work and started laughing uncontrollably alone at my desk, so then I decided to tell Barb, but I couldn’t stop crying and I’m sure she was like, “I don’t understand why this is funny” along with anyone who is reading this, but it’s like, my cardinal rule to laugh at my friends’ misfortunes. Which might be a reason why I don’t have many friends.

Nah.

Contraband ice cream and head-bumping never seemed so funny.

I don’t normally buy those exorbitantly-priced photos taken at the most inopportune times on roller coasters because they can make even Jennifer Aniston look like her fourth chin is giving birth to an alien flesh-sac with crossed eyes. But after I saw the one of Janna and me on the Sky Rocket, I started laughing so hard that I had to use my thighs as bladder-tourniquets. Janna had this intense look of “Please don’t buy this” in her eyes, almost as if she just knew what was going through my mind.

“I have to have it,” I blurted out to the guy working the photo booth. Suddenly, $10 seemed cheap for a memory that will last a lifetime. I couldn’t stop laughing the whole time we waited for it be printed. Janna seemed considerably less amused, but every so often I’d get a nervous laugh out of her.

I couldn’t wait to show Henry when we met back up with him and Chooch. I began laughing all over again, that insane staccato chuckle I’m notorious for when things have reached the Apex of Giddy. I even cried a little; people were looking at this point.

Henry looked at the picture and just frowned. He was probably angry that I had the audacity to spend my own hard-earned money on such frivolties instead of Desitin for his sweaty summer balls.

This picture is so fucking bad, it’s amazing.

1. If I look like this on a ride that isn’t even scary, I can only imagine how I’ll look if I ever find myself hunted in an Alaskan* forest by Michael Myers carrying a boom box that’s a’blast with Katy Perry’s Worst Misses. Coincidentally, this is also what I look like when Henry makes me have sex with him.
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   :(

2. This was taken .002 seconds after Janna cupped Josh Groban’s ballsack and then died of happiness. What a peaceful corpse she makes.
3. Someone once told the guy in the front seat to treat every moment in life like it’s a deodorant commercial.

I have more pictures and shit to say, but this was the definite highlight of my day. I hope that when I’m on my death bed, someone shows me this, because that’s really how I’d like to peace out.

(*Alaska scares the shit out of me.)

We’re going to Kennywood on Sunday and it is literally all I can think about because I’m in third grade. I even bought a new shirt to wear! Janna is going with us and bitch better take some Dramamine because I have no other spinny ride partner.

I take amusement parks very seriously and usually by the time June rolls around, I can be found doing little else but Googling various fairs and theme parks (I may or may not do this at work, as well) and creating a summer itinerary for Henry to fuck up a thousand different ways, causing me to wail, “This is the worst summer ever!”

So this is why I haven’t been doing much on here this week. Every time I sit down to blog, I wind up watching videos of new fair rides on YouTube or reading my old amusement park and county fair blog posts. (And subsequently fixing 87 typos since I never re-read my posts until like, a year later.) It’s just that there is little that makes me happier than waking up on a day when I know there are gnarly rides, terrified shrieking and making fun of moms with really bad tattoos and smoker’s voices in my future. I don’t remember ever having a feeling even close to comparable in my belly on Christmas morning. I AM JUST SO EXCITED, OK?! What gets your belly all knotted in excitement?

As filler, here are some recent photos of my child whose excitement level doesn’t even come close to matching mine. (Hopefully he actually has fun this time and isn’t a crybaby bitch like he was last year. Or maybe that was me.) KENNYWOOD 4 LYFE.

It’s almost my favorite time of the year! COUNTY FAIR TIME. I am absolutely giddy over here, looking through old photos of the fairs. GIDDY.

I am determined to try to make it to all of them this summer. With the exception of the Washington County Fair.

That might have been not only the worst fair I’ve been to, but also the worst day of last summer. Will not be revisiting.

I LOVE FAIR PEOPLE! I LOVE THE RIDES! I LOVE WRITING ABOUT THE STUPID COUNTY FAIR! If any of you locals want to meet up at any of the fairs (NOT THE WASHINGTON COUNTY ONE, THOUGH) let me know and we will make it into a party.

Kevin Kreiss (the guy who organized the zombie car wash last month) orchestrated Zom-B-Rama, a zombie carnival on Saturday. It was located in an empty store front in Monroeville Mall and went on the entire day. Chooch had known about it for weeks and kept asking, “How many more sleeps until the zombie carnival? Is today the zombie carnival? When the hell are we going to the zombie carnival?”

He let us attempt to zombify him before we left the house on Saturday, which was no small wonder. Unfortunately, Henry and I are no masters at costume makeup and by the time we arrived at the mall, most of it had seemed to come off. We should have just used dirt – that seems to stick to his face like tongues to my frozen heart.

But before we left the house, he decided he was going to hang outside and wait for victims to walk by. As soon as he would see someone in the distance, he would run across the all the front yards until he was parallel to where they were on the sidewalk, stick out his arms, and commence zombie-stalking. Some people played along and pretended to be scared, but then there were some assholes who were too cool to be concerned with anything other than their awesome iPods, which were probably playing really lame shit. Fuckers.

The turn-out was pretty good when we arrived. There were zombie patrons milling around the mall near the Monroeville Zombies homebase, and several people stopped to comment on Chooch’s Jason shirt and his hat. He gets aggravated when this happens, so of course I laughed. He even had a slight brush with paparazzi as a few people (including a professional photographer) stopped to take his picture. Oh, to walk a day in Chooch’s shoes.

We were only at the carnival for about an hour. Chooch started out fine, things like this don’t scare him. But he doesn’t like loud noise, and God forbid there was some atmospheric music playing to enhance the mood of a post-apocalyptic carnival. It’s not like it was fucking Dimmu Borgir or something, but Chooch was still clamping his hands over his ears and being Mr. Miserable about it. He half-assedly played three of the games (they had a whole little midway set up with zombified fair games) before whining about wanting to leave. So Henry had to use up the rest of the game tickets while I kept Chooch in the (quieter) back room where the tickets could be traded in for prizes.

I’m starting to think Chooch will never go to Warped Tour with me.

Anyway, the carnival was hosted by Dawn of the Dead’s Ken Foree and I’d have liked to have been able to take a picture with him and Chooch, or maybe stick around for some of the other entertainment that was on slate, like the costume contests and RNR Freak Show, but Chooch was becoming increasingly overwhelmed as more people were stuffed inside the small space. This is often the downside of bringing a four-year-old companion to events.

By the end of it, so much of Chooch’s makeup had worn off that he just looked less like a zombie and more like the victim of a grandma’s overzealous affection. Not very ghoulish.

I’ll be so pissed if “Subtle Zombie” is big next year.

I hope Kevin Kreiss continues to offer such fun and zombiriffic options throughout the year. Maybe Chooch will be less surly next time.

I didn’t know it then, but I was about three weeks pregnant at the time of this trip. It was originally posted…ew, exactly 5 years ago. And this day will come up later in The Christina Chronicles.

***

I haven’t been to an amusement park since we attempted to run amok at Six Flags in Ohio two years ago, with disastrous results. See, I evidently became sick after two hours, leaving Henry no choice but to take me home. No, Henry’s no quitter — he tried everything in his power to get me to stay, tossing out suggestions such as: “Well, you don’t have to ride anything. I can ride by myself. Just sit on that bench over there and I’ll be back in a few hundred thousand hours” and the classic “Go in the bathroom and use your finger. Make yourself puke and then you’ll feel better.” What are you saying, Henry? Is this some sort of double entendre? Do you think I’m fat? Why do you really want me to throw up, Henry, so I can stay a few more hours and not make this a wasted trip, or so that last candy bar and plate of cheese fries don’t stick to my ass? So now what, you’re some sort of pageant mom? Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, if I turned bulimic. Then I could be an Olsen and make it easier for you to keep me locked in the closet. Oops, did I just say that? Now the world knows!

Now here’s the thing — I can’t remember if I really did get sick, or if I was just being bi-polarish and over dramatic and that’s why we left. In my mind, I can see myself roiling in pain, pressing back a torrent of vomit with shaking hands, but I have a habit of creating my own memories, in which I paint myself as a victim. I’m going to toss out an educated guess here and suggest that I probably wanted something and Henry said no and the day’s mood quickly soured from there, so I faked illness to get sympathy. On the ride home, I vaguely remember producing a slight fountain of pity waterworks while Henry white-knuckled the steering wheel and kept his eyes glued to the road. Between theatrical sniffles and staccato intakes of breath, I could hear the cash register in his head dinging as it calculated all the money we wasted that day.

However, there was a time right before that doomed trip where Henry’s kid Blake and I were the only patrons at a rickety mall parking-lot carnival. We bounded from one death trap to the next like Japanese beetles buzzing in the wind, not having to piss with any lines.

We both got really sick that day.

Now, these are the only two pieces of evidence I have to fall back on and exhibit A is pretty fucking distorted. Am I at that age where spinny rides have the ability to blast through my equilibrium and shackle my body with waves of nausea? Or were these just two very bad circumstances?

I find myself worrying about things that never occurred to me as a kid. What do I eat? Do I eat something light before I get there? Will coffee come back to bite me in the esophagus later in the day? Do I stick with familiar edibles of a doughy nature in order to absorb any future risk of gastric acid rising from centrifugal force? If I don’t eat at all, look out maelstrom! One thing is for sure — my Rolaids SoftChews will be tucked snugly into my pocket.

I worry about rides breaking and catapulting me to my grisly death. I hear nuts and bolts popping and clicking and my mind starts racing and making up premonitions that I can visualize behind closed eyes, and before I know it, the ride’s over and I didn’t even get a chance to enjoy it. These are the things that used to make me applaud as a kid, the element of fear that makes your blood buzz with exhilaration. I don’t feel that anymore. Relief–now there’s something I feel. With each and every ride I disembark without whiplash, hemorrhaging or sprained body parts, I’m flooded with relief and feel an overpowering urge to go to church. For real this time, is what I say to God in my head.

And my hair. What do I do with my hair? I want to wear one of my scarves because I’m so scene, but what if it blows off on a spinny ride? That’s a whole FOUR DOLLARS drifting off in the wind. I don’t like to wear my hair pulled back because it brings out neurotic smoothing motions every thirty seconds, much like a nervous tick. Don’t even get me started on fly-aways–I’ll produce a cold sweat. Flashbacks from days sporting more barrettes than a braided black girl as my mom attempted to keep each and every last stray tuft of my hair in place. My scalp tingles when I think of how some of those plastic barrettes held down sections of hair pulled much too taut–now that I’m an adult, I realize my mother did this on purpose. It was a form of “accidental” torture.

But if I wear my hair down? O-ho — knots ahoy!

What do I wear? This frantic compulsion stems from school picnics at our local amusement park, Kennywood. It was tradition to have a new outfit to wear so all the boys will notice you. Never mind that they didn’t notice you in a thirty-desk classroom. I remember my eighth grade apparel like it was yesterday. It came from Merrry-Go-Round and I looked like an extra in Salt-n-Pepa’s “Push It” video–jean shorts with purple leather on the fronts of the legs, a black tank top with a purple mesh shirt over top. Oh, I was so fly. By the end of the night, that fucking shirt had more snags in it than the stockings on a hooker’s trunk-stuffed body.

I’ve been stressing over this all week. If I squeeze my eyes shut real tight, I can hear the cruel cadence of my step-dad’s chastising voice, reminding me that it’s not the fucking prom. Almost like holding a seashell up to my ear. Thanks, daddy.

Many moons ago, I was a young and spry youth with pigtails and Bandaid-adorned knees, skipping around Kennywood like I owned it, when a tragedy struck. A friend and I were exiting a ride equipped with swinging cars. As I stepped out, my friend took her hand away from the car, which had been holding it in place and keeping it from swinging. The car swung toward me and scraped the back of my ankle. I remember an eternity of travail, time stopping, voices sounding afar, and thinking, “This is it. I’ve lost my foot. Now I’ll have to get fitted with a club and all the kids at school will mock, ‘Hey let’s play croquet with Erin’s club foot!'” Cotton candy and funnel cake proved to be a sure-fire distraction and I eventually stopped hopping on one foot.

This is the part that stands out the most–when I went home that night, I couldn’t take off my sock. It was actually glued to my heel with blood. Each and every tiny tug and pull created a stinging sensation that traveled up to my thigh. I was so afraid to show my mom because I just knew she would take me to the hospital and the sorry doctor would shake his head and I could read his lips as they mouthed, “We need to take the foot.”

At the very least, my step-dad would want to pour peroxide over the wound which always made me feel as though I was being punished for getting hurt.

Vowing to keep my mutilation under wraps, I thrust my socked foot under warm running water in the bathtub, grimacing as it saturated my laceration, until I was finally able to slowly peel off the sock and watch rivulets of coagulated blood slide off my ankle and swirl around the drain.

I still remember the socks I was wearing that day.

As kids, we’re more resilient. What if something like this occurs on Saturday? What if the rusty steel from a thrill ride pierces and catches my skin and before anyone can save me, my flesh is being unraveled like a mummy. I’m no kid–I’m much higher off the ground now; I’m susceptible to much more damage. Chances of me breaking a bone are more likely than walking away with a sprain. I’m a walking accident! Call me on the phone and listen to how many times I murmur “Ow” as I walk from one room to another. I am fucking panicking here. I don’t want to get hurt! I don’t want the whole of King’s Island to see my blood!

If I die on Saturday, it better be from something cool, like a roller coaster jumping track and plummeting into a ravine. Not something anticlimactic, like me tripping over my feet and then getting run over by a tram.

There is an upside, however.

When Henry and I spend large amounts of time together in public, the tension grows and multiplies until eventually a thick fog of it is smothering us and testing our gag-reflexes. But this time, we won’t be alone — Christina and her sister Cynthia will be accompanying us and hopefully cutting through the bulk of that fog. Instead of fighting with Henry all day, I can mix it up between him and Christina. And of course, any innocent by-standers who cross my path.

Plus, maybe I can convince Christina to buy me a souvenir cup.

***

We left Saturday morning and drove through a consistent sheath of downpour, which led Henry to blabber on about how “if it’s raining like this when we get there, I am not wasting my money at King’s Island, I’m sorry.” And somewhere on a stretch of wet highway still within the boundaries of West Virginia, we had a shouting match about how he’s going to treat our pre-conceived baby (we love playing Hypotheticals) and I stamped my foot down hard and yelled, “Take me home!” at which point he laughed so hard he had tears in his eyes and I wanted to break his stupid glasses.

After many stops so he could drain his grizzled bladder, we finally made it to Christina’s house in Hamilton, neither of us maimed or sustaining any head trauma, amazingly (my limbs flail when I’m angry and trapped within the confines of a cramped Nissan Sentra).

I know many of you had been holding your breath all weekend long, wondering what I did with my hair and/or if I retched myself into clammy-handed oblivion on any rides at King’s Island.

1. I wore my hair down in hopes of starting a knotted and dreadlocked free-for-all. I tried to act blissfully unaware (I think maybe I did a not-so-good job) and only ran my fingers through it as a makeshift comb about forty times after each ride. And I only furtively smoothed down the mini afro of frizz atop my head all day long, but really—who’s counting? By the second hour, I purposely avoided any glimpses of myself in restroom mirrors.
2. I did not get sick; however, I brought home a lot of (free) souvenir bruises. No contusions, bless our fine Lord. What the hell — and his mommy, too.

While I would love to sit around the campfire with hot cocoa, recounting tales of all my favorite rides (Son of Beast was the most funnest you guys), all I can really remember amidst the whirlwind of clanging metal parts and side-stepping fresh gum in my path is one thing: checking for my period.

I came prepared. The arsenal of tampons was just short of being strapped to my body like dynamite—I had one waiting in each pocket of my cargo pants in addition to a surplus of “just in cases” in my purse. If I had worn boots, I would have tucked one or two in there, also…next to my switchblade. Which I don’t have yet, but someday. Someday.

“Check me! Do I have stainage?” These were my pleas to Henry, Christina and Cynthia every ten minutes while we were held hostage in one line after another. Oh, how I yearned to make fun of others in my proximity, but feared to in case Karma came back to paint a large blood target on my crotch.

I got lucky when we disembarked Flight of Fear, an indoor ride, as no one was around me. “Block me,” I whispered hoarsely to Christina as I leaned forward and spread the legs of my pants apart nice and wide, to inspect for wetness. Doing this while keeping a steady pace walking down a slanted corridor takes skills. Skills which I possess. I like to compare it to performing magic amidst a ring of fire.

But something good came out of my obsessive bathroom breaks–the highlight of my amusement park junket.

Picture it: You’ve just emerged from a stall with eyes raised to the Heavens (bathroom ceiling) above and are silently praising the Lord Almighty for no blood stains on your panties (if you’re a man, picture it anyway. It’ll help build character). As you’re washing your hands real good because this place is dirty (and if you had a more accelerated condition of OCD, you probably would be convulsing and foaming at the mouth by now), you start to panic as you wonder when your next chance will be to “check.” Everyone in your group groans as you drone on and on about your need to “check,” but you can’t shake the paranoia and obsessive need to make sure you’re not drizzling menstrual blood down your legs; the fabric of your cargo pants is thin and blood will seep right through in no time.

You slowly snake the paper towel around your wet hands, sopping up the water and looking at yourself in the mirror, wondering when you became so uptight about the small things. You contemplate telling Christina you want drugs (ask and she’ll do it) so you can relax and if you end up floating around town with curdled blood around your thighs, big deal; you’re too busy goo-goo’ing and ga-ga’ing at the giant unicorn smiling down at you from a cloud.

And then you start thinking about unicorn porn.

Wait, where were you? Bathroom, hands, drying. So, you turn to your left and casually pitch the paper towel into the large garbage can, when you happen to get a glimpse of something extraordinary. So extraordinary it snaps you back to the here and now. No more unicorn.

The bathroom stall directly in your line of vision is slightly ajar, with its occupant standing hunched over, jean shorts and white cotton underwear down around her knees. Before you even have a chance to scold yourself, your eyes slip down a few inches and that’s when you see it.

a  real life vagina.

You feel your friend Christina tugging on your arm and saying in a terse whisper, “Erin, let’s go. You’ve seen enough” but you can’t pull your eyes away from the hairy mound of flesh ten feet in front of you. Your body slightly lurches as you feel the giddiness building up and you’re ready to explode into a conniption of giggles. Christina steers you to the exit and you run and tell your friends what just happened, waving your hands like you’re approaching the climax of a jazz dance routine, and rubbing it in their astonished faces. “You don’t know what you just missed in there!” you say smugly, trying to catch your breath. You feel like you’re on a safari. Then you make them stand around, in the way of hundreds of fast-moving patrons and strollers, so you can point out the woman whose vagina you saw. They don’t really care but you make them wait anyway, and when she comes out of the restroom with her kids, you jump and point and they shrug and start walking away.

And that’s my big exciting highlight. It would have been cooler if she was being scalped or having her face painted at the same time I saw it, but what can you do.

My second favorite moment was eating at the Festhaus. I had pizza and fries, but not just any fries: Fries with a buffet of condiments. I derived great, some might even say ecstatic, amounts of pleasure by deliberating in which pool of sauce each fry would be taking a bath: would it be the succulent marriage of ketchup and mayo, the tiny basin of honey mustard, or the thick and rich vat of creamy nacho cheese? My companions had long since finished eating and sat around idly while I dined on one single fry after another. It was heaven.

Lately I’ve been really into dipping things.

We left around 10:00 that night so I could be back at Christina’s in order to bid on a spectacular piece of Cure memorabilia. In between spastic menstrual wonderment, fleeting thoughts of missing the Ebay auction would swim through my mind. I even carved a reminder on my inner wrist, imagining my pen was a box cutter and I was sacrificing my tainted blood in the name of Robert Smith.

“Why would you write it there?” Henry asked in a tone that would suggest I just pissed in the corner of a church (I would actually do that too).

“Because it’s the part of my body that I look at the most.” Sadly, I had to explain this to him because, evidently, after four years he hasn’t picked up on my morbid fascination with my veins. And my ribs. Ooh, shivers.

While down-home Americana and other fine handmade crafts aren’t really my decorating style, I do enjoy going to various fairs and festivals full of vendors shilling their rustic wares. So when Jessy suggested that we all go to Columbiana, Ohio for the Shaker Festival last Sunday, I was all for a little expedition in the woods. Plus, Henry said there would be AMISH PEOPLE THERE.

For me, the big picture was hooking up Henry with Jessy’s husband Tommy. We’ve been planning a group vacation to the beach next summer, and Tommy has expressed concern because he doesn’t really know Henry. I told Jessy I would handle it; they should be trading porn before we know it.

A great opportunity arose the night before the Shaker Festival, when Jessy texted me and asked where I thought we should meet.

“Ooh, we should let the MEN handle this part,” I thought, the wheels turning and a devious grin splitting my face. Jessy texted me Tommy’s number and my assault on Henry began immediately.

“Call him. Here, call him. Here’s his number, call him. PLEASE CALL HIM YOU’RE MAKING ME LOOK LIKE AN ASSHOLE PLEASE DO NOT RUIN THIS VACATION FOR ME OR I WILL FUCK YOU UP.”

“I’m not calling him just because you two want me to! I’ll call him when I’m ready,” Henry argued. Defiance never did look good on him. Just makes his dick look small.

“He’s probably sitting there staring at his phone!” I yelled. “You better call the boy right now!”

He continued to lounge on the couch, soaking in the sensation of standing his ground. So I snatched his phone and texted Tommy. He’s lucky my reputation is on the line here, or I would have sent the most flaming, rainbow-tinted text imaginable, but I stuck with the safe, “Hey man, what are you thinking for tomorrow?” I even spelled everything correctly and resisted the urge to call him “cuz.”

Tommy never replied (Henry looked a little sad about that), so Jessy and I finalized plans on our own, but that’s OK – we’re used to doing everything ourselves.

Once we pulled into the parking lot and got out of our respective vehicles, Chooch honed in on Tommy and it was all over. They antagonized each other for the rest of the day and I said a silent prayer; finding someone who can hold Chooch’s attention is not easy. Jessy’s mom Karen and her husband Gary were also in attendance, which I liked. I enjoy things done in groups; it makes me feel cozy and less worried that I’m going to get lost.

“Go over there and stand with Tommy,” I whispered sternly to Henry, trying to get him to bro-up.

“I’ll do it on my own terms, stop pushing!” Henry hissed, shrugging away from me.

Once the admission was paid and we were enveloped by the trees, Jessy was off to the races. We would walk a few feet and then someone would say, “Where’s Jessy?” We’d stop and slowly make a 360 degree pivot. Sure enough, she’d be inside one of the little woodland shops we had walked past, making friends with the vendors.

The rest of us spent a good amount of time standing in a huddle in the middle of the footpaths, with Chooch plunked down in everyone’s way, dumping pebbles out of his sandals.

It didn’t take me long to realize that there weren’t any real Amish people there, just vendors dressed up in period costumes. It’s a good thing I’m pretty good at figuring things out on my own, because if I had asked someone where the Amish were, well, I imagine I might have found myself in a very embarrassing Alamo moment.

While Jessy was looking at non-edible things, my belly zeroed in on a small round table brimming along the edges with a multitude of jars of jellies. This was basically the beginning of the end for me. I had just dove into my sampling frenzy, spreading a thick slab of lemon meringue butter onto a cracker, when Vickie herself emerged from the storefront and said, “Here, try this one, but put some cream cheese on it first.” It was some sort of apple walnut bullshit, but once it was married with the cream cheese, it took on a whole new meaning. My tongue had suddenly become the coke table at Studio 54 and it wanted more.

I ran to get Henry, begging him to try it. He didn’t bust out into a shimmy-shake of delight like I had, but I figured it was just because his palate is so old and damaged from all his years of doing fuck all in the Service.

There were others I wanted to buy, but I stuck with the apple walnut jelly, because it called forth visions of hayrides and Thanksgiving dinners (the kinds I’ve seen on TV, anyway), and the lemon meringue butter, because it was sugar shock in a jar.

I walked away with my bag of Vickie’s jellies, trying to snuff the desire of dunking my fingers in the jars right there in front of everyone. If it was just Jessy, I’d have done it. Probably just stuck my whole fat tongue inside a jar until I gagged. But there were other people in our party so I was trying to act like I hadn’t just escaped the zoo. (“Since when?” Henry would probably ask, assuming he ever read this shit.)

I’d like to put Vickie in a jar, if you know what I mean. (And I hope you don’t.)

But my hunger for samples was insatiable. After my jelly binge, I walked into a candle storefront with Jessy and instantly began looking for a tray of candle samples to taste.

Occasionally, Jessy would find herself in hostage situations in some of the storefronts and Tommy would have to rescue her. I would always start out going inside with her, but damn, that girl is a professional shopper.  Where I just glance at things, she picks everything up, holds it up to the light, lightly bites it to check its authenticity. I think I even caught her polishing the lens of a pocket loupe in one of the jewelry shops.

Meanwhile, I would look at one or two things and immediately find myself distracted by something going on outside. So I’d wander off. I fail as a woman in so many ways. Though I do succeed in using my tits to get what I want. So there’s that.

I got chastised after taking a picture of this little faux-Amish kid.

“Oh ma’am,” came the  softly pious, high-pitched voice of a similarly-clad man to my right. “We don’t allow pictures taken here.” He gave me one of those feigned apologetic smiles, coupled with sad eyes and a head tilt. I’m assuming it was the kid’s dad. Look, dickhead, if you don’t want people taking photographs of your son, then don’t dress him like he’s one of the Children of the Corn.

Henry said the guy was probably more worried about people taking pictures of his wares. If you start seeing neon-painted beach signs popping up on my Etsy, you’ll know where I got the idea.

Fudgie Wudgie was there passing out samples. I think that’s when it was really clear to me that this wasn’t actually an Amish thing. But that didn’t stop me from sucking back a blueberry cheesecake fudge sample before skulking over to the next booth and licking some of their no-bake cheesecake samples from a plastic spoon. Feeling energized by the samples, I joined Jessy in a storefront shilling these pretty, shimmery jewelry things. We both decided we liked the bracelets. I pointed out an orange and pink stone and said I liked that one the best.

Then I left and commingled with our group some more while Tommy whined about being so hungry and where the hell was Jessy? She finally caught up with us and said to me, “Look what fell in my purse, I have no idea how that happened.” She opened her purse mysteriously and there, laying on top, was the bracelet I was admiring. At first, I thought it really had just fallen in there. “What are the odds?” I thought. But then my second thought was, “Oh my god, Jessy stole this!?” and I quickly made a list of all the heists I could have her pull. But really, she bought it. For me! She bought herself one too so I decided they’re friendship bracelets. Henry is so jealous.

We lost Jessy, her mom and Gary inside the gnashing jaws of a snowman shop. It just happened to be right near the path to the food vendors, down which Tommy stared with glazed-over eyes and saliva-dripping lips.

I’m certain Tommy was cramming in a two minute lesson on strippers, fishing and bb guns over french fries and it scares me how piqued Chooch looks as he takes it all in.

The map we picked up at the entrance promised “authentic Shaker food.” I’m still under the impression that Shakers are some bastard mutations of Amish and I promise you I didn’t see any shoo fly pie or succatash being heated by nothing but the flame of a lantern and the Lord’s warmth. Last I checked (which was literally just now, just this very second), the Amish weren’t known for their fajitas.

Which is what I had for lunch.

Everyone else had meat. Then the Tumbleweed Band came on stage, announced they only had a few shirts left, and promptly drove us away with their banjo bullshit.

They’re men. I’m sure whatever they were looking at either involved buoyant breasts or a barbeque pit, or buoyant breasts being barbequed in a pit.

After lunch, Jessy did some more shopping I think. I wouldn’t know. It’s hard to see what’s going on around you when your face is engulfed in row after row of samples. It was the motherlode. Every type of dressing, barbeque sauce, hot sauce, mustard, vegetable dip you could think of: it was all spread-eagled on a table that seemed to stretch for miles. And inside the storefront were more samples: jellies and jams, syrups, no-bake cheesecake mixes. I tried it all. Some I tried twice, despite the crudely drawn sign that tried to deter such greedy behavior.

“Try to stay away from the dips that are cream cheese-based,” Henry warned. “They’ve been sitting out in the sun all day; you’ll get sick.” Henry knows me very well, which is why I can’t figure out why he’d waste his breath. Of course I’m going to indulge in every single sample laid out.

It’s what they’re there for.

To be sampled.

By me.

Because if I don’t, I’ll die. Just a fun little survival game  I like to play by myself.

So I kept right on dunking.

“Hey Erin,” Tommy taunted. “Try the Hell’s Kitchen sauce. It’s not that hot. I swear.” And then he and Henry exchanged little school girl giggles.

On one hand, I was annoyed by this tag-team effort to dangle me over a vat of bubbling Precarious Situation. But on the other, I was tickled that Henry and Tommy were teaming up because it meant they were bonding.

I marched over and jammed a pretzel into the Hell’s Kitchen sauce and tossed it in my mouth.

“It’s not hot——” I tried to say, but then my tongue went up in flames. And then I swallowed and my esophagus exploded.

Henry and Tommy thought this was hilarious, and I was still trying to deny that it was too hot for me. Although the fact that parts of me were disintegrating before their eyes kind of gave away my lie.

I got an instant headache from that tiny little spot of sauce. Gary had also jumped onto the Ridicule Erin trampoline by that point, but I was too busy choking back bile to get as defensive as I normally would have. I wasn’t down for the count immediately, but as the day progressed, and the curdled creams in all the sauces I swallowed began their digestive fornication, I started to feel decidedly not OK. And then I started thinking about the first trimester of my pregnancy, when I was a total whore for condiments, and how I filled the fridge with exotic soft cheeses and sour creams and spent my days submerging crackers into their cold tubs while laying on my side watching “Rome.”

And then I burped a little.

Oh, but a little nausea didn’t deter me! We found another sample-laden store front near the entrance and my first thought was, “How did I miss this?” and then “Oh my  god, more hot sauce!”

It was here that I managed to lose all six people in my group. Rather than call any of them, I sent out an SOS tweet.

Tweeting is the new 911.

Then Henry found me and bought me some kind of berry cobbler shit, which I didn’t really enjoy but still dug into it until Henry pulled the bowl away from me.

Nice purse, Tommy!

Chooch kept asking, “Who ARE these people?” when we were forced into the unthinkable – sharing a table with strangers. They returned his rude inquiries with polite laughter, and I kept kicking him under the table. Stop making them notice us, boy! God, if conversation was a vampire, he’d be inviting it in on the daily.

I love how Henry is looking at his fingers, trying to replicate Tommy’s RUDE GESTICULATION. During one of many nudge-nudge sessions between Jessy and me, regarding Henry and Tommy’s blossoming bromance, Henry defensively muttered, “Would you two stop! I’m not a girl, stop trying to set me up with Tommy!”

The “I’m not a girl” argument made Jessy stop in her tracks. “Oh, I don’t know about all that, Henry. I’ve seen the pictures!”

Chooch was still asking, “Where are the rides?” as we walked through the parking lot to our respective cars.

I went home and promptly purged all the samples from my ailing body then passed out for about an hour.  Even though my taste-testing indiscretion proved lethal in the end, it was still a really fun and fulfilling day, and the company couldn’t have been any better. I’m really enjoying spending time with Jessy and her family; it’s just easy and laid back. I can be myself and laugh until my cheeks hurt. I’m thinking this beach vacation is going to be pretty rad.

Yes, it was a great day, but now I associate Jessy with vomiting. (Kidding!)

Henry, Chooch and I drove to Wheeling, WV on Saturday to meet up with my sister Amy, her boyfriend Dick, and her daughter Brooke at the Italian Festival. It was probably about 100 degrees that day. It was like a back sweat swimming pool out there.

For those of you who have kids or Alishas, you’ll know what a big deal this was: Chooch fell asleep on the way there and Henry and I got to have adult conversation! And by that of course I mean Henry sat silently in the driver’s seat while I rambled on and on about music and changed CDs at whim. It was awesome.

There were no rides there, but there were like 127875654 different bouncy houses, all of which cost a dollar to enter. One of them was just a tunnel and it pissed me off that it cost an entire dollar for literally the ten seconds it took to get to the other end. I kept begging Chooch to go slower, but I think he was getting claustrophobic.

Chooch and Brooke scaled that sucker in no time. Meanwhile, that dumb blond girl kept losing her footing and tumbling back down to the bottom. It was hilarious. If I was her mom, I’d have left her there out of shame.

It’s funny how kids don’t need to really talk to each other when they’re playing. Because I’m not sure I’ve seen these two speak to each other yet, but they were all about rolling down a hill together.

A few days prior to the weekend, Chooch had dumped cereal out the window of the car. Yes, it could have worse, like a plastic bottle or Faberge egg, but we still yelled at him. A few minutes later, a cop car flew past us with its lights and siren on and Henry said, “Oh you’re lucky. They were looking for you but must not have seen you back there.” Chooch was real heightened in his car seat after that.

At the Italian Festival, there were a group of cops standing together on an overlook above the wall on which we were sitting. We had Chooch totally convinced they were watching him. He was like a human Litter Gitter for the rest of the night.

(Note: He’s not wearing shoes because he was playing in the bouncy houses, not because West Virginia got to us.)

Hottest man there, OK?

Highlights:

• Buying a pina colada that came in this thing and having the entire population of the Italian Festival want to talk to me about it.
• Making a new boyfriend named Alan who was working at the seafood stand and was very interested in my “coconut.” We chatted for awhile and he said, “Please come back and see me tonight. I would really like that.” But then I went and sat down directly across from him, right next to Henry, Chooch and Brooke. Kind of killed my chances. Oh, and Henry witnessed the whole sordid episode and completely didn’t care. Probably because he turned it into porn in his mind.
• KARAOKE.

Oh shit, we seriously stood around for an hour, letting the vocal delights of West Virginia’s finest tickle our ear drums. This broad with the vat of beer sang “Love is a Battlefield” and thought she was God’s gift to the entire institute of hearing. And when she wasn’t singing, she was drunkenly leaning against the cotton candy stand for support, hungrily waiting for her next turn.

Her name was Becky in case you want to find her and hire her for your next bachelor party.

Amy was obsessed with this broad that had enough confidence to allow herself to leave the house without tucking her back fat into a pocketbook.

Amy was hoping to get to see her sing, but she couldn’t stick around long enough. It’s a shame too, because she finished her set with a very dexterous display involving cans of Schlitz and the crushing they endured inside the flaps of her posterior breasts.

Chooch sweats.

And that is all that I’m writing because I’m trying to conserve all those words and shit for Blogathon on Saturday, where I’m certain to run out of fodder after hour three. And then I will have a meltdown and then Henry will say, “There, now you can write about having a melt down and breaking all the good China over your head.”

Not gonna lie, I leaped out of bed at 7:30am on the day of Warped Tour. Never mind the fact that I didn’t even go to bed until after 3:00am, because I was all giddy and jittery like it was Christmas Eve. I had waited an entire year for this year. Henry had barely pulled into the parking lot of First Niagara Pavilion a little after 10:00am and I was already crying. Not bad tears! No, these were “I’m so fucking happy, fucking finally” tears. I can’t explain it, but the atmosphere alone of Warped Tour is like an upper for me. Instant good mood. Huge, goofy smile. Excited tugs on Henry’s sleeve.

And this is just in the parking lot.

It was over ninety degrees that day and I know Henry had to have been broiling a ballsack feast inside his shorts, but he knows by now that Warped Tour is a No Bitch Zone. It was so humid out that some guy in front of us quietly vomited three times.

And this was just in the line to get in.

There’s always that one band I’m dying to see every year, and this year it was hands down, no contest Pierce the Veil. The fact that they didn’t start until 3:40 was a blessing and a curse all at once. A curse because, obviously, I”m super anxious to see them and just thinking about it made me do pee-squats, like I was waiting in the woods for my boyfriend to arrive and steal my virginity. Those kind of pee-squats. Maybe you’re familiar. But it’s also a blessing because the first set of the day start AS SOON AS the gates open. And the line doesn’t always move that swiftly. In 2007, I missed CHIODOS (CHIODOS, YOU GUYS) because Christina’s douche canoe sister pissed around so bad that morning that we didn’t arrive until noon and their set was at 11:15.

So, I was happy that I wouldn’t have to right off the bat grab Henry’s bear-paw and drag him frantically over hills and through droves of scene kids, searching for the right stage. We had plenty of time to mosey around like creepy old people and catch Call the Cops and Dillinger Escape Plan, and then pause to watch some of Set Your Goals, Alesana, and The Pretty Reckless (little Jenny Humphrey can SANG, ya’ll), all in the first 90 minutes. Best part about Warped Tour: bored? Then move the fuck on.

I’ve been to all sorts of music festivals: a bunch of the various radio shows (you know, the X-Fests that pretty much every city had), even driving as far as Wisconsin from Pittsburgh to catch Cold play a 30-minute set at one; Rolling Rock Town Fair; Locabazooka; Curiosa; even Coachella. But none of those festivals ever made me feel like Warped Tour does. Coachella especially, I can remember feeling really insecure and self-conscious. It was hands down one of the most pretentious concerts I’ve ever gone to. Don’t get me wrong, it was worth flying across the country for, because The Cure headlined the second night, but the whole vibe of the place was shitty for me. I spent more time feeling uncomfortable and out of place than actually enjoying the experience for what it was worth (two plane tickets from Pittsburgh, a rental car, a hotel room, and the tickets to Coachella was a LOT OF WORTH). There was a blog post on Alternative Press’s website that I linked to a couple of weeks ago about why Warped Tour is still relevant. And in this opinion piece, the writer mentioned that it’s a place for kids to feel like they belong somewhere, to be somewhere around similar people. I’m far from a kid, I’ll be 31 at the end of July, but this is why Warped Tour is relevant to me as well. I feel more comfortable in my skin on that one day than I do any other day of the year. Even as an adult, I’ve never really found my “place.” I still don’t feel like I “fit in,” (though there’s less of an urgency for that these days) and I still kind of feel unaccepted by my peers at times because there is a large part of me that is forever young. It’s just that now it doesn’t bother me like it did. Now I find ways to get around the fact that I don’t have much in common with people my age, and I’ve learned how to make it work.

Although, it’s still nice to have that one day where I can walk around and hear kids name-dropping Ollie Sykes and Austin Carlile (who wasn’t there, but two of his ex-bands were), or wondering out loud who’s going to be guest-screaming today with Of Mice & Men (because I know you’re chomping at the bit to know, it was Coco from Her Demise, My Rise). It’s like, this is my language. I talk about this shit anywhere else and people are like, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why can’t you just talk about John Mayer & Dave Matthews Band & health insurance  like the rest of us normal adults?”

And it’s funny because Henry knows all this shit too, just because he has to live in a world strewn with worn pages of Alternative Press, Havoc music videos, and a teenage daughter (THAT’S ME) who reads online music forums instead of Us Weekly like most normal girls her age. He even likes some of it, but he probably wouldn’t admit that out loud.

I like this picture for 2 reasons:

1. you can see tents in my sunglasses

2. Henry looks put-out

Every year, there’s always that one band that I’ve never heard of that I end up falling in love with after thirty seconds. Last year, it was Remember Thy Name. This year, it was Last Call Chernobyl. The singer had a scream that tore the skin off my soul. “That’s my favorite kind of screaming!” I yelled to Henry, and I mean YELLED TO HENRY since we were in the front of the stage by the speakers. Henry of course looked at me like I was retarded for liking screamo so much that I have a predilection for a certain type of scream. And there ARE different types of screaming.

I was excited to see Polar Bear Club, since the previous time was at a really shitty venue in Pittsburgh when they opened for Thrice and I couldn’t actually see the band. They were playing on the AP/Advent stage under the pavilion, so Henry gave a little fist pump because this meant he could sit down. Polar Bear Club is a band that “older people” like too, so I thought Henry would finally get a chance to see something he could enjoy. That motherfucker was snoring within two minutes. Every year he falls asleep! Although this time it wasn’t as impressive as last year when he slept through a thrashing metal set.

At around 3:20, we made our way to the front of the Altec stage and claimed our spots at the barrier. Waiting is the hardest fucking part. I was doing a pee jig and flashing giddy squealing faces over my shoulder at Henry. I was somehow not surrounded by assholes (other than Henry). It was the perfect spot on the perfect day, waiting for the perfect band.

Pierce the Veil was at Warped Tour in 2008. Blake saved me from getting knocked out, but I still took a few shoes to the head that year. Aside from Chiodos (who were there last year), they are definitely my favorite band to see at Warped Tour because their sets are flawless and exciting; even Henry said after the first time that “they weren’t bad.” That’s the best Henry can do when it comes to the bands I like.

They always pretty theatrical entrances. I don’t even know (or care) what this guy was saying because everyone was screaming so loud.

They came out and dove right into “Caraphernalia” and I tried so hard to fight the tears but they started rolling down my cheeks in spite of my efforts. I cried through the entire set, it was so stupid.

• Caraphernalia
• Chemical Kids and Mechanical Brides
• Currents Convulsive
• The Boy Who Could Fly
  
• Yeah Boy and Doll Face
  
• The Sky Under the Sea

I’ve waited almost two years to see them again. The last time was in Buffalo in 2008 with Christina, and that was not so good because of the company. Besides, this is one of the few bands Henry likes too and I like seeing them with him. So many of their lyrics make me think of him. (Don’t tell him that. Well no, you can, because they’re mostly the morbid ones.)

During “The Boy Who Could Fly,” (they used Drake’s “Find Your Love” as an intro which was fucking sick) Vic climbed into the crowd and held out the mic for all the kids to shout a resounding “Without you there is no me” and I lost it. I was crying so hard at that point, that my eyes were burning from the mixture of tears and sweat. I was so grateful for my sunglasses. When they were done, I turned around and put my head on Henry’s belly. My heart hurt so much and I couldn’t remember how to breathe correctly. Essentially, I was just a huge mess.

All the live videos I found were shitty and did no justice.

But there was no time to stand around and slit my wrists because Emarosa was playing next on a stage which required us to hustle to get there on time. It was actually the smallest stage there that day, which made laugh because Jonny Craig, Emarosa’s singer, is so fucking cocky that I imagine he expected to be on the main stage. But no, they were relegated to the tiny stage that folds out from the side of a truck. We grabbed spots next to the barrier and I immediately spotted Jonny in a douchey red trucker cap, hanging out behind the truck. I mean, stage. You might remember a post I had about him last fall, after I experienced his backwoods brand of douchery first hand for the second time. Well, that particular post is one of my top 3 posts, stats-wise, thanks to all the fans out there who Google terms such as “Why is Jonny Craig a dick?” “I hate Jonny Craig” “Did Jonny Craig impregnate a dog?” & “Why does Jonny Craig suck so hard?” See? I’m not the only one. He’s pretty notorious in the scene.

There were a few times we made direct eye contact, and I kept hissing to Henry, “OMG HE KNOWS I WROTE ABOUT HIM!” (Someone involved with the band does, because the dashboard to their bandcamp.com page was a referring link in my stats a few weeks ago, for that specific post. That was awesome.)

It was hilarious to hear the murmurings of “OMG it’s Jonny!” spread like wildfire as kids began noticing his presence.

The moment he picked up the mic and began belting out “Set It Off Like Napalm,” I was in this confusing, twisted agony of love and hate. Never have I experience such conflicting emotions over a band before. They have had a huge impact on my life over the past few years, mostly because of Jonny, and that impact started even before Emarosa, when he was in Dance Gavin Dance. And now, mostly because of Jonny, I almost cringe when I hear them, because of my personal experiences with him. I don’t want that to affect how I feel about the music and it’s a constant battle to keep those things separate. But as a fan, I’m not too proud to admit that he let me down. I don’t like having a foul taste in my mouth when it comes to a singer I admire. I want to respect him as an artist, but it’s hard when I can’t respect him as a person.

I kept turning around and sticking my tongue out at Henry to signify my disgust for who was on the stage, but at the same time, my inner teenager was sighing, “Oh, Jonny.” It was so bi-polar. It was agony.

Luckily, he didn’t do too much douche-drizzling on stage that day, instead opting to put on a fantastic set.  He clearly wasn’t drunk this time, yay! So his vocals were spot-on and the band was sick. I cannot deny that this guy has one of the best, if not THE BEST, vocals in the scene today. I’d be willing to fight about it, actually. I still prefer his early work in Dance Gavin Dance though, because it was more interesting, but that’s just me. My only problem with Emarosa is that the lyrics don’t really strike me; they’re average and at times, contrived. If it wasn’t for Jonny’s voice, they’d be just another band fighting for an identity. (In my opinion, that is; I’m big on lyrics!)

Nice to see he has a mullet now. I would have been happier to see the Jonny-tail of yore. (Which is seriously what the back of Chooch’s head is modeled after.)

• Set It Off Like Napalm
• Heads Or Tails? Real Or Not
  
• A Toast To Future Kids
• Truth Hurts While Laying On Your Back
• The Past Should Stay Dead

I could tell Henry was fighting the urge to scream, “OMG JONNY!!!” with all the other little girls (and guys!) as Jonny walked off the stage. (Chooch just walked over here, saw these photos and said, “Ugh. Jonny’s a bitch.” See?! Even a four-year-old knows.)

After that, we were able to just float around and take our time with things, soak up the atmosphere. Well, that’s what I was doing anyway. Henry was too busy spending all my merch money on $5 bottles of Sprite because he’s too much of a bitch to suck it up and drink water like the rest of us smarties. You know how much I spent on beverages? $4.50 for one bottle of water, which I proceeded to refill at a water fountain all day long.  Henry’s too good for that, though. Thanks Henry, I didn’t really want to buy a t-shirt anyway.

There’s always a Top-40 artist included on Warped Tour (two years ago it was Katy fucking Perry), and this year it was Mike Posner. When the set first started, it was pretty chill. I was actually not minding it. But midway through the second song I was bored to tears. I needed screaming and thrashing guitars. Plus, we were sitting under the pavilion watching him while eating frozen Minute Maid lemonade and I suddenly felt really old, like I should be at a Steve Miller show (which I actually went to when I was 18, so I don’t know why I picked that as my example).

I’m not a fan of chick-fronted bands. Alisha can vouch for that. And there were a lot of girly bands there this year. Fuck Hey Monday and Automatic Loveletter (seen them before, snooze fest). But I did make a point to catch Eyes Set To Kill, because that girl can fucking sing, and they’re not a pussy band.  Alexia has more talent than most of the other Warped Tour girls combined.

I hate when the sky looks like that because it means the day is coming to an end. Leaving is the worst part. Waiting for next year is even worster! I nagged Henry the whole way to his sister’s house to pick up Chooch.

“WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE PART?” <–He always says “when we left” for that one.

“DID YOU LOVE PIERCE THE VEIL?”

“WHAT DID YOU THINK OF JONNY?

“CAN WE GO TO THE ONE IN CLEVELAND?”

Henry said this was his last year. We’ll see about that.

I have been so sad ever since July 7, 2010. To torture myself, I still get the official VansWarpedTour tweets sent to my phone and I read them wistfully, sighing heavily at all that I’m missing on the other dates. Warped Tour brings on a post-show depression like none other than I’ve ever experienced. My Christmas Day is over for another year.

[There are more photos here! Plus, they’re better when viewed larger. My blog layout doesn’t allow for wide photos, right HENRY?]