My friends Jessy and Tommy are currently vacationing in Top Sail Island, but they were thoughtful enough to send me flowers for my birthday. That’s a really beautiful thing to come home to from the cemetery!

I think maybe I’m supposed to cut them down and fit them into the base of the cupcake, but I’m a floral-retard and Henry wasn’t home, so I just stuffed them in this skull stein that I always forget to drink my Absinthe and brain puree from.

Anyway, they are lovely and make me feel very loved!

Also the other day I got an Aw Snap! camera t-shirt and this gorgeous hand-carved skull bracelet from Bill and Jessi:

I have some really awesome friends. They make me feel loved!

The other night when I got in the car after work, Chooch handed me a wrinkled piece of paper that he had decorated with a stamper at Henry’s office. “It says, ‘Happy birthday, Mommy. I hope you get more presents.’ And I have a surprise for you at home!”

It was a latex glove. Blown up like a balloon.

I didn’t get ANYTHING from Henry. He has less than twelve hours. I’m counting.

In non-birthday news, tomorrow is Blogathon and I’m panicking as is customary for Blogathon eve. I’m worried I’ll run out of things to write about.

I’m worried that my high-energy brand of hysteria will chase Alisha and Henry off for good. I’m worried that somehow the Internet will break like it did last year, and I’ll be forced to post from my iPhone and after nine months of being an official Apple-hoe, I’m still texting with the speed and dexterity of a fingerless hobo drunk off boot-infused Nighttrain.

Things I am requesting for tomorrow (take note if you’re planning on stopping by!):

• WINE
• no candy/chocolate because it always seems like a good idea, but it makes me crash and then I get pissy and wind up being even douchier to those around me  Changed my mind! I want a bag of raspberry Kisses.
• WINE
• iced coffee!!
• grilled cheese!!
• presents!!
• WINE
• Things to fashion into moustaches
• Willingness to pose for stupid photos
• FODDER
• grenades
• Sparklers
• things in which to dip myself
• WINE
• bonfire in my living room so I can make s’mores while whispering “s’mores” creepily in everyone’s ears

Also, I turned off email notifications (which ironically JUST STARTED WORKING AGAIN after crapping out on me a year ago) and the Twitter feed so you guys won’t get inundated by 49 scatter-brained blog posts. See how considerate I am of your patience?

It’s not too late to sponsor me! All proceeds go directly to the Greater New Orleans Foundation Oil Spill Relief Fund. Please visit my donation page for more information!

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

And this is just in the parking lot.

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

And this was just in the line to get in.

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

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

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

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

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

I like this picture for 2 reasons:

1. you can see tents in my sunglasses

2. Henry looks put-out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“DID YOU LOVE PIERCE THE VEIL?”

“WHAT DID YOU THINK OF JONNY?

“CAN WE GO TO THE ONE IN CLEVELAND?”

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

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

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

Vic Fuentes from Pierce the Veil, fuck yeah.

I haven’t even come close to collecting all my thoughts about Warped Tour 2010, but when I was going through the pictures from yesterday and came across this one, there was no way I could wait to post it. Pierce the Veil’s set was the highlight of the day for me; nothing else came even close. As far as I’m concerned, that one short set was totally worth the price of admission and enduring the unrelenting sun beaming down 100 degree rays of pain and torture on us all day long.

I cried through their entire set.

There’s much more to come! You know I’m a wordy motherfucker. (Plus, there’s still Butler County Fair stuff to post about, including a REALLY MAJOR secret I learned about Alisha!) But until then, anyone who thinks Warped Tour is “gay” or maybe just doesn’t get it should check out this article by Alternative Press’s Scott Heisel, because it made me simultaneously say “Fuck yeah” and cry. Music turns me into a pussy, what can I say.

Hello oh my god I’m at Warped Tour!

Taking a quick break under a tree because it’s nearly 100 degrees today but so worth it!

We were still in the parking lot, still in the CAR even, and I had already started crying pure tears of happiness.

Dillinger Escape Plan before noon is a pretty good indication that the day is going to be fucking balls out ridiculous.

This is the best day of the year.

Henry is miserable and jaded.

MORE LATER OMG! Pierce the Veil soon, shut up!

Hey, what do we do around here for Mother’s Day? Nothing. What do we do for Father’s Day? Oh, spend the day at an amusement park, no biggie.

But I don’t mind too much because it’s more for me than Henry anyway. He’s all, “I’m just happy I get to spend the day with the people I love” and, after barfing in a boot, I’m like, “Who, skanky teens in bikini tops and booty shorts? Middle-aged broads spilling out of their tank tops, boasting Tasmanian Devil tattoos and stretch marks?” Because these are the types of people with whom Kennywood is predominantly filled.

It turned out to be a miserable day. It was super hot, which I didn’t really mind, but I was worried about how much money we spent to go in the first place, never mind how much we’d be spending on food and beverages once inside. Blake wasn’t feeling well so I didn’t want to drag him on too many ridiculous rides, and Chooch was just being a wishy-washy cry baby bitch.

I wanted to start out easy by going on the super lame Garfield-themed boat ride that’s right near the entrance. I thought it would be a good first ride for Chooch, as it’s proved to be in years past. But I was vetoed because what do I know anyway, I’m a high school AND college drop out. Henry decided it was best to start him out big, so we took him on his first non-baby roller coaster, the Jack Rabbit. It’s a pretty non-threatening wooded coaster, but it does have a double-dip, and that’s what I was worried about for him. I kept imagining him being sprung from his seat and thirty years from now becoming an urban legend because no one actually remembers if some four-year-old actually did plummet to his death on the Jack Rabbit back in those crazy 2010’s or if it was just a story a clave of moms made up to deter their children from ever wanting to ride a roller coaster,  ever again.

I don’t really think Chooch knew what he was in for when Blake guided him straight to the front seat. Henry and I sat directly behind them, and I watched as Chooch scrunched up against Blake’s side for the entire duration. He didn’t cry, but I could tell, just by his body language, that he probably thought my threats of him going to Hell were finally coming into fruition. He seemed fine when we got off the ride, but when I asked him if he liked it, he very sincerely and sing-songily replied, “No, not really!”

It ruined him for the rest of the day, I know it did. We would get to the front of the line for the basest of family rides, like the types rides that pregnant women could ride and feel confident that they won’t get off leaving a trail of miscarriage in their wake, only for Chooch to say, “Um, no, I’m not riding this. Let’s go, kbye.” There were times when I wanted to push him, but people were looking. So we were good parents and left the lines with him every time, while threatening him in terse tones through taut lips.

I think I told him like 67865 times that he was ruining my day, and then Henry would have to remind me that mothers shouldn’t say things like this to their children and I was like, “Bitch, don’t you know I’m not a mother when I’m at Kennywood? I’m a fucking KID who wants to RIDE some mother fucking RIDES.”

We did, however get him on the Raging Rapids, which thoroughly pissed him off.

Slightly amused after a light sprinkle

Complained a lot about his new shoes getting wet

Not actually crying, but REALLY FUCKING BENT OUT OF SHAPE

Chooch was relatively mild-mouthed for most of the ride, until getting assaulted by the waterfall, to which he exclaimed in a very angry tone, “Oh, FUCK THAT.” He sounded so dire that I didn’t even have the heart to yell at him for taking his swearing side show on the road.

At one point, I tried on a suit of graciousness (it didn’t fit me very well, but at least I tried) and suggested that Henry and Blake ride the Phantom’s Revenge together because the line looked short. And you know, it was fucking Father’s Day after all. I figured Chooch and I could go on Noah’s Ark during that time. Noah’s Ark is just this large walk-through ride that thankfully doesn’t have the religious overtones you’d think it would. It’s like, every child’s favorite ride though, because it’s dark, fun, has moving floors and fake animals to look at.

Chooch has been through it three times in the past, but apparently he doesn’t remember because once we got in line, he deemed that it was going to be “too dark in there, let’s go.” I was like, “Asshole, this ride was fucking built for children! It is NOT SCARY! You watch motherfucking Friday the 13th and don’t bat an eye lash, but you’re afraid to walk through some lame ass boat with a bunch of fake ass fucking props in it?” Oh my lord, I was so disappointed in him.

So we spent a half an hour sitting on a ledge, waiting for Henry and Blake. By the time they got off the coaster, I was in full-blown sulk mode.

“I’m ready to dip up out of here,” I said disgustedly to Henry.

“What, why?” he asked.

“BECAUSE CHOOCH WON’T RIDE ANYTHING AND THIS WAS A WASTE OF MONEY AND MY WHOLE DAY IS RUINED!” I wailed. And the camera battery died after 30 minutes! And half the rides were closed! And I didn’t have a friend to take with me! And I felt fat!

But then Blake, worlds more mature at just seventeen than I am at thirty, suggested that Henry and I go ride something like a real life couple and he’d take Chooch to get pizza.  So Henry and I rode the Music Express, which was fun because I got to add extra curricular punches and pinches on top of the standard pre-packaged pulverizing that comes included with spinny rides. And after that, I dragged him on the Cosmic Chaos, which is still relatively new and he’s never actually seen in action. Until he was stuck smack in the middle of line when the next round started. As Henry watched it do its thang, he gravely murmured, “Oh, Erin…” I think that was my favorite part of the day. Either that or when Blake and I were on the Aero 360 and I asked him if he knew the scene kid who was sitting next to me. “What, I’m supposed to know him because he’s a scene kid?” Blake asked, upset with my assumption, like it was racial profiling or something.

After that, we tried to get Chooch to ride more things but he was being a big baby, and not even a cute one, but the kind you want to punch and then leave on someone’s porch in a laundry basket, so I threw my own fit and stalked off toward the entrance, where I sat on a bench alone. Literally, I sat there with my lip all pursed and quivering, arms crossed, and a thousand murderous scenarios screeching through my broken mind like a rusty train on chalkboard tracks.  This was around the time I tweeted, “I wish I could stuff Today in a cadaver and fuck it in the ass with a blow torch.” Then I decided, I’ll show them, I’m going to leave! So I texted Blake and said, “I’m leaving!” to which he replied, “But you have all the money!” and then Henry left Blake and Chooch in Kiddieland to come calm me down.

Which he did by buying me food because, being the Erin specialist that nine bi-polar years have made him, he recognized in the situation all the signs of Erin Famine. And I was cool after that! We went back to KiddieLand and Blake was like, “You kids go on and have fun. I’ll stay here with Chooch.” Really, this was because Blake wasn’t feeling well and standing among parents watching small children oscillate slowly on hideous animal faced-carriages was more appealing to him than getting whiplash.

So Henry and I got to be a Real Life Couple and ride things together! I can’t remember this ever really happening too often at Kennywood. I know that he and I have never been there alone together, so this was sort of like a DATE. It was weird! And he was really giddy and kept trying to kiss me and I had to remind him that I hadn’t suddenly abandoned my hatred of PDA. He even grabbed my boobs right as our photo was taken on the Log Jammer and I was like, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Did Blake give you E?”

Then I had to stand around impatiently while he played that money-guzzling game Pong Pond, where you get like, seven chances to bounce a ping pong ball and hope that it lands in a plastic lily pad. I’ve yet to see him win at this game.

“This is the only game I’m good at!” he whined after I begged him to stop spending money on it. “I’ve won it, like three times!”

“Seriously? You’ve won three times in the thirty years you’ve been coming here?”

He thought about this. “Yes. So I’m about due for a win.” I had to pull him away. Unless he was going to wrap a stuffed animal around my goddamn finger and propose, I wasn’t about to stand there and cheerlead for him while he blew through all of MY MONEY.

Then the night turned sour. Blake wanted to leave because he wasn’t feeling well at all, which was understandable, but Chooch had to play fucking mind games with me the whole way back to the entrance. “I want to ride this.” We’d get in line. “No, I don’t think so.”

I was so over it! Walking past Garfield’s Nightmare, the extremely docile family boat ride Chooch pussied out on twice that day, he begged us to take him on it.

“Hell no,” I said. “I’m done playing these games with you. All you’re going to do is get in line and change your mind, so stop wasting my time.” And he threw a full blown fit, right there in front of all the other children who were like, “Yay! We’re at Kennywood! We appreciate this opportunity so much, Mommy and Daddy! We are going to ride every single ride to make sure we get our money’s worth, and you will be so proud of us! And before we go to bed tonight, we will be sure to read from our Bible!”

This was the point where I quickened my pace, and left Blake and Henry behind me to pull Chooch along, kicking and screaming. He cried and screamed the whole way home while I stared out the window and tried to remember what it was like to be single.

Happy Father’s Day, Henry! I’m leaving!

Today I was going to post this video that Corey took of ourselves on some death trap at the county fair two summers ago, but figured two county fair posts in a row was enough for right now, so instead I guess I’ll tell you about Henry’s 45th birthday party.

We had a party for Henry at my mom’s house. A cook-out thing. A few people came. It was OK.

I won’t get into the fact that this is the third party I’ve had for him in the nine years we’ve been together, as opposed to the ZERO he’s had for me. Yeah. My thirtieth birthday? Doesn’t exist in the history books.

But who am I to cry over SPILLED MILK?

It was supposed to rain all day, as it had the entire day before. But MIRACULOUSLY, the rain drops ceased and the sun shone for the entire day. Only the best for fucking Henry Robbins and his big shot birthday.

Henry’s mom was there, and his sister came with four of her kids. Blake was there because there was free food, but Henry’s other son Robbie had to work. Corey and I had a mild disagreement back in April and he apparently has been making much more of it than it actually is, so he stayed in his room all day. He said he was sick, but  my mom said he was sulking. Some people were out-of-town that weekend, and others were just like, “Wait – who’s Henry?” So they didn’t come, obviously.

And then Alisha and Stacey were there too, thank god, because there was some family tension going on and it was nice to have friends with me. And I know Henry was glad that Alisha was there, because while we, and I do mean just Henry, were setting up for the cook-out, I was about .00002 seconds away from a full-blown temper tantrum because it had been a shitty weekend and there was an issue with disrespect against Henry and myself, which I won’t get into here but I will say that after nine years you’d think some people would fucking let shit go by now and grab on to some semblance of a life. And I projected all of that aggression onto the table and the fact that I didn’t like where Henry was putting it. So I sat myself with my arms crossed, wanting to go home, but then Alisha came over and talked to me in soft tones and then we went for a walk and I was OK. And that is how a person takes care of Erin R. Kelly.

Henry tries to act like, “Oh, Stacey is so annoying!” but look at his face! Behind that smirk, he’s like, “Oh hell yeah, some blond broad is totally hanging off me, what’s up NOW, Air Force roommates?” Stacey wanted to jump out of a cake but Henry said he’d rather her just be the pinata if she had to go and be anything at all.

I suggested getting some oranges so they could recreate the game we played at my baby shower, where you have to hold an orange between your chin and chest and transport it to your partner’s chin/chest cavity without using hands. Stacey and Henry were partners and he still accuses her of somehow chipping his tooth. So that suggestion wasn’t very well-received by Henry. Besides, he’s 45 now and everyone knows 45-year-olds don’t run, have fun, or have the space under their chins to hold an orange. At least those named Henry Robbins.

I didn’t see Chooch sit down for the entire three hours we were there. His faux hawk fell on one side and was held there firmly by the salt of his sweat; I couldn’t stop seeing Drop Dead Fred every time he ran past. And then Alisha was like, “That is my favorite piece of cinema!” and I always do double takes when she talks about culture and shit since she grew up wearing floral dresses and riding mules in Arkansas.

The first time I met Stacey was at a ChiChis back in 2004. This was right after the whole Weiss Meats debacle happened, so I was out of a job. She paid for my margarita! I’ll always remember that, because it was like a real life date. The second time we hung out, she came to my house. I don’t know why I made such a big deal out of it, but I had Henry put together a cheese plate.

Kind of like, “I have no friends, Henry, don’t let this one get away!!” But actually, I did kind of have friends back then. I know, can you imagine?! So anyway, here comes Stacey, walking through the door, kicking off her shoes, and curling up on the couch, like we were old college roomies. And then she immediately began antagonizing Henry, who got all ruffled, and I was like, “Oh shit, this girl KNOWS.” And then I let her to drag me to the Regatta, where I was coerced into wearing a Froggy sticker on my tit AND carry around a Froggy balloon all Goddamn day, so you KNOW I must have thought Stacey was worth it. (But more importantly, that was also the day I learned about Furries.)

Oh. Anyway. That picture just reminded me of that, that’s all.

First, Henry was riding a scooter with Chooch chasing after him, wanting it back. Then, he tried to be all cutesy and board the tricycle and I was like, “What the fuck kind of retardedly stunted mid-life crisis are you HAVING? My God, go get a fucking Mustang or gamble away your child like a normal man.”  (I’d have said Porsche instead, but come on. Henry’s lucky he could afford a Pinto.)

ARGH! Manos: Cake Hand of Fate! Val was thoughtful enough to get Henry a birthday cake. Good call! Because I totally would have dropped the ball on that. And then his sister Kelly was like, “Wait, aren’t we singing?” Meanwhile, the cake had already been cut and 75% of us were inhaling it.

A feeble attempt to make it look like we had more guests.

So there you go. You could have had an AWESOME VIDEO of ME on a RIDE, but instead you get shit about Henry.

(I have no idea who I’m referring to every time I say “you.” You, I guess.)

Today is Henry’s FORTY-FIFTH birthday! GOOD FUCKING LORD. We’re attempting to have a cook-out for him later today at my mom’s (or, if the rain refuses to cease, a cook-IN. OMG the sun came out as I typed that!

) but other than that, I didn’t get him SHIT for his birthday. I would have made him something awesome, but since he made me GET A JOB, I don’t have time for that romantic homemade bullshit anymore.

So, in his honor, I’m posting the pictures from the calendar I made out of pure unadulterated love back in 2007. I don’t have a copy of the calendar in front of me, but there were awesome Henry-tastic holidays strewn throughout, like “Give Your Boss a Reach-Around Day.” Maybe one of the three people who own a copy can help me out here!

(We all endearingly called him Hoover back in the LiveJournal days, because he sucks the fun out of everything. So now you know.)

12 Months of Hoover

(I don’t know what I was thinking with this font choice.)

(Henry smiled a lot more back then, it seems.)

(My personal fave.)

(May is a good time for a romantic picnic with Hot Naybor Chris!)

(June is Gay Pride Month!)

(Henry is a good griller! You should hire him for all your COOKOUTS.)

(So, this was his old boss Ted who may or may not have found out that I created a faux love story between him and Henry in my fake Henry LiveJournal.)

(No wait! Maybe this one is my favorite because Henry looks so bitchin’.)

(Henry’s wearing his fruity Playstation headset in the witch picture. He went through a long phase where those were ALWAYS on his head. Fucking Socom.)

(OMG all of Henry’s favorite people!)

I taught myself Photoshop just so I could make this calendar for him. It was even a prize at my baby shower! (Kara won it for giving me the best present ever – a baby-sized Cure t-shirt!

)

Happy birthday, Henry. We’ll all watch porn in your honor.

19 comments

Can I get a “Fuck the police”?

Sunday night, I had the audacity to speak disparagingly about the annual Memorial Day Parade in front of four of my neighbors at the chintzy cookout.

“WHAT THAT PARADE IS GREAT” Ruth exclaimed while Mark hung his head, thoroughly shamed by my remark.

“Girl, if you want something bigger, you’re in the WRONG CITY,” Toya scoffed.

Hot Naybor Chris was too busy examining his can of Straub while Henry glowered at me. We had just become semi socially acceptable to the neighbors and here I come ruining it.

Lame as the parade is, I never miss it. However, if I had to do anything greater than step out of my front door to see it, this would probably have been the 10th straight year of missing it. Some people actually GET IN THEIR CARS and drive over here with parade chairs and camcorders! What fucking schmitts!

Henry actually GOT IN THE CAR to go pick up Alisha and Bonzi so they could dine on a breakfast of mediocrity with the rest of us here on Pioneer.

Before the parade started, a man and his son came to my house and handed me a ziplock bag full of candy and literature for SUMMER BIBLE CAMP. Alisha was real rude to them (she doesn’t even have to open her mouth to be rude! She has a gift), so the man ended up just directing his spiel at me. He said he was from the church down the street (honestly – do you guys see the irony in me living across the street from not one but THREE churches?), and if we wanted to walk our asses down there later, we could get our hands on one of the FREE HOTDOGS they were handing out. I don’t eat meat, but I considered walking down there just to see what kind of religious shenanigans I could find myself in. But that would have required donning my bathing suit to swim through the humidity.

There were no big surprises this year in the parade, aside from the addition of even more army people which promptly gave Henry a patriotic erection. They were driving desert vehicle things and the one dude was wearing Ray-Bans and smoking a cigar, he was so hardcore. The same crappy Lutheran church puttered past in their maroon van with puppets hanging and waving out the window; I waved back with the same high-energy, faux-enthusiasm as I do every Memorial Day. There were the same high school marching bands, only this year I learned that Alisha has like, all this respect for them. She even taught me some stuff about “character shoes”, which I always thought were just called “beige footwear for dorks.”

Excitingly, and not surprisingly, there was a troupe of young girl dancer hoes who had major audio malfunctions, so we never got to see them flail around in various styles of the uncoordinated, but I still got to make fun of them. I laughed uproariously and Alisha was like, “That’s mean,” while Henry simultaneously said, “That’s fake.”

Coolest part of the parade and he wasn’t even in it! I bet he listens to Mudvayne.

When a car idled past bearing the US Airforce insignia, I pretended to be all excited for Henry. This is my favorite part of Memorial Day – getting to put on a show of complete and utter disrespect for my country-servin’ boyfran’.

Some of the parade participants will chuck handfuls of candy at the kids sitting along the street.

We kept trying to coax Chooch to sit with Hot Naybor Chris’s grandson Josh, but Chooch was being a complete jerk about it. Finally, he took the extra chair and dragged it a ways down from Josh. He’s only 4 and already he understands social hierarchy. If there were four-year-old cheerleaders nearby, he’d probably have dragged his chair next to them.

Chooch would catch something stupid, like a Tootsie Roll, and spend ten minutes opening it while Josh plucked every last piece of candy off the sidewalk and grass. I don’t know why Alisha, Henry and I were so adamant about Chooch collecting more candy than the rest of the kids, because after he ate two pieces from his collection, he morphed into His Royal Hyperactivity and I wanted to chuck him back at the candy-chuckers.

But he snagged one of those butterscotch rounds that me and the elderly love so much, so I was pacified.

Turns out one of my local Twitter friends was watching the parade a block up from me! She replied to one of my tweets and said that if I wanted to be in the parade next year, SHE COULD ARRANGE THAT.

ME! IN A PARADE!

Since this is Brookline, not Brooklyn, I’d probably have to behave myself, but I’d be willing to compromise my true inner asshole to BE IN A PARADE, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

I hope she wasn’t kidding. I was thinking I could lay across the hood of the Shriner’s big rig.

I never thought I’d say this, but I sure hope I’m still living here next year.

Oh hey, Happy Memorial Day. My big plans consist of watching the shitty parade that bumbles past my house every year at 10am, and then possibly playing some Thingie Ball. Big deal.

I spent the day with Alisha yesterday. Henry sent me a series of texts that looked like this:

“Couch is next door playing with josh and madison and we were invited to their lookout which is awkward since we have nothing to take so I told them I was sick.”

“chooch.”

“cookout.”

“Dame xt9.”

“spellcheck.”

“damn.”

I came home around 8:00 and found Henry, “sick” as he was, down in the backyard with “Couch” at the neighbor’s “lookout.” What this really means was that he was engaged in man-stance with Hot Naybor Chris, drinking Straub. (HAHAHA.) I’m not a huge fan of Hot Naybor Chris’s wife – some bad blood boiled last summer – but going in the house would have made everything a thousand times worse.

So I was neighborly and it pained every fiber of my being.

But at least 1950s Housewife wasn’t there.

She has a new look by the way: androgynous thirteen year old boy.

It wasn’t too bad, I suppose. Hot Naybor Chris (why am I even still calling him that?) was totally blitzed and spouting off nonsense, and then Mark – Henry’s token black friend – came home from work and joined us out back. Because I’m an adolescent and stupid shit like that tickles me to no end, I started sending out hysterical texts and tweets because MARK AND HENRY WERE BOTH WEARING BANDANNAS. I think it made Henry feel cool because lookie here, Mark was wearing one too and everyone knows that Mark is the coolest dude on the block.

Never mind that this is Brookline. As long as you’re not a meth head or an inhabitant of the neighborhood halfway house, it’s not hard to be the coolest.

Then Chris and Mark’s wives took weak stabs at emasculating them, and I stood there silently observing. If they only knew the shit I did to Henry.

Also! I added some Google Friend Connect bullshit to the right side of my blog. I always thought it was just a Blogger thang, but apparently it works for WordPress too. So now I have one. I’m always late to the party. So yeah, click that shit! Let’s pretend I actually have more than 10 followers!

Guest list:

• Alisha
• Bill & Jessi
  
• Kara & Harland
• Charlie
• Henry’s mom
• My mommy
  
• Henry’s sister Kelly & some of her kids
• Blake
  
• Evonne, Sadie & Lydia
• Christy & Claire
• Janna
  

When Chooch told me months ago, like literally it might still have been 2009, that he wanted to have a zombie themed birthday party, I had every intention of going all out. I even started thinking of ideas for like, ten entire minutes.

With the exception of designing the invitations with Chooch (which actually was not last minute and were mailed out in timely fashion), there wasn’t much more that I accomplished, aside from a last minute trip to Goodwill on the morning of his party, to shop for clothes to mutilate and bloody for the photos I wanted to take of each individual party guest, as a souvenir. Kind of like a prom picture, except with blood, a fake cemetery in the background, and a pine tree with Christmas lights haphazardly slung across its lower boughs, which really bothers me now when I look back at all the pictures. I think Bill should have painted the wires green. It could have been a zombie / Alice in Wonderland crossover, guests arriving while an undead Bill slops green paint on a tree and nervously yells about the scary queen (THAT’S ME) who’s running around with hedge clippers and shouting, “Off with your balls.”

The plan was to have the party outside; but like last year, it was around FIFTY DEGREES with the threat of rain. In May. So everything was set up in my mom’s garage to protect the guests from the impending deluge of rain. The kids had enough rain-free time to run amok outside for most of the party, at least. Because I can’t imagine Chooch being contained in a three-car garage for three hours.

Chooch the Zombie Enthusiast flipped his shit when he saw Bill for the first time, post-zombie makeover. We thought Chooch was just playing into it when he used the car as a barrier, but then Bill noticed he was legitimately crying and we all had an “oh shit” moment. Bill retreated to the garage to allow Jessi and I to try and coax Chooch from the car.

“You can open one of your presents now!” I pleaded. That worked. Good thing I used that first, instead of “You can cut Bill with this knife I got here,” because maybe Jessi might not have liked that. (And Bill wouldn’t have had much say.)

And Chooch was fine after that. So fine, in fact, that he wanted Jessi to make him up as a zombie too. I think it was just initial shock combined with Bill’s overzealousness (which Chooch ended up loving later).

Jessi somehow encouraged Alisha and Janna to get made-up, too. They kept trying to get me to do it as well, but having that much make-up on my face is yet another item in my treasure trove of neuroses and just the fact that I had to keep saying no nearly made me break out in hives. It’s probably not good that I took myself out of therapy all those years ago.

BFFs again, no biggie.

And the food! Don’t get me started on that. I had this great vision of mini meatloaves baked in over-sized cupcake tins and then Ketchup’d, like chunks of bloodied flesh. Well, Henry took that vision and fucked it up the ass. He basically made a plate of meatballs. When I voiced my aghast-ness, he then tried to get all Alton Brown: meatloaf edition on me, but I think he was lying. It could have been done.

I don’t even know what else there was to eat, to be honest, aside from what I initially thought were turtles (chicken breasts, apparently). But I will tell you there was no gelatin brain.  I mean, why would there be something so disgustingly anatomical at a zombie party??

It’s a good thing a four-year-old doesn’t give a shit about the catering at birthday parties.

That morning at Goodwill, I found (fine – Alisha found) these two lovely nightgowns and I instantly had visions of my friends Kara and Christy swathed in bloody versions of night attire, and holding their babies in front of the cemetery I set up. The cemetery was the only thing I was concerned about all day. It was a very big deal for me. I texted Kara before she arrived and said, “I have a nightgown; will you wear it?” She said yes and thought nothing of it, because I’ve asked her to do dumber things before.

This ended up being my favorite picture of the day.

I barraged Christy before she was even out of her car. She just rolled her eyes at my request because we’ve known each other since we were four and short of auto-amputation, nothing I do really shocks and awes her. At first, she tried to say that she couldn’t get the nightgown on over her hoodie and I was like, “Bitch, you best be tryin’ a little harder. Don’t make me pretend I’m in a girl gang again.”

Also, this was my first time finally meeting Christy’s baby Claire and she is so sweet! The combination of Claire and Harland was like an upper-cut/right hook combo to my ovaries, though. At one point, Henry even grabbed my silk-gloved hand and said, “Darling, shall we try for another?” And then I rammed my parasol up his tweed-trousered asshole.

The best part was that Kara and Christy both kept their respective nightgowns on for the rest of the party. I like to think it’s because they thought it was AWESOME, but warmth probably had a little more to do with it. They spent most of the party together, in a baby bubble, and I couldn’t  help but crack up every time I turned around and saw the two of them in their bloody nightgowns, cooing to each other’s baby.

“Just another night at the shelter,” Charlie said at one point, and I could NOT STOP LAUGHING. Don’t worry, I said the Rosary that night.

Charlie opted to play the role of “Victim #1.”

I realized afterward that I have zero pictures of Blake or any of the cousins, except Zac. None of the teens wanted to dress up, which I thought was strange since that’s like, something kids want to do. I mean, other than betting on cock fights in Biloxi and foxtrotting with trannies. (Is that still what teens do nowadays?) And Blake didn’t talk to me the whole time. I guess that’s a new thing or something. It wasn’t awkward at all and it certainly didn’t make me cry to Alisha behind the garage.

My mom ordered the cake undecorated, aside from the Happy Birthday part, and then made the graveyard scene with those new Oreos and zombie finger puppets. She apparently forgot to make sure it flowed with the writing on the side, but that’s just my bastard nit-picking coming out. I thought she did a great job! Unlike the photo I took, which is out of focus because I had like, 20 people staring at me and I just wanted to be done. Yet another reason why I’d never consider photography as anything other than a hobby!

He got a ton of great loot, like: a Jason Voorhees action figure, vampire movie collection, Night of the Living Dead DVD, and a Spiderman book (being held in above photo) from Bill and Jessi; a Spike Jr. and a dragon from Evonne, Sadie, and Lydia; a remote control zombie from Alisha; a Leatherface figurine, with interchangeable heads and arms, from Charlie; two plush zombies and a Tony Hawk bike from my mom; this really cool zombie figurine from my brother Ryan; a complete artist’s orgasm from Kara; gift cards from Christy and Kelly; and a Spiderman skateboard from Janna.

It really made me wish I was still a kid!

Before I knew it, three hours had passed and everyone started to leave. There was a Penguins game on that night and I’m sure most of the guests were happy to know that I’d be the first one to abandon my kid’s party for it.

Bill and Jessi had to check in to their hotel first, zombie makeup and all, but came back to my house later to hang out and, more importantly,  so Bill could get called a “douche cup” by Chooch when he had the audacity to deviate from the Lego instructions.

When they came back over the next morning for breakfast, Bill held out his hand and said, “Here, somehow Leatherface’s head made it into my pants last night.” So, now we know what Bill does after drinking a little Manischewitz.  I think that was the highlight of my entire weekend.

Thanks again to everyone who came and showed your love for my little zombie-child. It was so great to see everyone, especially you guys who came from hours and hours away. It really meant a lot to us! (Maybe not Henry, because he’s rude.)

And ever since his party ended, Chooch has been going on and on about his next party. “It’s going to be a CARROT party,” he says so full of certainty. “With CARROT ICING.” And no, he’s not just insinuating he wants a carrot CAKE. This is a full-scale carrot PARTY, you guys. And he wants everyone to dress as carrots. Have fun with that!

Chooch turned four yesterday by rolling out of bed and colliding with the nightstand.

But it was all uphill after that!

Since he has a birthday party coming up in two weeks, we decided to just give him some small things for his birthday. I bought him (notice I said I – I’m the best parent; Henry is a deadbeat!) some Batman stuff; the Friday the 13th remake; Diary of the Dead; and a fucking viking PlayMobile set, over which I’m currently suffering stabbing pangs of buyer’s remorse. Fuck you, PlayMobile! The outside of the box said it included something like 40 pieces, but it didn’t specify that 3/4 of those pieces rival the size of ANTS. It’s some goddamn BULLSHIT. I kept trying to hide it from him all day, and every time he was on the precipice of forgetting its existence, asshole Alisha would say, “Gee, Chooch.

Where did your VIKING SET go?”

I actually had a nightmare about that viking set. Worst purchase ever. OK, maybe not quite as bad as the cream I bought eleven years that was intended to make you lose weight once applied to your wrists. (It did not make me lose weight, so I went back to the pills I bought at GNC that made me black out.)

Janna joined us later for a Vanilla Pastry Studio circle jerk. Chooch wanted cupcakes from Shop n Save, and at that moment, I actually saw a little bit of Henry in him: poor taste and frugality. The horror.

I was like, “Son, this is as much my day as it is yours, lest you forget. And I’ll be damned if we’re eating stale lumps of Betty Crocker mix out of a plastic grocery store bakery container.”

All day, Chooch kept asking, “Is it still my birthday?” and it was kind of adorable. Which is a new thing for me, because usually he’s being a holy terror.

Henry burnt himself no less than 18 times lighting these, which made me happy because he had previously spent a good five minutes haranguing me for buying “too many” candles. I’m sorry, what? There’s no such thing as too many candles. (If Henry were writing this, that would say “to many.”)

There were no complaints as everyone ate themselves into a cupcake coma. THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT.

Look at her, thinking of ways to ruin my life. This was right before she extracted Chooch’s “bonus gift” from her purse….

A whistle! A motherfucking whistle! Who gives a four-year-old a WHISTLE? An asshole who hates the kid’s mother, that’s who!

Chooch REALLY likes knives. We were at IHOP last week and he asked to take his knife home with him. Chooch, giving new meaning to WWJD. (WHAT WOULD JASON DO.)

When Janna is around, Chooch is super good. She’s like a goddamn Chooch Whisperer. I keep trying to drop joint-custody hints around her, but I don’t think she’s quite picking up on it.

It was a good day. I think my favorite part was when he was watching his new Friday the 13th DVD, and very seriously said, “Whoa. She is really good at killing Jason.”

He was so well-behaved yesterday. I don’t think I had to lock him in his cage once!

(Reposted from May 23rd, 2008)

IV: Pre-Show

In the 3.5 miles it took us to travel across the Walt Whitman Bridge back into Philadelphia and parked the car at the Wachovia Spectrum, I managed to spend $14: $3 to cross that scary-ass too-big bridge and ELEVEN DOLLARS TO PARK. I’m used to shows at small clubs, where you park on a fucking curb for free, so I felt physically ravaged after that.

There wasn’t so much of a line outside of the arena, but more like relaxed huddles of people waiting for the doors to open. We only had to wait for about 10-15 minutes before they started letting people in, and we occupied our time by people-funnin’ and inhaling clouds of clove-smoke drifting around our faces.

“There’s a lot of old people here,” Corey noted, staring dead-on at two aging goth women swaying on the edge of the steps. Too much Absinthe perhaps.

Corey and I both really took a liking to a young man in tight red pants. I liked him because when he smiled, he looked like Timmy from Fairly Odd Parents.

Tickets scanned and hips bruised on the turnstiles, we ran straight for the merch table, where I bought a bright pink shirt and joked that our motel room only cost $13 more than it. Corey almost bought a girl shirt so I made fun of him for way longer than acceptable.

After we got situated in our seats, the real fun began. We scoped out the fans around us and Corey pointed out that we were surrounded by an alarming amount of crimson-locked women. He gave them names like Ginger and Big Red and dramatically announced their movements.

“Ginger just got up! I wonder if she’s getting nachos?” We could only hope.

My personal favorite was the Asian man who sat down a few rows below us with a large, drooping hot dog. I fixated on him for a long time, laughing so hard I was wheezing.

“Asian Hot Dog is getting up!” I yelled, hand on my heart. Corey and I silently followed him with our eyes, snickering inappropriately. That’s when I noticed his face was constricted in awkward spasms and his tongue seemed to wag uncontrollably.

“I think there’s something wrong with him,” Corey whispered, and we sat quietly in shame. But I wasn’t too ashamed to take his picture when he returned with some sort of food product wrapped in foil.

A young couple found their seats in the row below us and Corey was entranced. “I want them to be our friends so bad!” he enthused. So I named the girl Margot and he named the man Jean-Paul. A few minutes later, Jean-Paul turned to us to make sure he had the right section and I could feel Corey cheering internally.

Corey really liked his shirt. They sat motionless through the entire show.

V: The Show

Sometime after 7:00pm, 65DaysofStatic emerged and treated us to a thirty minute set of top-notch post rock. I won’t lie — I was moved to tears a minute into the inaugural song. I have a penchant for post rock.

“Is there a reason they’re not singing?” Corey shouted in my ear. I had to explain to him the concept of post rock, something that I’ve grown used to. A man behind us was unable to contain his disgust for lack of vocals. “Maybe the singer forgot to show up,” he scoffed sarcastically. There always has to be that one person with something shitty to say. Just enjoy the music, douche! It’s fucking incredible.

By the time they left the stage, Corey had decided he was a fan of post rock.

A fire in the pit of my stomach ignited for the yuppie couple sitting next to Corey. Every time their tight yuppie asses rose from their seats, they hovered over top of us, imploring us with their dead yuppie eyes to let them through. The woman part of the yuppie-parade had a short black hair helmet, greased securely into a side-part. Before the Cure came on, I embarked on a spy-cam mission, pretending to take cutesy sibling love pictures of Corey to paste in my high school locker.

“Alright you two, hand the camera over,” an older man behind us demanded. My face flushed slightly, thinking I had been busted taking asshole-y pictures of strangers. “Let me get a picture of you two!” Oh. I handed him the camera, initiating the most awkward minute of the entire trip.

“Put your faces closer!” he insisted, but since we were turning around in our seats for the photo-op, it was a difficult maneuver.

“I can’t, my neck is going to snap!” Corey whined.

The worst part for me was that people around us were intently taking it in like a circus side show, as if I don’t hate having my picture taken enough as it is. Great, now my misery is a spectator sport. And then the picture barely turned out anyway because we still had the flash off from when I was taking secret pictures.

Shortly after 8:00, the lights went out and into music ricocheted all throughout the arena. One by one, the Cure walked out and when Robert strapped on his guitar, every voice in my mind quieted and my breath caught in my throat. Dude, it’s the fucking CURE.

Appropriately, they started with “Open” and I’m pretty sure I didn’t breathe once through the entire song. From there, they presented us with a three hour orchestral buffet of new and old, pop and gloom. I stole occasional glances at Corey, who was in the throes of having his Cure cherry popped, and his face was smothered with a look of awe.

The Cure had an amazing energy that night. This was my first time seeing Porl, now that he’s back in the line up, and I laughed every time he treated us to cutesy little dances and circle-skips. Simon has more stamina than most bass players half his age. Jason is a king atop his drum kit throne, and Robert continues to make me die. At one point, between songs, he sheepishly said, “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing up here.” You’re touching lives, dude, that’s what you’re doing up there. And having fun.

It’s amazing how no matter how much time passes, each song still takes me back to different times in my life. “Kyoto Song” plays and I’m buying a plane ticket for Australia. The opening notes of “If Only Tonight We Could Sleep” waft from the speakers and I’m laying on floor pillows in my living room, crying into a glass of black cherry Manischewitz. Robert sings “Maybe Someday” and I’m thinking of killing myself on St. Patrick’s Day in 2000, but decide to have a party instead. I’m looking for bus fare so I can run away in tenth grade, “A Strange Day” indeed.

Below me was a woman who was dancing for Jesus. You know the dancing I’m talking about:  the person is so wrought with the Holy Spirit that they’re moved to rock and sway like listening to someone singing the Bible atop an orchestra of bongo beats and sinner flagellations. You see this in Jesus camp all the time. ALL THE TIME. Sometimes they take their shoes off, too. Her husband remained in his seat the entire night, passing her fresh beers and sticking out one strong arm to catch her when she began to fall at the end of the night.

Toward the end of the main set, “Just Like Heaven” was played, and Jean-Paul turned excitedly to Margot. They shared a brief moment of giddiness and I thought they’d rise from their seats, but then they turned back to the stage and continued emulating statues. But one row in front of them, the yuppiest man ever to attend a rock show stood up, ran his hands down the pleats of his khaki shorts, and took the hand of his blond bobbed female companion; together the two of them rocked moves that I imagine are stored safely for really special occasions, like a Michael McDonald show on a cruise ship. The man kept his eyes closed, head back slightly, and pursed his lips like a duck, while the woman did a really disjointed hip-rock paired with car-driving arm movements. Corey kept calling her SpeedRacer. Could not take eyes off her.

The highlight for me was during the first encore, when they pulled out the big guns with “The Kiss.” That song is like the most violently intense hate sex you can imagine, stuffed into a cannon and left to roil like a cat in heat, until Robert finally shouts into the mic and all that hate and fucking and frustration explodes and you have strong desires to punch the fat Goth woman simmering in Patchouli next to you.

“From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea” was amazing as usual, and I made sure to check if Corey was putting his hands in the sky upon Robert’s command. He wasn’t so I lifted his arm up by the sleeve and all was made right. I can never get Henry to abide.

The third encore was dubbed “Old School Encore” and it knocked the wind out of me. Seven straight classic Cure songs, hold me back. It was like the BMW at the end of the Sweet Sixteen party.

This was my fourth time seeing them and they still made it feel like the first time. There are not enough superlatives in the dictionary to properly convey how extraordinary this band is, and somehow after twenty+ years of doing their thing, they still manage to bring it, and bring it hard. They are the true definition of serious business. As we walked back to the car after the Cure reached the venue’s curfew, I could still feel them pulsing in my veins.

• Open
• Fascination Street
• A Strange Day
• alt.end
• The Walk
• End of the World
• Lovesong
• Kyoto Song
• Pictures of You
• Lullaby
• Maybe Someday
• The Perfect Boy
• From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea
• The Only One
• Push
• How Beautiful You Are
• Inbetween Days
• Just Like Heaven
• Primary
• Never Enough
• Wrong Number
• One Hundred Years, End 1st encore:   If Only Tonight We Could Sleep, The Kiss
  2nd encore:  Freakshow, Close To Me, Why Can’t I Be You?
  3rd encore:  Three Imaginary Boys, Fire In Cairo, Boys Don’t Cry, Jumping Someone Else’s Train, Grinding Halt, 10:15 Saturday Night, Killing An Arab

***

[Part 1][Part 2][Part 4]

I refused to pay the exorbitant price that rip-off company at the mall charges for some untrained teenager to carelessly press a button on a camera while some unsavory character in a smelly fur suit forces my child to sit upon his questionable lap.

So I had an unsavory Henry slap on a smelly plastic rabbit mask, shrug into a blazer that hasn’t seen the light since 1989, and force our child to sit upon his questionable lap.

I think Henry could have tried a little harder, but what can you do. Besides make the rest of his night a living hell, which I fully intend.

Afterward, we had a lovely dinner at my mom’s house with Alisha, Henry’s mom and my brother Ryan. Corey is still in London and he was missed. We drank wine from real wine glasses this time, Corey! Post-dinner was full of HILARIOUS anecdotes (told by yours) and at one point I called Henry a spring chicken and we all laughed heartily. Then I pressured him about marriage, creating room for awkward and uncomfortable chuckles. Henry’s mom said something about it “just being a piece of paper” and I almost screamed, “I knew you didn’t want me to be your daughter-in-law!” but remembered I had just downed two glasses of very potent spiced wine and thought better of it.

Chooch showed Ryan the zombie games he plays online and they bonded over that for awhile, even went outside and played with a basketball, portraying a regular uncle-nephew scene from a Norman Rockwell painting and my head almost exploded. It was awesome. The bonding, not the near-explosion.

My mom said Ryan told her he was going to go home and check out more of the zombie games.Good job, Chooch! I kept suggesting to Ryan, “You should babysit him sometime!” and he kept laughing. But I wasn’t joking.

Alisha had stuffed cabbage for the first time and bragged a lot about Arkansas;  Henry’s mom and my mom talked about things; I piped up every now and then to remind everyone how lucky they are that someone as fantastic as me would even bother spending such a grand holiday with their ragtag asses.

Then Chooch fell and scraped his knee on the driveway and it has been a regular scene from Vietnam around here ever since. Everything is “my scrape!!!!” this and “I’M DYING!!!!!” that.

Next holiday, please.

Henry and I waited until 9pm last night to get shit for the Easter basket. I mean! To tell the Easter Bunny what Chooch wanted.

Not that it mattered, because the first thing he went for was the one thing I actually had bought well in advance – a pull-apart zombie doll from Think Geek. He hasn’t put it down since, except for the 2 seconds it takes it him to pillage a package of chocolate dinosaur eggs.

“How did the Easter Bunny know?

” Chooch exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting so long for this!” Meanwhile, the box it was shipped in had been sitting on the coffee table for like, three weeks.

We sat next to Jesus at an ECHL hockey game last night, so I’m especially feeling it today.

“You’re not wearing any green,” Henry said, semi-accusatory after he saw my new Facebook profile picture.

“Uh, yeah. I kind of hate St. Patrick’s Day,” I said with a questioning intonation. I checked my mental calendar. Yep, nine years we’ve been together, that’s what I thought. And somehow he didn’t pick up on this?

“Why do you hate it?” he asked, probably thinking what everyone else thinks: But your name! It’s so Irish! You should be pissing shamrocks and fucking potatoes!

Newsflash! I’m not Irish. It starts with the name and ends there, too. I don’t even like BEER.

Well gosh, Henry. Draw your chair near, mama has a story to tell you!

St. Patrick’s Day, 1993. I was in eighth grade and dressed like the goddamn Blarney Stone itself birthed me. Hokey Irish sweatshirt, probably purchased from some god awful basement of disparity mall shop like Beer Tees; green leggings; green sequined suspenders; green sequined bow tie. I feel like I probably had some clover-inspired garbage entwined with my locks, as well.

In other words: I looked SUPER CUTE.

That evening after school, my mom wasn’t home for some reason. I’m going to say she was at her ceramics class, because that seems most plausible.  Her absence did not please me because my step-dad and I were embroiled in one of our infamous stand-offs, which is basically how I remember most of my childhood. He commanded me to set the table before dinner. My step-dad, the reason for my Irish name, was always on the prowl for a reason to start a fight with me. This particular evening, I didn’t set the table to his liking. Something was out of place, or he didn’t like my attitude, or I looked at him wrong.

Pick one.

We began screaming at each other, which was something of a tradition by that phase of my life. He hated, absolutely hated, that I would always stand up for myself.

I suppose he wanted me to retreat with my tail between my legs, whimpering and finding a dark corner in which to sit with my weak sense of femininity and brittle backbone.

There was distance between us during this confrontation, something like ten or fifteen feet. So when he picked up that fork to chuck at me, it had plenty of time to pick up speed before plunging between my knuckles. I’m sure though that in some parts of Ireland, this is part of the St. Paddy’s tradition, right before chugging Guinness but in between watching live rabbits boil in cauldrons and blowing up cars with pipe bombs.

There was no apology, not that I was expecting one. He went back to making dinner and I was still crying and cradling my hand by the time my mom came home.

Now Val, she never wanted to get involved in these fights. And the fact that it went beyond verbal was nothing new. He and I were known to get into some heavy fisticuffs, which is probably why I’m so aggressive toward men to this day.

I do NOT let a man fuck with me. I do NOT cower in front of a man, either. Val looked at  my hand, which was red and swollen, the simple God-given act of flexing ones fingers had become something that inspired cries of pain.

“It’s fine, it’s fine!” she insisted, but she knew, and I knew, that it wasn’t. She wrapped it for me, and made me swear I wouldn’t tell anyone at school what happened.

I ended up having to get an X-ray. One of my knuckles had a slight fracture, but it was nothing severe enough to require a cast. The doctor wrapped it tight and eventually it healed, but for years, if you looked hard enough, you could see a little scar from where one of the tines had pierced through my flesh.

I don’t let things go very easily, and I never really cared much for St. Patrick’s Day after that. It’s just not the same without a fork protruding from my hand.