I recently reconnected with Charlie, an old friend from high school. He mentioned that he and his girlfriend were going to be at the Finleyville Carnival last night, and I decided it would be a fun way to hang out with him for a bit since we were going to be in the area anyway stalking someone for Alisha. I sat in the backseat with Chooch and while Henry and Alisha putzed around with directions, I completely lost myself to violent/crazy/epileptic car dancing to A Skylit Drive. Of course, this sent Chooch into fits of glee, but Henry and Alisha were very tight-lipped, staring out the window.

By the time the stalking mission was complete and we had pulled up to the carnival, I had moved on to the Devil Wears Prada and instantly bonded with a small group of scene boys standing on the side of the road. We celebrated each other’s existence with a fist pump and that only agitated my hyper state so I started screaming and kicking the back of Henry’s seat.

Alisha was not happy to be there, from the very beginning.

lmost immediately, Henry ran into his ONLY friend, Randy. I haven’t seen Randy since Henry’s 40th birthday party, which was 15 years ago. A joke. It was 4 years ago. At that party, I showed Randy the Christmas present I had bestowed to Henry that year: a male seeks male personal ad. And then I showed him the responses Henry had received. Randy did not think this was funny. That is because Randy does not understand LOVE.

Here, Chooch rides a blue thing with Randy’s niece, who kept turning around the entire time the ride was in motion, causing the older woman who was manning the ride to shout, “DON’T TURN AROUND” and she had very dark, brittle-looking teeth, so I kept mocking her by repeating her cries of peril and pretending to catch my teeth. Then I couldn’t stop laughing and evidently it was some new laugh that I’ve never done before, probably because I never had to pretend to be catching my backwoods teeth before, and Alisha had to literally walk far away from me.

They are both thinking the same thing: “God, Erin is such a fucking dream to be around. How the fuck did we ever get so lucky? Let’s go pray the rosary to show how thankful we are.”

I didn’t get to ride ANYTHING because Papa H wouldn’t buy me any tickets.

We met up with Charlie and that was super cool! I don’t ever hang out with people from high school, aside from Janna, and Lisa when she’s in town, so Charlie should realize how LUCKY he is. And his girlfriend was really awesome and easy to talk to so I hope we can all get drunk and act like asshole rejects soon.

Alisha was going to buy food but then Charlie intercepted and told her to give his girlfriend, who was next in line for funnel cakes, money and she’d grab a funnel cake for Alisha too. They are best friends now because of this. Alisha has been trying to stuff funnel cake in her mouth for fucking months now.

There was fireworks too, ya’ll!

I asked Alisha later what her favorite moment of the night was and she said, “Seeing how awkward you are around people you haven’t seen in a long time.” Awesome!

Side note: Finleyville has a lot of scene kids. I felt very cozy there.

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I waited all year for Warped Tour. It’s the closest thing to Christmas I have in my life and I savor every fucking second of it. It’s music music music all day long. And I do love that there music. This year, we were going to attempt to take Chooch, but ticket prices were raised and since we’re going back to one income, we decided to pawn him off on Janna. I think he ended up having a day just as full as ours, anyway. (Thank you, Janna!)

We stood in line for a good half hour because I made sure we got there as soon as the lot opened, which was an hour before the actual gates open, because I’m tightly wound and panicked for a week about the possibility of missing a band I really like because they don’t announce set times until that morning, and and and omg someone get me a valium. There was an abandoned mother standing next to Henry and every time I looked over at her, she’d catch my eye and every time it looked like she wanted to strike up a conversation, but instead she’d just smile. Henry was getting uncomfortable because she kept standing so close to him. I thought it was cute, in a “When Oldies Collide” sort of way.

The good thing about standing in line, besides scene kid-watching, is accumulating free shit and demos from members of small local bands. One of those bands was Remember Thy Name, who were handing out flyers which had their set time and stage info on it and urging everyone to check them out. Since the flyer touched my hand and I said “OK I will” out loud to the dude, I felt obliged to make good on my word. And then I went back to bouncing up and down and squealing “I’m so excited!” in Henry’s ear until they finally opened the door to my own version of Heaven and we all pushed our way in only to stand around looking dumb and confused like lost puppies. You know, the usual.

Henry and I aren’t mean enough to make Blake and Deanna hang with old people all day, so we said goodbye to them and then continued roaming around and looking lost and confused.

Luckily, we got inside with enough time to find the appropriate stage and check out Remember Thy Name. One of my favorite moments of the day was when we approached the side of the stage just in time to be met with a barrage of guttural bellows and machine gun drumming, causing Henry to mutter, “Oh yay, I love them already.” I actually did end up loving them, a lot. Thank you for soliciting me in the parking lot, Remember Thy Name.

It had only been about thirty minutes since we began mingling with Western Pennsylvania’s finest collection of kids, and Henry already looked like a billboard for Advil. Perhaps he was sad that he didn’t bring enough money for concert gear. Last year, I know he had his eyes on some booty shorts.

We got to catch a little bit of Underoath’s set on the mainstage (another band that makes Henry grit his teeth) before shouldering our way to the Hurley stage for Bayside. I figured Henry would probably appreciate their set because they’re not screamo and the crowd was decidedly older and less scene. Yet, every time I asked him if he liked them, he’d mumble, “They were OK.” What he was thinking was probably, “They’re no Kansas.” But whatever, they wound up being one of my favorite sets of the day. And it was nice getting to be up close and not having to worry about having my neck broken. Although, throughout the day, I kept seeing some girl with a neckbrace and found myself in an oddly uncomfortable state of covetry.

So, if you’ve read this blog a few times you probably won’t be shocked to find out that I was primarily there for one band. As in, the price of the ticket was worth a thirty-minute set by them alone and I could’ve left straight after and have been happy. Chiodos, main stage, 1:55.

I dragged Henry up to the front of the stage just as Flogging Molly was finishing up. Chiodos are worth the risk of having my brittle, over-aged bones cracked and acquiring attractive barrier bruises along my ribcage. I’m still not too fond of having bitches dropped on my head, so my peripheral vision has to be on-call for this shit.

We could see Chiodos behind the stage, getting ready, and I had a fifteen-year-old girl moment when Bradley returned my wave with spirit fingers. I fucking love Bradley. And then I had a twenty-nine-year-old adult moment when some skanky bitch behind me repeatedly screamed JOEY! into my ear and I don’t know who I hated more: the skank and her skank-shout, or Joey for not hearing her skanky beckoning from all the way in the center of the massive throng of kids that had accumulated in preparation for Chiodos. Fucking answer her, Joey!

They opened with Undertaker’s Thirst for Revenge is Unquenchable and I was stoked when Nick Martin (Underminded) came out to scream. He’s on the album-version of that song and in the video, and he was on Craig’s solo tour last spring, but I have never seen him live on stage with Chiodos. I squealed. Several times. Even tugged Henry’s arm. It’s kind of like that feeling when you think you’re only going to be having sex with one person that night, but then surprise! Menage a trois. What a fucking treat.

Nick Martin can scream in my face all day and I would still beg for more.

And at one point, Jag from A Skylit Drive filled a small guest spot on vocals. It’s exciting to me when people play musical-bands at Warped Tour, because when else could you see, say, Jeffree Star sharing a stage with Breathe Carolina? Not that that’s a good thing.

I liked watching the expressions of security when Craig decided, during “A Letter From Janelle,” that he wanted to get as many people crowd-surfing as possible. Like they really needed to be told. I love watching this, kids simultaneously popping up into the sky everywhere, like some bizarre birthing art-installation. It never gets old for me. Until some motherfucker’s shoe knocks me unconscious. Then I probably won’t enjoy watching too much after that.

Yes, I pay money to be immersed in this.

Nick came out again and was all crouched down at the edge of the stage, completely in an angry-scream zone, and BSouth (The Receiving End of Sirens – RIP to a great band) kept nudging him with his foot until Nick ended up on the shoulders of one of the security guys, never missing a beat. I think it was my favorite moment of the day, aside from Henry’s anguish, which was less of a moment and more of, you know, THE ENTIRE DAY AS A WHOLE. But he likes Chiodos, I know it.

They ended the much-too-short 30 minute set with “There’s No Penguins In Alaska,” which I hope reminded them that their hockey team were bested by the Penguins. Oh, burn.

They didn’t play any new songs, so that was a bit of a bummer. Craig has been taunting everyone on Twitter with tiny updates about the new album they’re writing and I was hoping he’d toss us rabid fans a bone. But they did my favorites: “Baby, You Wouldn’t Last a Minute on the Creek” and “The Word ‘Best Friend’ Becomes Redefined” (still not fantastical tattoo-tingling during it, though).

We took a break in the shade so I could eat my contraband protein bar lunch. Henry looks like his labret is pierced in this photo but I think it’s just lint. Old men have lint.

I did some Versa Emerge-stalking for Alisha, since she couldn’t be there to (not) do it herself.

I kept touching the camera lens all day long, as this photo denotes. This was right after Deanna informed Henry that two people holding hands does not mean they’re going out. Or as Henry still says: “Going together.”

One of the bands that surprised me the most was A Skylit Drive. I missed most of their set because they played the same time as Versa Emerge and I was trying to split the sets so I could see both. But I made it to their stage in time to hear enough to fall in love. They ended with “Eva the Carrier” and I fucking almost started crying. The singer sounds like how I imagine a mer-man to sing: high-pitched and ethereal, like wetting your finger and running it around the lip of a crystal goblet. The stage they were playing on was the one under the ampitheater and the acoustics of it sent his voice traveling all the way up to where we sat, making chills drip down my spine.

I’ve been listening to that song 15x a day ever since.

Henry was not impressed. Like, at all. And somehow, he later managed to sleep through Dance Gavin Dance’s and Black Tide’s entire sets. I twitpic’d a photo of him sleeping, and my friend Matt had the good call of replying with “Hahaha, what’s up Father Time.” INDEED.

Warped Tour abominations:

1. Millionaires. A trio of half-naked skanks hopping around on stage, and lip-synching rapping. They had about as much rhythm as me and all I could make out was “Fuck” being slung incessantly because probably they are too vapid to come up with anything else. You know, GOOD RAPS like I used to write under the Glocks On Our Dicks alias.

2. Jeffree Star.

I know people bitch about how Warped Tour has taken the punk ethos and raped it silly, but I’ve always admired Kevin Lyman’s ballsiness in adding screamo, metalcore, and dance punk into the mix. I think that there’s a really great mixture of music in the lineup and if there’s not at least one band you can be down with, then probably these things just aren’t for you in the first place. However, I have a big problem with shit like Jeffree Star and Millionaires because it’s hokey and if what Gabe Sapora says about Millionaries is true (that if you don’t like the, you just don’t get the joke) then that’s a little insulting to those of us who give shit about music. And as for Jeffree Star, he doesn’t care about his music, he’s just in it for shock value from what I can see, and that’s not very punk rock.

But maybe I’m just old and jaded.

I wonder if their pubes are that natty. If so, it must be a real BITCH for the STDs to get through, like a dolphin in netting.

One of the last  bands of the day  was Dear and the Headlights, a band I’ve loved long time, but have never seen live. I can’t tell you how excited I was. Too bad they weren’t very fun. I mean, they sounded great, but seemed very aloof on stage and kind of ambivalent to the prospect of playing at Warped Tour. And then the singer asked what everyone wanted to hear and some girl near me yelled “Daysleeper” and I was like, “Oh yes, God yes, play Daysleeper” because that’s my favorite, and so he proceeded to ask, “Um, why that one? It didn’t even make any of our albums.” And there was something slightly condescending about how he said it, so that made me lose a little love. Although, I too was a little cranky by that point so maybe I won’t hold it against them. They ended up never playing “Daysleeper” though, those cocksuckers.

I ate Gobstoppers on the way home.

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Today we took Captain Vulgarity to the Apple Fest in the ultra conservative farmlands of Western Pennsylvania. One has to park in various fields several miles from where all the apple action goes down and board chool buses doubling as shuttles. Our bus was pretty quiet, and the whole way there I sat with clenched muscles and pinched nerves, praying that Chooch wouldn’t start snarling spontaneous “Asshole“s to the elderly couple adjacent to his seat. The excitement of being on a school bus for the first time seemed to work effectively as a cuss retardant, thank the fucking Lord, so I was able to focus on the adorable lesbian couple in front of me, mouthing along to West End Girls and kissing the top of each other’s heads. Seriously, I wanted to paint a cupcake couple painting for those lucky assholes. (I don’t know WHERE Chooch gets that word.) I tossed a few resentful glares over my shoulder at Henry, who does NOT mouth the words to awesome synthpop songs or kiss me lovingly atop my crown. BUT MY GIRLFRIEND DOES.

If you like kettle corn, the apple fest is a fine place to spend a Sunday. If you like personalized wood-carved toy flutes and crafts made with puffy paint, then the apple fest could potentially complete your mantle collection. Do you like face paint? YOU WILL LOVE THE APPLE FEST. How about the tones of Jimmy Buffet cover bands colliding with whining kids and the grinding horror of chainsaws? Then the apple fest is like one mother of an orgasm contained on one whopping acre.  Is the tied and bound body of your latest victim incomplete without an apple gag? You can buy ’em by the BUSHEL at the apple fest!

For someone who is not interested in any of the above (the last one, maybe someday), my typical I Hate The World venom was sort of tempered. I only said, “This is so fucking lame, ” once. ONCE. (I’m either growing up or someone plopped a Valium in my tea.) I had one goal, and one goal only: Eat some applelicious delicacies. Keep that pulled pork away from me.

We let Chooch go on some kiddie rides and molest some farm animals. (I saw a retarded man clap after he pet a sheep and I seriously almost died. Between that and the drugfreeworld.org commercials, I’m wondering what the fuck is going on with my heart-frost and estrogen levels.)

Ninety percent of the apple-humpers there were sporting Steelers jerseys and I felt slightly angry about it. But then I saw THREE WHOLE PEOPLE in Penguins shirts and I felt less alone. Chooch cheered when he saw one of those people, too, and I shouted, “That’s my boy.” Then I looked up to the heavens and mouthed “Thank you” when Chooch didn’t tack a gritty “Asshole!” to the end of his cheer.

We followed some shoddy and ill-placed signs for a hayride, hoping to keep Chooch’s attention masturbated since it was growing close to his naptime and his ornery side was beginning to peak. The designated area for the apple fest just isn’t large enough to hold all the fruity wonders and delights that are to be had, so the activities and vendors tend to leak down onto a nearby street. The hayride depot (I don’t know what I’m talking about) was situated next to a church. Henry pointed to a sign on its steps and said, “Let’s go see that.” Because my eyes are as bad as my ears (if not worse), I read it as “Come see the trans.” I was intrigued that a church would have transvestites on display for us hee-haw apple-folk. “How progressive,” I said out loud.

But it was just some model train display.

In the church’s basement, a bevy of booths were set up. As I walked past a stand of necklaces, I accidentally made eye contact with its purveyor, who flitted her hand and said, “They’re made from paper mache!” I fake-smiled and said, “OH OK” and hurried along before she compelled me with the Holy Spirit and Mod Podge. It stunk really bad in there, like church craft fairs often do. Some kind of horrible odor bomb of cooked cabbage, Avon perfume and shitty diapers. Chooch began acting like an orphan who was force-fed caffeine capsules and then turned loose on the world, so we yanked him out of there in time to go on the lamest hayride ever, where I was seated across from some older God-fearing woman who glared at me every time I looked up at her and her teenage daughter who had a broken foot and chowed on a bag of kettlecorn while staring dispondantly off into the horizon. Chooch only said “asshole” once, but no one heard him over the put-put of the tractor’s engine.

The tractor-driver let the wagon glide to a rest on top of a hill, where our screams would be heard by no one for miles and miles and miles. Slowly, he turned around, and as though he were in some sort of cigar and whiskey-flavored fugue, he slurred, “Six feet of snow….nothing but the moon in the sky….what do you think the view would be like up here?” No one seemed to know what to say, so I looked at Chooch and said awkwardly, “Pretty awesome, huh?

” The only other person who humored him with an answer was the God-fearing woman, who curtly replied, “Nice.” I kind of felt bad for that old hick; he was just trying to fire up some camaraderie, after all.

Maybe if he would have added flagellation stations and bleeding Stigmatas to the vision, God-Fearer would have been more excited.

There really wasn’t much to see out there. Several cows, but that novelty wears off pretty fucking fast, especially when Chooch got to pet pigs and sheep on the actual festival grounds. In fact, I’m not even certain the hayride was a part of the apple fest. It was probably just some neighboring farmer trying to make a quick buck because his crops sucked this year.

After that disaster of a hayride, I finally got to have some sugary apple slop. Standing in line, I was certain I wanted apple crisp, but as we got closer to the front, that apple pie looked simply to die for, so I changed my mind. Henry went with the apple crisp and we took our plates of fat and calories inside where some old broads were quilting on a raised platform, watching everyone eating at the tables. Awkward.

After two bites of my pie, I stole a bite of Henry’s apple crisp, deemed it tastier than my pie, and arranged for a switch.

“Good thing I know you so well,” Henry grumbled. “I was going to get pie myself, but I figured you would be disappointed and wish you had ordered the crisp.

” It’s a good thing, having someone studying my indecisiveness so thoroughly since 2001. He’s somehow always one step ahead of me.

After that, we got in line  to board a bus back to the lot. Some older gent, who took his job way too seriously, shouted commands at us before he’d let us get on. “THE BUS IS APPROACHING. BEGIN FOLDING YOUR STROLLERS NOW. GET IN THE BUS AS FAST AS YOU CAN AND PLEASE FILL UP THE SEATS STARTING AT THE BACK OF THE BUS FIRST.” A hearty brow-swipe followed, and then he stepped to the side to let us through. I’m certain he was reliving the good old days of the Korean War.

We were the first ones on and I was determined to follow instructions.

That guy seemed like the type to march aboard the bus and throw out the rule-benders by their ears. So I plunked down in the very last seat, just like my friend Rosa.

Five minutes later, the bus was pulling away, and there were only about ten of us on there. An old man in front of me mumbled, “He was so adamant that we fill up the back of the bus, and there’s hardly anyone on here.”

IT WAS FUNNY BUT I GUESS YOU HAD TO BE THERE.

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Rainy Saturdays usually make me miserable and grouchy, but this past Saturday turned into one of those days where every single thing had me squatting in laughter. I really needed a day like that.

First, Blake and Janna joined Henry, Chooch and me for a quick jaunt to Bloomfield’s Little Italy Days. It’s essentially just a small street fair, with a portion of the road blocked off and stuffed with food vendors and craft booths.

Henry’s mood soured immediately when we passed a voter registration booth with clip-boarded volunteers doling out Obama stickers. Too bad for Henry, but the rest of us like Obama so we made an executive decision to slap supportive flair to our chests. Henry continued pushing Chooch down the block while we stood around and fraternized with the enemy.

It wasn’t until later that I realized they said, “Italian Americans for Obama.” I scoffed and said, “Great, we’re not even Italian!” but Janna said, “Well, actually, I am.” I don’t know why, but it gave me more incentive to make fun of her. And not because I’m some closet racist plotting to bomb Italy. I love Italy! I love those fiesty pasta-slingin’ peeps! It’s just that it’s Janna. And judging Janna is my #1 hobby. I think she has come to realize, after nearly 20 years, that this is her role in life. Which is why, later, when she asked for Splenda for her iced tea, I took it upon myself to make her a sweetener bomb (Splenda, Equal, and SweetnLow). And she drank that shit too. BECAUSE IT’S HER PLACE ON EARTH.

Henry wouldn’t buy us cookies or brownies and Janna wouldn’t buy me jewels, and the clouds were black and heavy with precipitation, but nothing, NOTHING could ruin Little Italy Days for me. And oh, the sights I would have missed had I let some unfortunate weather and stingy asshole furrow my brow!

I might have missed this sweetheart of a nun, with her adorable hell-damning visage. And then I would not have known such lovely edelweiss fashion still existed in these States.

Bloomfield’s own Elvis-Wayne Newton hybrid might have flown under my radar.

And I wouldn’t find out about Gene Simmons going marachi until VH1 decided to make a show about it. Also, that waving broad is exactly the type of classy dame I strive to grow into. Imagine the lamé she has packed in her closet.

And if I had let Henry’s conservativism cloud my personal sunshine, I wouldn’t have thought to subject Blake to yet another of my impromptu photo ops.

We only putzed around the streets of Bloomfield for an hour before Henry herded us back to the car. He later complained that he had wanted to stop and fill up on the many Italian concessions waiting to bloat bellies, and when I asked him why he didn’t indulge his pretty little desires, he muttered something about “all you damn kids acting like idiots” or some such completely absurd variation. I know it was the whole Obama sticker thing. He felt left out and out-numbered.

As we drove through the back streets of Bloomfield, I caught a glimpse of a scene so horrific, it forced me to shriek loud at a volume high enough to make every occupant in the car jolt in their seats.

“WHAT?” Henry shouted, probably wondering if he had driven over the unconscious lump of a homeless man blitzed from chugging turpentine in a boot.

“Something was going on back there. There were two army guys holding GUNS and approaching a house!” I cried.

“Are you sure they weren’t cops?” Henry asked, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

“No, they were definitely armies.” This made everyone laugh and I was angry because this was a very serious situation. “We have to go back there and save a life!” I screamed.

So Henry did. He actually turned around, but not without lip, until we drove past the street in question.

As I shouted, “THERE THEY ARE!” Henry, Janna, and Blake (in unison so harmonious it could have been sung by angels on high) groaned, “They’re playing PAINT BALL.” And we all laughed.

After that, we dicked around on Mt. Washington, taking Chooch on his first ride on the incline. It started raining really hard by that point, so we went to dinner at King’s, where Chooch burped out “Asshole!” with all the charm of a Tourette’s sufferer, and Blake and I reminded Janna repeatedly that she wasn’t a part of our family. It was more fun than doing a speedball in the Champagne Room.

To add a dollop of whipped cream to a day full of giddy antics and newly sprouted grays on Henry, Blake declared that we should make cookies.

“Oh, we should!” I encouraged. “STD cookies!”

Henry got all foot-planty and spat, “If I’m making cookies, then YOU’RE going to the store to buy what we need.” Thank God he sent Blake along to make sure I didn’t fuck shit up. You know me, send me out for flour and I come back with a non-descript bag of dildos.

So while Henry slaved away on the kitchen, Blake performed serious Google image searches on various STDs while I bossed around Janna and basically sat around being cute. Then Henry realized he didn’t have corn syrup or some shit for the frosting, so while he was out we had a tea party and it was awesome because it was yet another thing that Henry wasn’t invited to. During our tea party, Blake ridiculed Janna’s selection of Earl Grey by saying that, “Earl Grey is for assholes.” My selective hearing heard, “Let’s race for abstinence” which had me squatting on the floor, squeezing back pee drops. Of course, no one else thought it was that hilarious, which only made it harder for me to not need to slip into a fresh pair of Depends. At some point, we were talking about egg harvesting and I tried to convince Blake that it was as easy as lounging in a tubful of ice, wielding a melon baller, and then creating a Craiglist post. Hopefully, he will teach all the girls at school this method.

My mug, Skelly, indulges in some delicious diseases fellatio. Look for it in the December issue of Bon Appetit.

For my cookies, I mainly stuck with the theme of Vaginal Maladies, such as menstruation and yeast infection. This one, Popped Cherry with Lone Tear Drop (added for extra sentiment), was my personal favorite. Lost virginity never tasted so delicious.

Hey, there’s some yeast in your pink. Or perhaps a fresh load. Whatever whets your appetite.

Later, I laughed at the realization of what a great role model I must be. Send your teens to my house, Parents, where we make jokes of serious matters and look at pictures of diseased vaginas.

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For some people, summer is synonymous with baseball, sailing, unprotected sex underneath the pier. For me though, it doesn’t feel like summer until I’m having my insides pulverized on thrill rides that, with a little tweaking, could be used by the military to snap necks. Usually, I don’t get to enjoy this awesome brand of gear-grinding, bolt-popping pleasure because my boyfriend is a Grade A stick-in-the-mud kill joy; but now that his son Blake has been spending more time with us, you better believe I’ve jumped in with rubber gloves and got to milking.

When I read about Lakemont Park, I jabbed my finger at the computer screen and excitedly yelled, “Here! This is where we should go this weekend with Blake! Two hours in the car, we can sing carols! We can play truth or dare! We can drink mulled cider and chat about when we lost our virginity!”

So Henry, who has a very close and personal relationship with Blake, texted him to see if he was interested.

And that is how we ended up in Central Pennsylvania on Saturday afternoon.

It was the last weekend in Lakemont’s season, and what better way to close out the summer than by inviting people to schill their country-inspired arts and crafts in the middle of the park? There was no shortage of wolves painted on wood, patriotic yard adornments, and psychics. All of this for a five dollar admission? It’s true.

One of the vendors had an assortment of God-inspired cross-stitched sweatshirts, which made me simulate abdominal hemorrhaging as we walked past. This made Henry, in turn, tighten his grip on my upper arm like he so often does to keep me in line.

Somewhere between a county fair and an amusement park, Lakemont had the obligatory kiddie ride fare. Chooch took a liking to the boats, especially after he learned that by pulling the rope, a bell would ding. He always sits on these rides like he’s in the middle of a presidential procession, rarely emoting, keeping his lips in a taut line. Riding is serious business, and he has a stoic composure to uphold.

Of course, he freaks when the ride is over and begs to ride the blue one, or the red one, or the green one, oh please, I can have that, the orange one, here please.

It didn’t take long for Blake to get the sinking suspicion that we didn’t fit in there. On top of all the Christian-influenced artistry, food vendors sponsored by local churches, and a sea of Nascar-chested patrons, McCain signage sprouted up along the park grounds like weeds in a garden.

“There aren’t any kids here like me,” Blake complained, scanning the lines we stood in. Later on, two scene boys passed us, paused to take in Blake with widened stares. Henry pointed them out, but Blake was irritated. “They didn’t even have GAUGES in their ears!” It was true: they were half-assed scene kids, with too-loose band t’s and bangs that only provided a SLIGHT eye-coverage. I wear black eyeliner every day, but I don’t call myself goth. YOU KNOW.

In addition to a dizzying array of spinny staples, Lakemont is also home to a really fucking rickety wooden coaster called the Skyliner, and the oldest coaster in the country – Leap the Dips. Standing in the short line, I wondered what the meaning of Leap the Dips was. Then as Blake and I, stuffed into an antique four-seat car, careened down the first hill, it occurred to me that the car was jumping the track every chance it got. Nothing beats having a question answered before you have to ask it. Blake later admitted that it was “fucking exhilarating.” I was just glad our car didn’t perform one last fatal leap over a dip before delivering us to safety.

Lakemont is also home to the Toboggan, which is another ride I have never come across in my theme park carousing career. Each car is sent one by one inside that tube, where the car is then lifted up the shaft at a jerky ninety-degree angle. At the top, the car is then righted before it tilts to an extreme angle and sent spiraling down to the bottom. I tried to take mental notes on this one, but I was too distracted by my inner voice chanting PLEASE DON’T TIP OVER OH FUCKING GOD DON’T TIP OVER I HAVEN’T EVEN HAD SEX WITH A TRANNY YET. PLEASE DON’T LET ME DIE ON THIS SHITTY TOBAGGAN. AT LEAST LET ME DIE ON A REAL TOBOGGAN. WITH A TRANNY. I DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO SPELL TOGAGGAN. I was shaking a little when the ride attendant released my toboggan’s jaws and watched with little expression as I struggled to extract myself from its depths. Seriously, these rides are designed for five-year-old physiques.

Maintenance, janitor and security in one capable body. I watched him with a scrutinized eye and was impressed with the skillful way he handled his walkie talkie. However, the Rollercoaster Tycoon in me wanted to pick him up with pinched fingers and transport him over to a wayward Coke bottle I saw clogging up a walkway.

An untrained eye won’t be able to tell, but there is actually a small child squished underneath my armpit. Thinking the Scrambler would be a good initiation into the world of big kid rides for Chooch was pretty poor judgment on my part. But I don’t claim to be a smart mom. To me, I look at Chooch riding those slow-moving boats and think, “This poor kid. Let’s get him on something good. Teach him what whiplash is all about.” Chooch seemed like a willing participant at first. He scrambled (oh-ho) into the seat, cozied up next to me, and cheered when the attendant slammed the safety bar shut. But before the ride started, he looked at me and said, “OK, let’s go,” as he leaned forward and looked for a way out. So I kind of had a feeling that maybe this was a bad idea. Cementing that theory was Chooch’s horrified pleas of “No. No. No. NO. NO!!! NOOOOO!!!!??????” which escalated in pitch and volume as the ride picked up more speed. I felt so bad for him, but couldn’t stop laughing because that’s just the natural reaction on spinny rides – even as bile is rising, you fucking laugh. IT’S A WAY OF LIFE.

However, when the ride was over and Chooch’s feet were back on Lakemont’s conservative land, he pumped his feet in the air and yelled, “Woo-hoo. Awesome. Fun.” Like he was reading it from a script. Kind of like me, post-coitus.

Just leave me in Kiddie Land, thanks. Assholes.

“Henry, take a picture of that dumb looking idiot on the Tilt-a-Whirl,” I implored, hands frozen in an endearing clap under my chin.

“You know he’s retarded, right?” Henry sighed, holding up the camera.

Lakemont even had Christian bean toss! Chuck the bean bag into Jesus’s tomb and get a SECOND wafer at tomorrow’s communion! Ping it off the church lady’s olive-covered holy hiney and get a FREE RAFFLE TICKET FOR A JESUS BOOKMARK! Pop her hemorrhoid and get a free pass to stab a hobo WITHOUT GOING TO HELL! I can’t tell if that castle is supposed to be heaven or Care-A-Lot. My friend Nicolesaid one of those hearts should have at least had some of Jesus’s blood trickling down and I agree.

I never saw any actual participants in this fast-paced, high-staked game of skill. I can’t imagine why! I guess people in Central Pennsylvania just don’t like to have all of the fun.

Thank you, First Evangelical Lutheran Church, for giving us the opportunity to ingest quite possibly the worst bouquet of onion petals to have ever entered a deep fryer. The breading was something left over from a Baptist fried chicken dinner, and it only coated the tips of the onions. The onions themselves were too thick and reminded me of elogated albino beetles. What? I used to eat those a lot when I was in ‘Nam.

When I used the park restroom, I was the only woman in there not sharing a stall with a child. The entire time I was peeing, a small girl stood directly outside my stall, waiting to slide in as soon as I exited. I kept waiting to see her eye appear in the gap between the stalls and was prepared to gouge her eye out with my key. Washing my hands, I observed the other moms in the mirror, gagged a bit at the overwhelming scene of tapestry bags, brown leather mules and ill-fitting capris, and felt proud that I was not dressed like any of them. I’m probably less responsible than them, though, but I guess that’s the trade-off for not succumbing to frumpy fashion and mushroom coifs.

This is what the sky looked like most of the day, but the rain never came. A shame really, because nothing adds excitement to thrill rides quite like the threat of electricution.

A ginger, in line with Blake and Chooch. In the past, Blake probably would have made some snide remarks because he’s anti-red hair. But that was before he met Amanda, a waitress at the Blue Flame, who just happened to be the first cute red head Blake ever did see. They’re dating on MySpace. She has “cute little gauges.”

Waiting for Henry and Blake to exorcise their go-carting urges, I took a liking to this cute old man. I like to think he was watching Henry, zipping past in his bright green go-cart, while murmuring to himself, “I think I know that lad from The Service.” Nice floral tote, lady.

See this ride? This is a fucking ride built by the cooperative genius of Hitler, Satan and Mr. Burns and camouflaged behind the cute and fuzzy appearance of a ferris wheel. LOOK CLOSELY. LOOK AT THOSE CARS, JUST DANGLING THERE HARRY CAREY. LOOK AT HOW SOME OF THEM ARE UPSIDE DOWN AND POINTED TOWARD THE HARD, GRITTY SURFACE OF THE EARTH.

Of course, Blake and I simultaneously salivated at the sight of a metal contraption that could potentially send us spiraling to a grisly demise, after which I would hope our mangled, mashed, and possibly vivisected corpses would be studied laboriously and recreated for the next “Final Destination.”

No one was in line when we approached, but a trio of teenaged girls stood near by, ogling its height with craned necks. We assumed that the ramp they were standing near was the entrance, but it turned out to be the exit so we were sent away by the two greasy beer-bellied attendants. As we passed the girls on our way to the real entrance, one of them said, “Oops, we made them think this is the entrance by standing here,” and I called out, “I know! Now we look dumb!”

NO, WE LOOKED DUMB FOR WILLINGLY PUTTING OUR LIVES INTO THE FATE OF THIS FUCKING RIDE THAT THEY CALL THE SKYDIVER. First, the padded bar was slammed down onto legs and applied so much pressure that I went numb below the knees. It created a beautiful illusion of amputation, so much that I began complaining of phantom limb pain before the ride even started.

Did I mention we were the only ones riding it?

We hadn’t even made a full revolution before my body was wedged against the side of the cage, leaving a very fashionable waffle print against the side of my face, and I’m not sure but I think my bowels were capsizing. Our cage was spinning and revolving and flipping in so many different directions, and combined with revolutions of the actual wheel itself, I had no fucking idea what direction we were facing. Except when our cage was pointing straight down to the ground, giving us the delightful sensation of plummeting toward Hell.

I knew we were at the bottom when I would catch blurred glimpses of the neon green shirts of the attendants, so I would scream – NAY, bellow – “PLEASE LET US OFF THIS FUCKING RIDE. OMG FUCK YOU PLZ.” I began wondering if it would count if I quickly typed up a Living Will on my Blackberry. I think Blake was crying. Every time it would fling us upside down, my arms would shoot out to brace myself, even though the lap bar was ensuring that nary a penny could escape.

Just then, the spinning began to slow, gears cranked and ground, and eventually we slowed to a stop near the attendants. My hand flung to my heart and I started to thank them, but my words slurred AS THE RIDE EMBARKED ON A BRAND NEW CYCLE, BACKWARD.

My body gave up fighting and resumed its former position, smashed against the grated window of our torture cell. I began clenching, to prevent any accidental pants-poopage. “Please God, don’t let me poop my pants in front of Blake. He’ll tell all of MySpace” I prayed to the giant pink plastic heart pendant that became my makeshift Skydiver rosary. That’s what fifteen-year-olds do, you know. Send out bulletins, outing adults who poop their pants. That’s what’s I’d do too, if the opportunity ever presented itself.

The first round was obnoxious, but tolerable, like watching an anal fisting. You grimace, you laugh at the enlarged asshole, you cry a little. But then the Skydiver decided it had to go backward too, and that was about as unnecessary and gratuitous as the part where the girl shits on a glass table.

And that is how the Skydiver is quite like a Japanese porn.

(More pics here.)

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I just got a bunch of film processed from my Diana and Holga. Some of the pictures are from Warped Tour and even though it was only a month ago, it makes me feel happily nostalgic looking at them. That day was the last time I felt happy and accepted.

Now I just feel like that chick sitting on the curb.

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“When are we going? Hello? When are we going? The carnival, when can it expect us?” For three days, I hounded Henry about some wimpy-assed fucking church carnival after we saw a sign for it.

“You know this is going to be a small thing, right? Probably not very many rides, if any,” Henry kept reminding me, probably hoping to change my mind. But my mind is unchangeable without something of equal or greater awesomeness to replace the void. And no one came knocking on my door, inviting me out to play with moon boots, so I remained fixated on the Saint Sylvester church carnival.

We got there around 6:30 and I immediately became aware that what this was, right here, this carnival, was really goddamn lame, a real sad affair. The rides weren’t running yet, so we cautiously followed the signs that promised us CRAFTS and FLEA MARKET, and led us into the church basement.

The CRAFTS were sparsely strewn amongst tables forming a small horse shoe on one side of the room. Taking over the rest of the room was a fucking holy picnic of some sort, with people straddling tables and shoveling haluski and other church food into there religious maws. We awkwardly circled around the crafts, not even pretending to admire, me saying something obnoxious, before returning to the Little Church Carnival That (Possibly) Could (If Father Would Go ‘Head and Order Those Belly-Dancing Pygmies).

After two seconds of taking in my surroundings, I realized that this wasn’t a carnival so much as an asshole parade. All the moms strutted around, haughtily greeting each other, their mauve eye shadow caked on in thirteen layers and pooling in their crow’s feet. I of course did not fit in. Especially when you consider the fact that I am not a parishioner of this or any church, other than the church whose bell tolls in my head.

There were three of them that I especially hated:

• a tall corn-fed hoe with tightly-wound brassy curls that were clumped and heavy-hanging with Dippity Do, probably semen.  She really looked out of place without the plow she should have been pushing on the farm, that dumb bitch. I bet she was a Majorette in high school.
• some haggard broad in an ugly pink shirt (not the awesome hue of pink that MY shirt was) who was friends with Olga the Plow Pusher. She had the worst eye makeup of them all and stood right in front of me with her saggy-assed chinos and pleather fucking fanny pack and the two of them dove right into a nauseating display of waving. It’s a sport for those people, you know. Church people? They wave for entrance to Heaven. And it’s phony, too. Their “hellos” are so nasal, like they’re playing Operator with their toy phones, and they stand there with their fists on the waistbands of their flood jeans, fluttering their costume-ringed fingers in their pretentious little waves and you know what? Go home and bake me some pumpkin bread, you assholes.
• rounding out the iron arc of pretentiousness was some bitch that was younger than those two, and it was clear, so so so clear to me that she only fraternized with them because they made her feel like the token spunky young mom with the poorly executed tattoos and too-skinny husband who I think I might have went to school with. I was glaring at her about the time Janna arrived and I didn’t even say hi, just pounced right into a hateful tirade that started with, “There’s a bunch of cunts here that I want to kill, Janna.”

And the rides! Oh, my brothers and sisters, please don’t get me started on the rides. There were only four of them: a rickety ferris wheel whose too-fast revolutions made me clutch my heart while watching from the ground, stupid ass helicopters, a tiny carousel that appeared to be fashioned from orphaned horses, and some dumb little kid spinny thing.

EACH RIDE WAS TWO FUCKING DOLLARS. Two dollars that would be better off tucked into a g-string. But Chooch seemed to enjoy the helicopters, and Henry reminded me several times that that was really all that mattered. I guess.

We stopped and bought three fried Oreos. They were pathetic. I ate half of one and begged Henry to take the rest. He was angry that I was complaining and reminded me that they only cost a dollar so what did I expect.

I DON’T KNOW. Perhaps for them to be drizzled with a nice ganache? Some kind of delicate rum sauce? LACED WITH COCAINE?

We walked over to the petting zoo, figuring Chooch could at least meet his animal manhandling quota for the month, but there was an extra fee for that.

“WHAT A RIP!” I yelled, purposely, hoping to be heard. “THIS CARNIVAL BLOWS.” Just then, the priest walked past me and Henry grabbed my arm, grabbed it the way a father does to an out-of-line child, the way my step-dad used to when I would spit YOU ARENT MY REAL DAD in his scruffy face.  So Henry grabbed my arm and squeezed, hissing, “This is a CHURCH CARNIVAL. It’s to raise money FOR THE CHURCH.”

WELL. For someone who was so against Chooch being baptized, Henry sure seemed intent on defending the carnival. The holy fucking ghost must have anally entered him when I was busy looking for scene kids.  Probably why he was walking like he had chronic jock itch. Meanwhile, we were going to sit at table but some undulating diseased genitalia stole it right from underneath us, an entire table just for her and her fucking hot dog.

  I was tirading all over this side of Pittsburgh by this point, pushing Henry to tersely say, “OK, that’s it. We’re leaving.”

I had sinful desires to jack this truck. I have a lot of things I could use it for. And I’m not just talking about carting crates of chickens around town.

On the way home,  Henry lectured me about being hateful and that no one there gave me a reason to be so angry. IT IS HOW I AM WIRED. CANNOT, WILL NOT, CHANGE. it’s how my mama made me. And sometimes I don’t mind people. Like today, on my walk to the post office, I said hello to ONE ENTIRE PERSON and even exchanged weather-related pleasantries with a  crossing guard. Granted, I considered changing my route home so I wouldn’t have to talk  to her again, but I didn’t scowl at a single soul. And I walked, like, eight blocks or something! (Actually, I don’t really know how to count blocks when they’re not obvious.)

Janna didn’t seem to mind the carnival. I bet she went home and wrote about it in her diary.

Dear Diary,

Jeepers, I went to a carnival up at Saint Sylvester’s tonight and it sure was swell. They even had fried ice cream! Can you imagine, Diary? It was so dreamy, like really tremendous! Fried ice cream outside of a Mexican restaurant!

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Almost better than a malt in a frothy glass with a spiral straw! And pony rides! I ought to have straddled one of those ponies, Diary, if only I had the courage. Gosh, it was the craziest scene! Real life ponies! And people sporting their fanny packs, no shame whatsoever! I totally ought to have worn mine! And my best cuffed plow-pushers! My only regret is not bringing enough money to buy a macrame tissue box holder from the craft table. But overall, what a night! I mean, it was really the limit!

I guess the Westmoreland County Fair spoiled me after all.

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For my birthday last month, all I wanted was a glorious day at Kennywood – Pittsburgh’s amusement park.  I wanted ice cream and cheesy fries and to later choke on the ice cream and cheesy fries l when it rose violently up into my esophagus while on the spinny rides.  But then Blake bailed on us so my only riding partner was Janna, who will barely ride anything more daring than the scenic train.  And I hate riding with Henry because he never talks to me in the lines. Like he’s embarrassed or something.

This asshole totally lied and said it was SO SCARY and REALLY AWESOME. The only scary part was when Janna tried to kiss me!

Luckily, I got to have a birthday do-over yesterday at the Westmoreland County Fair. Sure, the rides there are more painful than fun, but both my brother Corey AND Blake AND Janna came with us, so it was like a party for me. And Hell for Henry.

YOYO

I knew we had arrived at the fair as soon as my ears were slammed with the cacophony of blaring Taylor Dane, the desperate carny-call of “EVERYONE’S A WINNER!” and the dinging bell of Henry’s blood pressure rocketing skyward.

My new favorite picture of Blake. I love how those kids are like, “Hello, Dateline? Predator alert. Weird lady taking our pictures for the Internet.”

Westmoreland County must not be too bad because the only people I found to be fun-making worthy was some old man in overalls, a family of matching mullets, and a wanna-be MILF who looked like she was rode hard and put away wet (Henry’s favorite saying, probably because it reminds him of his ex-wife).

This girl fled after she realized I was taking her picture. Apparently it’s weird to just walk up to a stranger and snap.

Bunny Ear Bingo. Had to shout MOVE IT and shove Janna out of the way so she wouldn’t gay up the Bingo throwdown.

This carny was the cleanest and most jovial of them all. Which is good, because he was manning one of the kiddie rides.

It always seems like a good idea to encapsulate yourself in steel death traps at the fair, until the carnies come by to slam the cage down on your head and you realize you just put your life in the hands of someone who can’t even take care of their own teeth. They call them carnies because of the CARNAGE.

Blake kept trying to get me to bum a cigarette off one of them so we could share it. While it sounded tempting, I was fairly certain that would be a good way to destroy my relationship. “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT CIGARETTE???” “Uh, your GIRLFRIEND?” I was joking about that today with Henry (he wasn’t laughing) and he said, “You forgot the part where I backhand it out of his mouth first.” Yikes.

Corey, Blake and I rode this one ride that looked really tame from the ground, but as soon as it started, centrifugal force (I was good at all the sciences but physics) slammed my fat ass into Corey and from there, we enjoyed the most painful, car-wreck-like ride of the fair. Janna, who was watching from the safety of the comfortable land, said it honestly looked like Corey was going to fall out. It was so painful that I was crying/laughing and then, and I’m not going to lie, a pee drop came out, so not only did I have to fight to stay alive, but I had to also spend the duration of that fucking piece of shit ride trying not to urinate on the entire fair below, like I was spraying the fall harvest or some shit. He got me back on another ride later, as my flesh was practically ribboned on the door of the rattling cage in which we were imprisoned.

After we disembarked, Corey and I adopted a zombied gait (I was essentially using both hands to coax my right leg forward); Blake was all, “WTF is wrong with you guys? That ride was fucking great, I enjoyed myself to the fullest.” BECAUSE HE SAT ALONE AND DID NOT HAVE THE OUTSTANDING OPPORTUNITY TO FEEL THE SENSATION OF MELDING WITH ANOTHER HUMAN BEING.

Today, I’m walking with a slight limp.

 

Corey, still recovering and threatening to puke on Chooch, who unfortunately spent most of the time with Henry. How booor-oooor-ing.

Old people, oldin’ it up.

Obligatory Scene Kid shot. I <333 scene kids!~! 

‘Sup Willie.

 Observing my mounting interest in winning treasures made in Taiwan, Henry was wise enough to hide in the shadows to give his wallet a rape-reprieve.  So Blake and I begged, nay – HOUNDED – Janna for money to play the balloon popping game. She looked like a virgin in headlights, wanting to say no, but not wanting to look like an asshole. Finally, she sighed heavily and mumbled, “Let me open my Mommy Purse and see what I have.” Blake and I got our way, but quickly lost interest and pawned off our cheap prizes on Chooch.

Janna was too much of a pussy to ride this & opted instead to stay on terra firm and fiddle with her pleasure vegetables. Blake got yelled at for jumping before the ride started and I mocked him like the child I am.

Overall, MUCH better than my birthday and I didn’t get any pizza on my shirt this time.The whole set can be seen here.

 

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This year, Henry had the pleasure of taking his two favorite kids to Warped Tour: his son Blake, and, well…me. I kept ducking while we were stuck in concert traffic because I didn’t want the surrounding carfuls of scene kids to laugh and say, “Oh god, that girl is going with her dad, how gay.” When we entered the parking lot, we drove past the drop-off area and Henry said, “God, those parents are so lucky that they don’t have to go in.” Then he tried to murder me with a look of disgust and resentment.

It was nearly noon by the time we managed to park the car. Blake didn’t have a ticket yet so he and I stood around idly outside the entrance to Post Gazette Pavilion while Henry went and bought his ticket. We were approached by the singer and guitarist of Uh-Oh Explosion, who were toting around a box of their CDs. Making small talk, the singer asked if Blake and I were “together.” Instinctively, we both took a step apart and emphatically answered “NO.” Trying to figure it out, he squinted his eyes and guessed, “Brother and sister?” We shook our heads. I saw Henry lingering a few yards away, knowing better than to walk over and lame-up the convo. I pointed to Henry and said, “OK, see that guy? That’s his dad, and my boyfriend.”

This kid (he was only 17) thought this was so fucking fantastico for some reason. “That’s so awesome! Like, talk about closeness. And you guys all came to Warped together!” He paused for a second, before sending my stomach to the meat grinder. “So do you guys have threesomes too?”

RECORD SCRATCH.

I was ready to whistle for the cement mixer to come and seal up my sex organs for real. So disturbing and awkward. I still bought their CD though, because what I heard sounded good and proceeds went to the animals. And what’s a little quasi-incest discourse in the name of stray cats, am I right.

Once we got inside, I was like a kid on Christmas. My eyes had a veritable scene kid feast as we weaved our way to the main stage, where Sky Eats Airplane was playing. Blake and I have the same taste in music — the more scream-y the better. Henry, however, shits himself when he hears hateful bellows, so he took this as an opportunity to go and find a set schedule and then conveniently lose us. Sky Eats Airplane was a good way to start the day.

In between bands, I got to ogle more scene kids. I was wondering why I was so fascinated with them when it dawned on me: If that scene was around when I was a teen, I’d totally have been the first on board. I used to make fun of them,  but now I want to like, write a book about them or something. I’ll start with Blake.

Averting the Hare Krishnas, we went to the Highway 1 Stage to catch From First To Last. Henry was all, “I’m perfectly fine standing all the way back here” and sent Blake and I into the crowd to get pummeled without adult supervision. Anyway, FFTL’s singer Sonny left two years ago and it was a little strange watching them perform without him. Their new material is a little too easy-to-digest and mainstream for my liking, but they ended the set with “Ride the Wings of Pestilence” which always makes me want to sacrifice a shack of Mexican prostitutes. And drink some of Henry’s blood.

Not interested in any bands playing right after FFTL, we walked around and looked at t-shirts and other merch for awhile. Henry, who had bragged on  the way there that he NEVER gets sunburned, started complaining about his nose getting burnt. He kept trying to sneak away and pose under trees in his signature old man-stance. Blake and I would pause and hunker down over the schedule, trying to determine which bands were must-sees and which ones we could skip without losing sleep that night. I kept trying to include Henry, but he would grumble, “I don’t know, does that band actually SING? Then NO, I don’t want to see them.” Perhaps Henry should have just went to that twanged-out Jamboree with Tina instead. Fuck.

 

• The Bronx: I almost got trampled trying to push my way to the stage to see them, only to leave after ten minutes to run to another stage far away to see Alesana. They were really good and made me want to continually punch Henry in the balls. I always forget how much aggression I have until I go to shows like this. I just found out that they’re going on a tour of LA Mexican restaurants as a mariachi band and oh, who I wouldn’t kill to see that.
• Alesana: They were playing on the main stage, and Henry was like, “Thank god, now I can sit my weary bones down!” So Blake and I begrudgingly sat down too. I realize that I enjoy bands less when I’m sitting, because I become too distracted with people-watching. Because of this, I don’t remember if I liked Alesana live or not. All I remember is that Blake picked up an Underoath CD release poster from the ground and gave it to me, making me  think he wanted me to keep it, so I ended up lugging it around all day in my backpack only to wind up throwing it away the next day.
• Human Abstract: Another main stage band, but at least this time Henry allowed himself to be dragged down to the floor by the stage. I had never heard their music before, only seen the ads in Alternative Press for their new CD, so I really wasn’t sure if I was going to like them. Even aside from the immediate crush I developed on the keyboard player, I ended up liking them a lot. They were nice and heavy, but had an interesting melodic side as well. Blake thought they were just alright and stayed sitting down next to his old man for their entire set. This was also around the time that I considered slamming my camera to the pavement because it was taking such shitty pictures, but after Henry inspected it for three seconds, he deduced it was because I had a giant finger print on the lens. I didn’t hate my camera after that.

After the Human Abstract, it was nearly time for Pierce the Veil. They were the main reason I was there and all day it felt like butterflies were fornicating in my belly. It was either Pierce the Veil anticipation or the residual side effects of being asked if my vagina is friendly with both generations of Robbins. Henry once again stood in the sidelines, but I weaved my way as close to the stage as I could get. Which was fairly close since they were still sound-checking.

To show his unwavering adoration, Vic vowed to wear his Jaws shirt every day for the duration of Shark Week. He kept going on and on about sharks and I know this is going to make me look bad but I’m going to be honest: all I could think about was Tina’s vagina, gnashing against flailing legs. Thank God they started playing right after thhat because fuck — my mind disgusts me sometimes. And holy shit, their set was fucking fantastic. It was so good, that I didn’t even mind the heat or having two bitches dropped on me (thank God for Blake, else they’d have hit the pavement). They basically just play a blend of alternative rock, with some screamo-lite thrown in for scene cred, but what makes them stand apart for me is their lyrics. They’re smart, morbid, sad, and just overall clever. At the end of one of their songs, they segued right into a thirty second cover of “Bleeding Love” which was a million times better than the original we’re guaranteed to hear every time we walk into a grocery store. They also threw in a cover “Beat It” which was energenic and really fun to watch, and they ended the set with “Party Like a Rock Star” gone metal.

I did NOT want that set to end. Even Blake admitted that he was surprised how good they were live, and Henry was like, “Yes, fine, I liked what I heard all the back there in Parent Alley.” It was one of those moments where you want to call everyone you know and give them a hyper review in a shrill voice, but you know no one will give a shit. So then you’re just depressed.

We had a lot of time to kill after Pierce the Veil, so I bought a five dollar soft pretzel while wishing for once I ate meat so I could get a corn dog for $3.50 — the cheapest foodstuff there. Henry got nachos which looked like slop. Henry’s demeanor seemed to uncurdle a bit while he was coating his ‘stache with cheese sauce. He even smiled a few times and I think he laughed once.

While we were chilling out at the picnic table, Blake proposed that he move in with us. Maybe it was just the contact high of being with someone who actually gave a shit about music, but I declared that this was the best idea I had ever heard in all of my life, even better than my idea to direct porn, so now he might be moving in with us. It would make my scene kid research easier, for sure.

Blake was so sad that we missed Katy Perry while we were foraging for discounted sustenance. He even pulled his hat down low to hide the tears. But maybe it was because he saw kids he knew and was embarrassed of Henry.

• Evergreen Terrace: I liked them alright but there was nothing mind-blowing that made me want to scour Ebay for rare memorabilia. However, during one of their songs, they chanted “I want you dead” and maybe there’s something wrong with me, but I thought that would be such a romantic sentiment to have engraved on wedding bands.
• Classic Crime: Another band that sounds good in stereo, but didn’t hold my attention live. Instead, I stared at this really surly girl who was like an overweight scene Sami Brady from Days of Our LIves. She was climbing over rows of seats and even though she was struggling to swing her trunk-legs over, she didn’t let it deter her from scaling the next row, until eventually she lost her momentum and wound up clotheslining her crotch. It brought me joy, lots of joy.
• 3OH!3: I wouldn’t have sought this band out normally, but we wanted to see the band that was coming on right after them, so we hung out for their set. I thought I was going to hate them at first, because that wave of white boy rap-rock-electronica kind of annoys me. But they ended up being so fucking fun and there was a really hot blond chick dancing on the side of the stage, so they kept my attention for sure. During their last song, it basically turned into a chaotic dance party on stage, and even Blake’s girlfriend Katy Perry was up there dancing with her man Travis from Gym Class Heroes (who I walked past earlier and wanted to say, “Your gf is a gaybo” but I wasn’t feeling assholey enough. Plus, I like Travis.). Anyway, I’m going to have 3Oh!3 play at my Sweet Thirtieth Birthday Orgy Masquerade. It’s gonna be tight.
• Bring Me the Horizon: Blake ran into some of his friends right as they came on, so we were officially ditched. Henry and I hung around for a few songs, but Henry looked like he wanted to call out for his mommy, so I spared him. I really liked BMTH though — they made me want to fillet a cop.
• The Devil Wears Prada: Sans Blake, things were pretty gay. I wanted to get closer to the stage but Henry was all OH HELL NAH so I was like, “Fuck this then” and went to buy a shirt instead. Henry, you pussy.

The day was coming to an end by this point, and Blake had re-joined us in time for Dr. Manhattan. I was torn, because they were playing at the same time as Norma Jean, side-by-side. And I love Norma Jean. Norma Jean blocked out Eleanore’s nerve-prickling coupon-cutting many a night for me. But I chose Dr. Manhattan, along with fifteen other people. It was sad! But you know a band is good when there are OTHER bands in the crowd watching them. And they were good — they were quirky and fun and energenic and they made me laugh out loud a few times. Unfortunately, Norma Jean was one stage over, luring people into their crowd. They had gigantic black beach balls and I won’t lie — I’m a sucker for a beach ball. At one point, I yelled to Henry, “Hey, do you want to go over and watch Norma Jean for the rest of their set?” but right then, two people left Dr. Manhattan’s crowd and the singer — in the middle of a song — stopped and yelled, “Hey! Where are you guys going??” It was so sad/cute/scary that I looked at Henry and said, “Never mind!”

At the end of their show, some of the bands in the crowd started chanting, “One more song!” but they weren’t allowed because of time constraints. So the singer started chanting back, “One more crowd!”, the retardedness of which made me laugh. I was also dehydrated, though. Overall, I was glad I stayed loyal to Dr. Manhattan, because their set was rewarding.

And that was it. We walked back to the car and already I started to feel the body-dragging effects of post-show depression. Then I thought about how all day long I had been talking about all the bands I wanted to see, but by the end of the night, all I wanted to see was Chooch.

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Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 09:52 Warped Tour, holla. #
• 10:44 Only been in the car for 5 minutes and Henry wants to kill Blake and me. #
• 10:52 Henry said he’d be happier if Kansas or Styx were playing at Warped Tour. I don’t know WHY he doesn’t like Norma Jean. #
• 11:16 I just pointed out a fellow old dude in the Warped traffic. Henry said "he’s probably dropping off his kids. I can’t be that lucky" #
• 13:38 Almost broke my neck trying to see The Bronx and had some guy ask if me, henry and blake have threesomes. #
• 13:53 Henry is frowning. A lot. #
• 14:07 A pungent pot cloud engulfed us and Henry scrambled for his DARE cap. #
• 14:40 Henry bragged the whole way here about how he never sunburns. He’s been whining ever since about his honkin’ red nose. #
• 14:54 Trying to enjoy Human Abstract. Henry and I are having first fight of day. #
• 15:04 About to have my veil pierced. #
• 16:28 Its not fun-havin’ until you catch a bitch with your head. And then another. #
• 17:33 Evergreen Terrace is currently chanting the inscription on Henrys and my future wedding bands: I want you dead. #
• 17:42 Henry hates music. #
• 19:04 I’m not leaving until henry buys booty shorts. #
• 19:45 Say Anything was quite possibly the most boring set of the day. And henry just saw a fellow oldie he recognized from the Chiodos show. #
• 20:43 Every time henry interrupts my convos with blake to ask a question, I tell him "n/m. U wouldn’t understand" and he frowns. #
  

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• 10:22 Henry: you and chooch are gonna have big conflict in the future. Wait until he’s 13. Me: oh by then I’ll be living in France. #
• 10:23 @fondabruises thank you for remembering! :) #
• 10:26 I had 4 cameras with me at Warped Tour. I’m such a loser. #
• 13:20 Continuing tradition by having the worst birthday ever. #
• 18:23 Even Kennywood sucks cock on my birthday #
• 18:28 And I got pizza on my Chiodos shirt! Get fucked by an AIDS syringe, July 30. You cunt. #
• 19:48 Janna bought me an ice cream cone w/ TWO cherries ontop. It made up for my twatty day until My Son the Beggar demanded 1 of the cherries. #
• 20:00 Janna is deaf. DEAF, JANNA IS DEAF. #
• 22:20 Met up w/ my bro & 3 of his friends who said they thought I was only 21. OK FINE MY BDAY WASNT TOO BAD. #

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I don’t think I’ve missed hitting up the Three Rivers Arts Festival once in the past twelve years, so I dragged Henry, Chooch and Blake downtown to spend a leisurely Saturday evening perusing overpriced beaded jewelry and hopefully tripping over some knife-wielding homeless assholes. The arts festival is kind of like the summer kick-off here in Pittsburgh and I usually wind up spending exorbitant amounts of money on a piece of art that likely only cost $20 to make. Sure looks good on my walls though.

Blake has a pet rat tail now that he keeps tucked under his hat; it’s earned him about 146 scene points. 54 more and he can cash them in for a new white studded belt.*

It was slim-pickins this year though. Cheesy windchimes and generic photography (Pittsburgh in the morning, Pittsburgh at night, Pittsburgh under a cloak of fog, Pittsburgh who-the-fuck-cares) seemed to be the most prevalent wares on display in the rows of tents. Look, if I’m going to buy a photograph of the fucking shit hole I live in, it better depict faux-nuclear warfare and slutty clowns sucking dick atop the Mellon Arena.

There was one artisan that was peddling these amazing pieces of metal eye candy, which I could imagine making a cameo as a murder weapon in a Dario Argento film. Blake and I drooled over the aluminum display for like, three seconds (ADD, holla), but alas — neither of us brought our platinum AmEx cards to bloat with $2,000 purchases.

Blake bought a soft pretzel, though.

My stalking skillz were on the fritz that day. Every time I would covertly snap a shot of someone, the person next to them would send WTF rays right through my skull. I eventually gave up and reluctantly settled on shots of skylines and clouds. You know, like the shit that was being shilled inside all of those tents. But then Blake stepped up as a subject and I was happy again. I tried to get him to stab a cop for the sake of photography, but finally I settled on having him stand casually in front of things.

Like a wall of graffiti in a damp alley.

Seeing us slip suspiciously into an alley probably made the Dad Alarm sound inside Henry’s head. He backtracked a few paces, squinted into the alley, and asked, “What are you doing?

” Don’t worry, Henry! We’re just freebasing, brb.

“Can I be done soon? It’s really hot over here,” Blake asked through gritted teeth.

“That’s because it’s STEAM,” Henry shouted, making me hurry up. I bet Blake’s mom loves it when he’s out with us. I have him loitering in seedy alleys in the middle of downtown Pittsburgh, climbing trains, enjoying natural steam baths: All things that Chooch has to look forward to.

There were two cops standing nearby and I was set off immediately by the fact that they were just STANDING THERE DRINKING GATORADE AND BEING LAZY ASSHOLES. Some ho was probably getting raped in a nearby alley, but at least these assholes are replenishing their flab with ELECTROLYTES.

Fuck, I hate cops.

Of course Henry tripped all over himself to defend them. “THEY’RE HELPING PEOPLE CROSS THE STREET!” he shouted desperately. Helping my ASS. They had their backs to the street-crossing pedestrians!

I kind of feel inspired to take senior portraits. Alternative ones, you know? “Listen here, high school cheerleader– I’m going to fashion a murder scene and you’re going to pretend to picnic off the bodies.” WHO WOULDN’T WANT THAT FOR THEIR SENIOR PICTURE?!

Back in the vicinity of the festival, I spied a set of stairs descending into the bowels of the city. I think it was some kind of utility thing that I know nothing about but I’m sure Henry does. It looked really desolate and cinder-blocky at the botton of the landing, so I urged Blake to walk down so I could take a picture. As soon as his foot left that final step, an ear-splitting siren went off, interspersed with a male computerized voice alerting the world of terrorists. Seriously, it sounded like BWAKBWAK WARNINGDANGERDEATHALERT BWAK BWAK and I almost shit myself.

Blake and I ran like hell and when we caught up with Henry, we tried to play it cool, but he saw right through our scared, blanched faces.

“Congratulations, you’re probably on video,” was all he said.

After leaving a trail of suspicious behavior through the streets of town, we hit up Point Park and made the mistake of giving Crazy Ass Chooch some freedom. Once he was out of his stroller, there was no catching him.

I was grateful that we had Blake with us, because he chased after him while I continued to be a lazy ass and complained about how badly my feet hurt. Cry for me.

Blake and I were walking ahead of Henry and Chooch and apparently some punkass skater bitch looked at Blake and said, “If that was my kid, I’d kick his ass.” Unfortunately for that kid, Henry was close enough behind us to hear that comment and proceeded to flex his muscles and spit poison-tipped darts into that fucker’s neck.

I mean, I suppose that’s what he would have done if his balls weren’t made of cotton candy and butterfly wings. Instead, he whimpered and kept on walking.

We lazed around the wall of the fountain at the Point and ogled a couple whose lips were scandelously fused together. Blake wanted me to take their picture, but the boyfriend busted me and let’s just say it wasn’t the first time in my life that I felt like a sexual deviant.

*I seriously, honest to God-ly love scene kids. Like, I want to hug them all and be their big sister and film a couple After School Specials about those rainbow sex bracelets.

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We drove past our local amusement park — Kennywood — yesterday while out and about. Usually, seeing the hill of the Phantom’s Revenge jutting out from the park, appearing to touch the clouds, barely fazes me, but yesterday it kind of shocked me with a thrill. Maybe because it’s about to open in two months and I’m about over this whole snowy weather prison sentence. Soon, they’ll de-winterize the park: tarps will come off and gates will open, affording a new wave of teenage girls the opportunity to give blow jobs under the pavilions. (Hopefully, some bolt-tightening action will take place somewhere along the line too.)

In anticipation for a new season of giving Henry gray hairs at amusement parks, here’s my all-time favorite Kennywood entry.

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June 17, 2007

 

What better way to honor my favorite motion-sensitive father than by orchestrating an afternoon at Pittsburgh’s little amusement park, Kennywood? I even paid for him. I know, try and wrap your head around that one. I know!

I allowed Janna to join us, so that I could have a riding partner while Henry played stroller chauffeur. Clearly I was having a lapse in judgment at the time I extended my invitation to her, because she’s a big crybaby when it comes to 75% of the park’s rides and she’s near-deaf so I have to activate my echo. I think that sometimes she just pretends to hear me, because she’ll smile and laugh, but her eyes are screaming, “Help us, help! We’re so confused! Did she make a joke or is she postulating seriously about Darfur? I don’t know! Just laugh anyway! OK!” My favorite is when she laughs and then moments later asks, “Wait—what?”

This strange phenomenon plagues my conversations with Henry, too, although I have strong evidence backing the fact that he’s just ignoring me.

When we came last year, Riley was too young to ride anything other than the boring, waste-of-fifteen minutes train ride, but this time he boasted the ability to advance on foot at a moderate pace, albeit changing direction more times than a pinball. I had the pleasure of escorting him on his inaugural ride, a watered down roller coaster that took all of five seconds to whir around a wavy track before the miserable employee pulled back the brake and asked us in his best Ben Stein impression if we wanted to ride again. I really didn’t because it was a lot jerkier than I imagined it would be and I bruise easy, but I didn’t want to infer any wrath of the inner city children behind me.

I kept a protective arm around Riley and watched his face the entire time: his expression never faltered. He was stoic, with his lips set in a straight, firm line; it was as if he only came on the ride based on a threat and he’d be damned if he was going to let any tears run loose.

After the second lap — which was shaky at best — Riley and I were the first to exit, putting me in charge of the daunting task of unlatching the exit gate. When it became clear that my attempts were going to continue to be feeble, the mom behind me reached over my shoulder and flipped the latch, saving us all. Thank god for moms like that; you know, the ones who can open things.

We let Riley conquer a ride that featured helicopters and flying saucers which circled around while rising and lowering for about thirteen thousand boring rotations. Every time his saucer would pass our stakeout at the fence, he’d purposely ignore us. He’d wave and acknowledge all the other parents, though. I’m so glad my fourteen-month-old son is already mastering the art of snubbing.

 

Some more here

He didn’t crack a smile on that one, either. Obviously, Kennywood is serious business for my son. He might as well have been riding the bus to work, that’s how much disdain was clouding his face.

We took him on some other rides too, but he was mainly just interested in trying to get himself kidnapped. Stranger danger, what now?

The air that day was heavy with humidity, the kind of weather that leaves a sebaceous film over your face. The kind of salty film that’s best served with some Italian bread. The kind of film that springs forth when you’re knocking back a few in the corner pub and a traveling banjo player comes in and sits at the bar next to you and he isn’t really that good-looking and kind of has a noxious, perma-stench of cabbage emanating from his pits and his tongue is coated with slime, but after your third whiskey he looks mildly inoffensive so you lure him out the back with a theoretical bone of “Hey, play that banjo for me out in the alley, you hot piece of asshole-love” and then you lock the back door after him and bludgeon him with your prosthetic leg and then fuck his dead body in a dumpster. You know, that kind of film?

What better way to hose down the oil slick and neutralize Janna’s body odor than by hopping in line for a water ride? The Log Jammer’s line looked nonthreatening in length, but we were deceived. We had the awesome luck of standing behind a guy who had his name tattooed on the back of his neck in a very effeminate script. Janna thought it said “Jocko,” I thought it said, “Fucko,” but it really said…Oh my God, I completely don’t give a fuck.

At one point, I had that sensation that I was about to be assassinated. You know? My eyes darted all though the surrounding trees and I hoarsely alerted Janna to the situation. Of course she didn’t hear me, making me repeat the sensitive information even louder. I don’t think she heard me correctly, because she cheerfully shouted, “Oh my god, you should totally be an assassin!”

Sure, that would be the perfect profession for me! I mean, if there was suddenly a high demand for obvious assassins. Can you imagine, me and all that grace I lack? “Heeheehee, there’s my target!” while my flip-flops would be slapping all over the place, alerting my target to my presence, even if they were semi-deaf like Janna. “Heeheehee, oh my God lining up my target inside these crosshairs makes me have to pee so bad! Ha ha ha!”

Yeah, Janna. Good one.

Oh boy, did Janna and I have quite the romantic journey in our log jammer. We hadn’t even gone down any hills yet and she was already asking me if I was wet. I have to admit, I was a little uncomfortable at the sexual connotations she was slinging.

“Are you wet yet? Did you get wet? Have you been caressed with the wetness?”

Jesus Christ, Janna! Yes, my skin is slightly lubricated after that last bend. Would you like to borrow some?

What the fuck?!

I had low expectations from the moment Kennywood’s turnstiles molested our pelvises, because Janna and Henry are both adamantly anti-spin. No thrill rides for them, it might aggravate their arthritis and make them paint backs of heads with their lunch.

But after the Log Jammer we came upon my favorite ride in Kennywood, the Aero360. All the other death traps can suck a fucking dick as far as I’m concerned. Especially the ones that think they’re hot shit, like that asshole that calls itself SwingShot. I took a few moments to pause and salivate, nearly genuflecting to really bring it home. Then I gave Janna some killer puppy dog eyes.

“No, Erin. Oh no, I already told you I won’t ride that!”

There were only six people in line. I could have spit on her. Then I looked up at the occupants currently enjoying being flung in the air like bean bags and took note that most of them were children. Children.

I used this as leverage.

“Janna, you douche, how the fuck are you going to be a teacher when you won’t even ride the same rides as your could-be students?” I dug my nails into the back part of her arm so she would see just how serious I really was.

This is not true. I’m not really that mean to Janna. Not right off the bat, anyhow. I lured her into line by ensuring her that mothers had been known to take their infants for a trip on the good ol’ Aero360 so really, what did she have to be afraid of?

She took careful notes as we stood in line, even counting how many rotations the ride engaged in. I answered all her whiny, fear-scented questions with emphatic nos, even when I knew in my heart that I should be hyena-ing maniacal yess all up in her grill while spraying her with laughter-launched torrents of spit.

I saved all of my sinister and cruel needling for when we were already strapped securely into our seats and there was nowhere for her to take refuge. I really lucked out when a group of four older people sat in our section and showed interest in sharing my feast of Janna’s fear.

We screamed your standard caveats of Your harness is coming undone! and Did you hear those bolts shooting out?! along with things tailored more specifically to Janna, like Die, die, die you fucking ho-bag penguin dick-sucker, you fucking dumb ass ugly hooker fucker! and You smell like the used up, soggy, saliva-drenched reed from a clarinet played by a homeless Albanian with AIDs, you fucking whore-tits!

I’m not sure if she could hear any of that over top of her own funeral dirge, though.

My favorite part was when the ride was over and I bolted, while Janna took her good old time reacquainting her feet with terra firma and searching for her sunglasses in the loose items box. I found Henry and together we watched as Janna emerged from the gate. Her face started out lax, then tensed up a little in an expression of fear, then hardened as she figured out she had been purposely ditched and thought, “Hey, fuck this, where are they?”

Cue Henry with the lecturing. “Go and get her, don’t be so mean,” he said as he nudged my shoulder. Can I ever have fun? I mean, really.

After I fetched Janna, I insisted on reliving the experience as we were suspended limply and helplessly, upside down and like, a lot of feet from the ground.

“Wasn’t it invigorating? Like showering in a natural spring?” Janna vehemently disagreed, but maybe I should have mentioned the coconut-bikini. Sometimes, fruity-tits make all the difference in the world.

Then we rode some other things, stood around looking lost, I removed a tampon. You know, really Fun Stuff.

Finally, Janna had tired of having her intestines jostled and suggested that Henry and I take a gander together. I immediately tugged on his arm and ooh’d like an ape, while he simultaneously asked, “Is there a ride where I get to stab her with a knife?”

We opted on a roller coaster, the Thunder Bolt. It’s a good thing that the line was only about two minutes long, because I was floundering on the conversation tip. Henry was in one of those moods where he’d rather be refueling an air plane and killing pet ducks in Panama, and those are things that I sadly just can’t give him. So instead he had to listen to me prattle on about the employees’ water bottles that were propped up across the tracks and did he think they washed them out every night?

I guess the fact that I perpetually whined about how I wished I was there with Christina and not him didn’t really inspire him to contribute to the conversation.

Then it was our turn to ride and I was super concerned about the safety of his glasses, which he stuffed down his shirt like a bra-padder, and I don’t think he appreciated it at all. He was in such a big hurry to get off the ride that he ran right in to some innocent little girl and never even paused to ensure she didn’t skin a knee.

He got his pay back toward the end of the night when we were standing in line for this really stupid and boring car ride that I thought my son would enjoy but silly me, I keep forgetting that my kid only takes pleasure in things like socking me in the mouth and the opening theme of “Days of Our Lives.”

So there was this dumb bitch in front of us; she was, oh I don’t know, seven maybe? This ride demands that you must have a partner in order to make people like Janna remember how loserish they really are, and this particular girl was in a tizzy because her mom hadn’t joined her in line yet. Finally, she approached us (and after finally seeing her, I realized the delay was surely because she was underneath a pavilion, smoking the crack pipe) and the little girl asked Henry if it was OK for her mom to cut ahead of us. She even batted her eyes, which annoyed me. I hate girls that remind me of myself!

Initially, Henry said it was OK, but then he jokingly sneered, “What if I said no?” because he really knows how to charm the pants off the pre-teen set. The girl discarded her apple pie demeanor in favor of a haughty stance and wicked glare.

“I don’t think that would be a problem,” she hissed. I waited for her to launch Henry back against a tree with the sheer power of the hate radiating from her Village of the Damned eyes.

And then I wanted ice cream and Henry foiled my plan, which made the walk back to the car a very long, embittered one. Now I know how Jesus felt. I’ll never forget how my beloved Aero360 looked on the cusp on our departure, all lit up against the mauve sky, like Kennywood’s own little whore house on the Sunset Strip.

Later that night, Henry recounted all the gay ass homemade t-shirts he saw various men wearing. You know, the sort that boasts — in an array of cracked puffy paint — how many apples they have on the tree, or flowers in the garden, and hooray for fathers, let the world never run dry of them. Sorry Henry, I didn’t have enough time, what with working full time, nurturing our son, and you know, updating all five billion of my blogs. Maybe next year I’ll darn you some socks.

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I want to talk about something that changed my life, something that made me appreciate terra firma. I want to talk about a mean little thrill ride called the Swingshot.

 

Clickie for video of its gnashing jaws of death in action

When the Swingshot was the new ride for summer ’06 at Kennywood, no one would ride it with me. I stood near a bench one evening, watching with sad clown eyes (and flicking my switchblade) as groups of riders screamed their lucky little heads off. How blessed they were to have friends who were daring enough to ride with them. I hoped they’d end the evening by walking into the web of a serial killer.

Later that fall, I made plans to go back to Kennywood for their annual Halloween makeover. In making these plans with my friend Kara through email, she expressed great interest in wanting to ride the Swingshot. She would sling enthusiastic confirmations at me, like “I would cut off my left leg with an apple peeler for the chance to ride the Swingshot with you, Erin!” and “Sitting upon the Swingshot is what God molded me to do. The Bible told me so. I am so glad that you have extended to me such an amazing opportunity!” I ran around the house in delight; my dream was going to come true.

First, we rode other ridiculously gut-churning rides, risking whiplash and lost keys but loving every second of it. I think I even scared a little boy sitting across from me on the Aero 360, which made for a knee-slapping good time.

I noticed during the course of the night that Kara seemed to be stalling.

“Let’s go through one of the haunted houses,” she would suspiciously suggest every time we neared the quadrant of the Swingshot.

“Oh, look, it doesn’t appear to be running!” she deduced at one point when we weren’t even close enough for her to make such an assumption. Not one to be deterred, I suggested that we walk closer to its proximity so I could see for myself.

IT WAS RUNNING. I pulled Kara into line with me and she tried to act hard core, like riding the Swingshot was nothing more than a trip down a playground slide for her. But as time went on, I noticed that Kara’s exterior was starting to come undone; she was wringing her hands and fidgeting with the drawstrings of her hoodie. I caught her watching the ride with saucer-wide eyes, but she quickly explained that she was just trying to figure out how it worked.

Well, I didn’t buy it.

The line was long, but we were distracted for a few minutes by a group of boys on the other side of the railing who decided it would be fun to tap me on the shoulder and tell me that their friend in the striped shirt liked me. I’m sure he really did, too, because I hear that girls with chin curtains and a veritable intertube of post-pregnancy fat around their waists is the new Hot of October ’06. I’m a real dish these days. Kara took it upon herself to inquire their ages, and they very proudly announced that they were NINETEEN. There was a man behind us with his Banana Republic billboard of a girlfriend, who jumped into the action by asking us how old we were. Then he noticed Kara was wearing a Pitt sweatshirt and started firing off a barrage of questions about her major and where she works and if she knows all these random people and then he asked, “Where do you guys live?” all the while his stiff-lipped girlfriend stood rigidly by his side, with her hands folded primly. I took this as my cue to turn around and not answer because he was quickly turning into a creepshow. Kara kept answering his questions and I silently wished she would stop before she found him crawling into her bedroom window later that night.

Kara finally turned her back on him and he went back to not talking to his cardboard girlfriend. We watched the ride swing back and forth some more, and my hands started to feel a little clammy. Kara pointed to one girl who had her arms splayed out to the sides and was screaming in a volume of anguish generally reserved for child birth. And then Kara laughed at her. And then I laughed at her, too. No ride is that scary.

But soon it was our turn. We chose two seats together and after I lowered the bar across my lap, I instinctively reached up for the safety thing that goes over your shoulders, but there wasn’t one. I thought maybe my seat was defective until I looked around and saw that no one had one. Then I put my hands out to grip something around me for comfort, but there was nothing to hold onto. Nothing but the small plastic mound that rose up between our legs like a tiny phallic mountain.

And then the ride started. It made a whooshing sound as it propelled us into the air. Imagine if you will the sound of the apocalypse being announced. Lots of bolts clanking, gears grinding, the shrill siren of a billion pounds of air blowing the flesh from your bones? That’s the Swingshot’s soundtrack, my friends.

Kara said she expected a dragon to come out of the darkness and engulf us.

Once we started descending, I knew this ride wasn’t made of little girl giggles and cotton tail surprises; more like crack pipes, shivs, and jizz of a trillion serial rapists. The arm of the Swingshot brought us crashing back to the ground only to whisk us back up in the opposite direction, this time leaving us suspended in the air, facing straight down into the cemented land below. Immediately, my arms flew up to grasp the imaginary shoulder harness and my legs scrambled for a way to brace the rest of me. There was nothing for them do but stick out in paralyzed shock.

I think this is totally how I would feel if ever in that pivotal position where I fall face-first while being chased through the woods of Camp Crystal Lake by Jason Voorhees, flipping myself over just in time for him to gouge my chest with his whirring chainsaw.

Before I knew it, I was crying. Real, live, wimp-flavored tears. I had no fire left inside of me to stop it from happening; my entire being had reduced to a large package of sniveling lily-livered pansiness. I have never, ever cried on a ride at an amusement park. OK, fine, I’m a liar. There was a fun house that my aunt and I were trapped inside of in Paris one year, but that was only because the ride operator knew we were tourists and I can still hear her cackling as she made the hamster wheel speed up every time we tried to cross through it. We ended up jumping a gate to escape, and I brought home bruise- and scrape-covered flesh as a souvenir. That was not a good time.

While hostage on the Swingshot, I shrieked every combination of obscenities that my scrambling mind could think of. All inhibitions were gone and I could have shit my pants and not gave a damn what the guy next to me thought. I just wanted off that motherfucker of a ride.

I could detect a slight acrid odor wafting around my face and I realized that it was the scent of fear oozing from my pores. Or maybe my deodorant just isn’t tuff enuff to do its job when facing death.

They say that when you’re near-death, your life flashes before your eyes. I saw Christmases back when they were good and I got lots of presents because my family’s hatred for me was still recessive. I saw myself on a stage in Switzerland, blowing into a Ricola horn. I saw my five-year-old brother slamming a car door upon my ten-year-old head. I saw myself meeting the Cure and stuttering in front of Robert Smith. I saw myself in the hospital after having a baby and being entertained by a singing telegram sent by Janna. Oh wait, that didn’t happen because Janna is a shitty friend who doesn’t care enough to send a fucking singing telegram. Janna, you asshole. I saw myself punching Jimmy McConaghy in the stomach on the playground in fifth grade, and if I knew then what I know now I would have iced the cake by calling him a douchebag. I saw myself five minutes ago, standing in line and lamenting the fact that “this ride doesn’t look like it lasts very long” and if I had control over my motor skills while being suspended face down, 65 feet in the air, I would have punched myself in the stomach.

I think I now know what it might feel like to be in a plane crash. That was seriously the most unnecessary level of fear I’ve ever willingly subjected myself to. I hope that by the time my kid is old enough to realize that Oh my god Mom, you have to ride this with me!, it will have already been packed up and shipped off to Holland.

Creepy Inquisitor and his Cardboard Girlfriend ended up sitting next to us on the ride and Kara said they didn’t scream or anything which leads me to believe that they’re robots.

Fifteen minutes later, our legs still possessed a slight quake as we passed by the Swingshot on our way to safer steel contraptions meant to make riders wet their pants. I slowed my pace, called it an asshole and flipped it off. Then we realized that it had been temporarily shut down. That did wonders for my newfound appreciation of life.

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