Henry came home and took Chooch back to work with him so I could maybe avoid being admitted to the psych ward this afternoon. I spent my time alone laying outside with a book about Albert Fish called “Deranged” (entirely apropos) and taking pictures of the wildflowers in my front yard.

I never take pictures of flowers, ever. Endless photo streams of flowers is one of my least favorite things in the world. But I figured since my grandma was gypped out of a proper send-off, the least I could do is post some floral photos in her honor.

I practically live in the ghetto. I hope you weren’t expecting roses.

Everyone deserves flowers when they die. Fine, even Katy Perry.

Today was all kinds of fucked up. Cold and clinical. Bizarre and surreal. I wanted to post these pictures I took at the fair on Saturday to remind myself, and maybe you, that there are still things to smile about.

And it’s OK.

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

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

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

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

August Burns Red

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s been a busy day/week. I want to tell you guy(s) about my absinthe experience and I also have an old school Henry & Erin video that does not feature any nudity or any acts even remotely resembling fornication, contrary to what Henry’s ex might want you to think, but it’s taking Henry like a month to finish editing it because apparently he has “more important things to do.” Like what? Like watch NCIS on On Demand, is what.

So here are some photos from last Saturday when Henry and I got brave and took our child downtown for the annual art festival, even though we know from past years that this is A Big Mistake because hello, Chooch in a China Store, OK? I’m pretty certain Pittsburgh as a whole hated us after that. Chooch can be such a fucking dick, it’s not even funny.

I’m a fan of juxtaposition.

I call this one: Douchebag with an Ice Cream Cone.

One of those fucking awesome bridges I love so much.

These people are just really fabulous, super-religious, anti-white race zealots with their own show on public access that I enjoy watching when I can’t find any good horror-porn on cable. One night when I was leaving work, they were filming their show on a sidewalk outside of the Law Firm and I had to walk past them. They were hootin’ and hollerin’ about Scripture and waving about Christ signs; it was scarier than an un-inspected ride at the county fair, but I was most afraid of the chance I was going to show up in the background of one of their hostile telecasts.

On this particular day, they were starting race wars in Market Square.

“Don’t take their pict—-” Henry started to plead, but he was cut off by the snapping of my camera.

Afterward, we ate dinner at Mexico City. I checked both Henry and myself in on Facebook, but couldn’t resist adding, “Stuffing Henry’s asshole with satchels of cocaine.”

“Another restaurant we’ll never be able to come back to,” he mumbled when he saw it on his phone.

Burning off pent-up brat-juice at Bessemer Court.

Henry had to literally drag Chooch, kicking and screaming, through the parking lot afterward. It was really fucking awesome, not exhausting or exasperating AT ALL. Five-year-olds are fucking dickheads. Cute, but fucking dickheads.

Kaitlin had a whole Macy’s box full of leftover macaron shells that were no longer good enough for her to use (but still edible, and trust me, we edibled them) so she brought them in for me to play with.  I am a huge fan of her macarons, so it was an excruciating test of restraint to not tongue the entire box right there at work. Then I had to live in the same house as them for TWO DAYS.

Henry, Chooch and I took them to the cemetery yesterday for a little photoshoot, and the whole time Chooch whined, “NOW can I eat one?”

He really wanted one with sprinkles, but there weren’t very many of those ones so I definitely wouldn’t let him eat any until I was done. I’m the meanest mom ever.

Henry wouldn’t help me AT ALL because I yelled at him on Friday when he walked out of the kitchen with a macaron shell hanging out of his mouth, dribbling crumbs all over the floor.

He probably would have consumed the whole box before I got in a single shot if I hadn’t been watching that box like your uncle Cletus watches porn.

When we came home from the cemetery, I finally let Chooch indulge himself.

He’s such a cookie creep.

These have got to be among the filthiest hands to ever handle a French macaron.

I know it wasn’t my birthday, but Bill and Jessi had a present waiting for me at Chooch’s party.  Because they know I was probably petrifying from the inside out, having to watch my kid get all the attention instead of me. (I’m a Leo. We like our attention. In fact, there are things here at work called “Attention Required” and I often think the stamp should just say “ERK.” Those are my initials. Now you know, in case you wanted to order me something monogrammed from Sky Mall.)

It’s OK though, because Chooch’s birthday party means that Bill and Jessi will come visit from Michigan, so I’m alright with giving him his own day. Besides, I had more friends there than he did, so I win.

(It just occured to me that maybe this is one of the reasons my co-worker Sean just asked me who I’m referring to on Facebook when I say “Chooch.” He seemed surprised that’s my son’s nickname and said he assumed it must have been my brother. BECAUSE I AM SO COMPETITIVE WITH HIM.

)

As usual, I’m typing way more than I intended to, which will just give one of those Blog Frog broads more reason to tell me that people don’t read my blog because my posts are too long. (True story, happened last night.

Thanks for the feedback, ho-bag.

)

My present was a Michael Myers plushie. Michael is my BOY. I have very strong feelings for him. In fact, back when Henry was “courting” me, he bought me several pieces of Halloween memorabilia until he eventually whittled down my defenses and look at me now. LOOK AT ME NOW.

LOOK BEHIND YOU, DANDELION!!

He’s so hot.

Chillin’ with Don, watching “Desperate Housewives.”

Tonight, he’s at work with me. I’m trying to convince him that one of the sea monkeys is not Laurie Strode.

God, I’m so smitten.

Such a shitty, mostly unsafe area, but one of my favorite places to take pictures.

These were both taken and edited with my phone. I feel like that’s the only camera I ever use anymore.

Sorry, Canon. :(

I’m hoping today isn’t a repeat of last Saturday night where I think we’re going rollerskating up until 2 minutes before we leave to actually NOT go rollerskating.

Henry is still paying for that.

I’ve already bombarded Facebook with these photos, so now it’s your turn, Blog.

We stopped at Goodwill beforehand to snag a plain white buttondown and some dress slacks (which turned out to be a womens pair) for Blake. I found some paisley piece of shit thing that we attempted to use as an ascot. Too bad none of us knew how to tie an ascot.

Immediately after walking into Goodwill, Henry was accosted by some older man (older even than Henry, if you can fathom). Apparently, they knew each other. Their discourse was not interesting enough to massage my eavesdropping gene, so I very huffily scoured the racks on my own.

“Who is that man Daddy’s talking to?” I asked Chooch, who was bouncing back and forth between me and the conversating rejects.

“I don’t know, Outrageous, I think.”

Turns out it was Regis, whoever the fuck that is.

I decided we should take some “safe” pictures at the cemetery before introducing the blood and bones into the mix, just so I’d have something to show one of the boss-types at work, who has no idea what actually goes on around here.

We then went to my grandma’s for the action shots, because, well, it’s gloomy as shit back there now. I had major anxiety being there, though, since my Aunt Sharon is crazy-weird about people stopping by. We parked the car in the upper driveway and prayed for the best, trying to stay as far away from the actual house as possible.

“Try not to get any on my undershirt,” Blake said as we stood near a large tree stump, opening packets of Ketchup procured from McDonald’s. “It’s a vintage Penguins shirt.”

I expressed my approval at his hockey-geared fashion sense.

“It’s from 1991,” he stressed.

BITCH THAT’S NOT VINTAGE. Shit, I can’t remember the last time I felt so old. Perhaps when I was called MA’AM at a Chiodos show. That’ll do it.

“It’s vintage to him,” Henry argued. “It’s from the year before he was born.”

DOUBLY OLD FEELING.

Just another normal day at Grandma’s house.

Blake in any type of animal mask scares the shit out of me. I need to buy more animal masks.

Chooch was getting sincerely irritated by this point. He’s good for the first few minutes, but then the novelty of being bossed around and forcibly positioned in ridiculous and absurd stances kind of starts to piss him off a bit. These are probably the moments he wishes he had a normal mom who just take him to the fucking mall and pay $20 for a regular Easter portrait with a blood-free Easter bunny like all the kids in his class get to do.

I was on the phone today, and mistakenly let it slip  to Chooch that it was Sharon on the other end.

Raising his voice approximately eighty-seven octaves and acquiring an obnoxious lilt, he yelled, “TELL HER WHAT WE DID YESTERDAY AT HER HOUSE! TELL HER!” and I’m trying, one-handed, to use on him the things I learned last night at Zombie Defense Class, but his little-big mouth just kept flapping.

Fucking turncoat. Like he didn’t know what he was doing.

Over on the Instagram app, I participate in this fun little weekly photo assignment called “Homework.” The last assignment’s theme was “Home,” something that makes you feel at home, reminds you of home, etc.

I only had to think about it for .87 seconds before choosing two photos from Warped Tour.

That one day every summer is literally where I leave my heart.

Just thinking about July 22 (this year’s Pittsburgh date! I’ve had my ticket since December!) makes me feel giddy, light, warm in the aorta. I can’t explain it, but on no other day do I ever feel like I’m 100% me.

Warped Tour is home to me. (Fitting that my home, my heaven is Henry’s Hell.)

Audience participation: Where’s YOUR home?

It was a nice day yesterday so when Chooch came home from school, I ushered him right back outside so we could take some pictures.

I like to try and post up-to-date photos of him on here whenever I can, on the off-chance that my estranged mother might decide to swing by the blog to get a refresher on what her grandson looks like.

Like that would ever happen.

He woke up two Saturdays ago with the most awesome (Biblical sense) bedhair I’ve ever seen. If Christofer Drew (Never Shout Never) had seen it, he probably would have tried to interrogate Chooch on the exact slumbering position which gained him such a scene rat-nest. It served as an intense impetus to get me to escort him to the nearest salon.

I kind of hate what the lady did to him, but I guess it’s better than it was. His sideburns were practically fluttering wings before BoRics intervened.

These were the only photos I got out of him before he started doing the pee-jig and we had to race to the house, at which point it took me approximately 87 minutes to help him finagle his jeans off because he was wearing a belt, the mechanisms of which I just can’t for the life of me comprehend and Henry was at work. Life is so hard when Henry isn’t around to bail me out.

What better photoshoot conditions than a cold and rainy day. Henry wasn’t thrilled about it, but too fucking bad. I need him around to hold my lenses.

“That was kind of scary,” Chooch informed me just now as he walked past, looking for a cat to torture.

This was Chooch’s idea. I went along with it because I liked the angel/demon juxtaposition.

How apropos.

I asked, in a kind of huffy tone, “Why do you always have to pose like a goddamn zombie?

”

“Because we’re in the cemetery?” Chooch answered, hands raised. Then he shook his head and gave me the “You’re so stupid, Mommy” laugh.

I was going to take some pictures of Chooch outside yesterday, but the sun was one deceiving motherfucker. It was so windy and cold, so we took the ‘shoot to the bathroom, which I’m sure chagrined some people who absolutely HATE it when people take photos in their bathroom. (Seriously, this was a discussion on Facebook the other day.

I mean, excuse me if that’s the best-lit room in my house. Sorry that my STUDIO hasn’t yet been erected. Jesus Christ. And yes, we DO put on our makeup and fix our hair just to take pictures for Facebook, because photography = art.

Owellz0rz.)

Total Creeper.

Me and my passive aggressive attitude are going roller skating now.

Peace out, girl scout.

Chooch walked in while I was having my lips frosted and said, “You’re the biggest idiot, Mommy.”

“Did you already post those pictures?” Henry asked after saying my post-frosted face looks like a chemical burn. When I said I had, he looked all let down. Turns out he wanted me to take a picture of my stained face and tell Andrea that her My Pretty Zombie makeup tried to kill me. He’s just mad because she sent Chooch a whistle.

It’s weird, just last Saturday Jessy was over here and I was showing her some of my older photographs.

“This is my all-time favorite,” I said, pulling up this photo I took of Kara in 2008 in one of the bathrooms at Zenith.

Then a couple days later, Kara was like, “Hey let’s go to lunch at Zenith this week.” Almost as if she could sense her picture being shown!

So I met her and her baby Harland there on Thursday for BBQ seitan sandwiches. The best waiter in the world, Keith, was our server! I love that guy; he has this natural charm to him, like he could just pull up a chair and join you and it wouldn’t be weird or awkward at all.  The Gypsy Cafe needs a Keith. They should find a way to clone him so they can get rid of the guy who spills champagne on people’s heads.

Halfway through the meal, Harland reached his arms out to me. Kara laughed and said, “I think he wants you to hold him, Erin!”

Me and babies? Not really so tight. Don’t get me wrong – Harland is a sweetheart and I like to look him, but keeping some distance between us is imperative.

However, I wanted to be a good friend and give Kara some free hands with which to eat, so I took Harland from her and we walked around, looking at the art and antiques strewn around the restaurant.

Kara said Harland doesn’t let anyone keep him from her for more than like a minute or something, but for some reason he was like, “Nah, lady, this is cool. I’m not gon’ cry. Now take me over there so I can fondle some pumpkins.” Kara thought this was funny, me being all uncomfortable with a baby in my arms.

I think Harland can sense that and does this to me on purpose. After all these years, someone has finally come along to give me a taste of my own medicine. That baby is mega manipulative.

Together, we scoped out a painting of a topless broad. He was cool with that.

I finally gave him back to Kara and sat back down. But Harland toddled back over to me, sat on my lap, and stole my roll! What the fuck, Harland?! This is payback for writing that haiku about your mom’s butt crack, isn’t it?!

All joking aside, he’s good for a one-year-old. I never took Chooch out to eat without Henry when he was that age, because he made me a nervous wreck. But Harland is quiet and well-behaved.

Kara and I must have read opposing parenting books.

Before we left, we checked out the bathroom for old time’s sake. It’s green now! But still the best bathroom in Pittsburgh, as far as I’m concerned. I snapped this with my phone, because I felt we needed an updated version now that Harland is around.

I came home from lunch and promptly iced my arm from all the baby-carrying (I’m way out of practice). Henry asked accusingly, “Wait – she took Harland? Then why didn’t you take Chooch?!”

Chooch, eating lunch in an antique shop? Has Henry not met our son?