I snatched The Devil & God Are Raging Inside Me off the shelf last weekend when I was looking for something to listen to in the car. I forgot how fantastic this entire album is — no, that’s not true. I just forgot about how much I loved it. As soon as it started playing, it was like 2006/2007 smacked me square in the face with a frying pan, but it kind of felt good.

I listen to music like this and am reminded how lucky we are to not have to rely on the shit that the radio spoonfeeds us.

It was March of 2004. Christina and I had been e-friends for almost a year by then and I finally decided I would make the 4+ hour drive to Cincinnati to visit her. Henry made sure I had directions (printed out from MapQuest—it was 2004! No GPS, no smartphones. Not like I would have used that shit anyway. I’m directionally stubborn like a man), snacks, water and an encouraging “You can do this!” hug and a kiss. Meanwhile, I made sure I had the Important Stuff: MUSIC.

Again, this was 2004, so I didn’t have any mp3 players that plugged into my car or even a CD player that played mp3 CDs. The horror! This was “old-school” 80-minute mix CDs days. I filled a blank CD with a bunch of music that I had recently (legally) acquired but hadn’t really had a chance to listen to yet. My all-time favorite Metric song was on that CD (“Siamese Cities”), some tracks from Open Hand, Murder By Death, Armsbendback, Acceptance and even a yacht rock throwback (Ambrosia).

Even though Henry printed out a play-by-play list of directions and a map and explicitly told me, “Just stay on 70 west forever,” I still managed to get navigationally fucked. Why? Because I’m a fucking idiot and can’t follow directions. I can fly to Australia on my own without a hitch, but drive across Ohio on my own? That’s a real map for disaster. I was about 2 1/2 hours into the trip when I saw an exit sign that corresponded with the exit in the directions. It was same exit number*, and it even said “Cleveland / Cincinnati” like the directions said, except it said “77 N” instead of “I-270.” I panicked and took it, figuring that maybe 77 and 270 were the same road. Because why couldn’t that be possible? ROADS ARE CONFUSING. Still, I had that nagging sensation in my chest telling me to stop driving before I got too far into the unknown. I didn’t have a cell phone back then so I couldn’t call Henry for help every 3 minutes like I do nowadays.

ex: Henry: Tell me what you’re near. Me: A black woman in tall boots.

[* I found out later that it was actually the reverse of the exit number I needed. Driving dyslexia will get you every time.]

I took the next exit I came upon and it landed me in Kimbolton, OH which I also could not find on my map because hey, let’s go to Kimbolton said no one ever. I spotted a BP gas station and pulled over to get help. It may have actually been the very first, original BP it was that rustic. Print-outs in hand, I went inside and ask the older fellow behind the counter if he could show me where I was. Two girls behind me began to laugh. Like, the rude kind of snorting laugh that you do when you’re making fun of someone. I turned around and said, “Yeah I know – I’m retarded. It’s ok, you can laugh.” And then to really illustrate my sarcasm, I let out a dry, staccato ha ha. Instead, they took this opportunity to fucking whisper about me behind my back. I couldn’t believe that they would treat me like shit even after I offered to let them cut ahead of me and pay for whatever crap they were buying. Trying to ignore the demonic voice of Bobcat Goldthwait in my head, telling me to fuck their shit up, I sucked in my breath and asked the old man employee if he could help me get back onto 70. He held my map up to the light, and said, “This map looks like it was printed off that there Internet.” Seriously, he said this. I checked my LiveJournal and that is exactly what I wrote in 2004 so it must be true. I told him that it was and he informed me that it was useless. USELESS.

BLAME HENRY, 2004 EDITION.

Anyhow, when he saw where my final destination was, he exclaimed, “Well, why did you even get off 70 west!?” This made the fucking lot lizards behind me laugh even harder. Omigod guys, I know, right? What a dumb ass I am. Because I drive through Ohio every fucking day. The one girl was wearing two-day-old black eye liner and Wet n Wild fuchsia lipstick, which she probably purchased from the same streetwalker store where she bought her clothes. Her sidekick was pregnant I think, and wearing a belly shirt. Totally classy. I was completely envious of the stains on her clothing and the growth on her lip.

Sighing, I asked the old fuck if he could just tell me how to get back onto 70 west. He looked at me like I asked him to help me count to five and said, “Well, you go 10 miles south!” Well, shit son! Problem is that I had NO IDEA which way was south. Of course, I couldn’t ask him to point me in the right direction, because that would have just given those whores more unnecessary ammo. I pretended to understand, gathered up my useless MapQuest print-outs, and turned to leave.

Except the quasi-pregnant girl was blocking the door. I politely said “Excuse me” and she totally looked the other way. Bitch, best not ignore me! At this point, I had accumulated approximately 25 and a half things to be angry about, and I began envisioning myself ripping her fucking greasy hair out of her ugly fucking head. Instead, the miniscule shard of rationality that I store in the back of my brain surfaced and reminded me that there were two of them, and only one of me. And if we’re sharing secrets, they were really rough looking. I didn’t want my last role in life being some hackneyed-toothed hillbilly’s punching bag, so I took the bitch way out and literally ducked and squeezed between her bloated gut and the door.

Then I went back to my car and indulged myself in a total crybaby sobfest.

Sniffling like a bitch behind the wheel, I managed to find my way back to 70, and decided to take the exit for 70 east and just go the fuck home. I was scared and disoriented, not to mention BORED (driving alone is hard!) I took it out on my snack selection. At one point I even wailed out loud, “Soy Crisps don’t taste so good when I’m driving!”

Eventually, I focused on my music and it was a familial band of Texans called Eisley that got me to calm down. To this day, when I listen to Eisley, I think of that drive and laugh. And then promptly relax. I’m so picky with girl singers, so the fact that I still like Eisley 9 years later really speaks volumes. I can listen to those girls sing all day long. The video at the top of this post is one of my favorite songs ever from them.

Epilogue: A few weeks later, Christina took a Greyhound to Pittsburgh and then we drove back to Cincinnati together. We made a pitstop: A certain decrepit BP station in Kimbolton, Ohio. Those bitches weren’t there though. AND HOW LUCKY THEY WERE.

My Jonny Craig doll has been pretty lonely so Chooch suggested that I have a Vic Fuentes (Pierce the Veil) doll made. So I went straight to Maya, who can pretty much make ANYTHING because she’s a creative genius. And damn, she is FAST! I think this whole process only took a little over a week once I got some pictures sent to her.

She even gave him a little nose ring, OMG!

The first time I saw Pierce the Veil, Vic was wearing a Jaws t-shirt, which Maya replicated into a tiny baby size (even embroidered teeth on him!).  I can’t wait to get him in the mail and squeeze him! (Although, Chooch totally thinks that it’s HIS doll.)

I can see Chooch and I are going to be doing a lot of sibling-esque fighting over Vic.

While Henry is dealing with the grown-up parts of looking for a house (which he hasn’t actually started doing yet! BLAME HENRY!), I’m more focused on the important things. Like, collecting more wheelchairs and deciding what song I want my doorbell to play.

I think my favorite Kraftwerk song would be apropos:

Chooch agrees.

Can’t you just imagine ringing my doorbell, hearing scary German synthpop (because I’ll make sure it’s loud enough to hear from my doorstep), and then seeing me open the door in one of my old wheelchairs, probably with a fetus doll on my lap?

In my parent’s house, we had a this doorbell which I’m sure was extremely high-tech for its time. There was a box on the wall with a ton of songs to choose from, like La Cucaracha. I self-appointed myself to be the official doorbell DJ of Gillcrest Drive.

Meanwhile, the doorbell of my current residence hasn’t worked since the day I moved in. I’m pretty excited to have a doorbell again one day. I guess I never realized it was so important to me.

Which song would you pick for your own doorbell?

I never thought I’d say this, but thank god for Flo Rida. Every time I hear “I Cry,” I shush anyone who might happen  to have the audacity to talk over it. I realize that he’s actually sampling a remake of the original song, but I fucking loved Brenda Russell’s “Piano In the Dark” so much as a kid, that even hearing the accelerated dance remix of the chorus sends waves of nostalgia over me. It brings back memories of rollerskating in my basement and at Spinning Wheels, eating grilled cheese in my grandparent’s kitchen (they ALWAYS had soft rock playing on their house sound system), riding around in my mom’s car.

And then I inevitably feel sad. But it’s that sadness that I thrive on, if that makes any sense. It’s that sadness that keeps in touch with my memories and my past, and as much as it hurts sometimes to have some old track by Alan Parsons Project finger the trigger, I kind of like it. (Don’t get me started on “Eye In the Sky.”)

So I knew that looking up “Piano in the Dark” on YouTube was probably opening a can of worms, and I resisted for weeks and weeks until finally, the other night, I succumbed. And it felt exactly how I suspected: like my heart was being strangulated with neon legwarmers and jelly bracelets. The fucking 80s make me so happy-sad!

Henry and I were in bed the other night when Flo Rida’s version came on. I admitted that I had made it my ring tone (actually, the Bingo Player’s version, because it’s all of the chorus, none of Flo Rida’s lame rhymes). And that’s how I found out that Henry didn’t know any of this was borrowed from Brenda Russell’s seminal 1988 hit! So I of course had to play it for him, which resulted in  very blase, “Oh yeah, I kind of remember that song” response right before he rolled over and fell asleep, leaving me to lay there alone in ear worm hell.

Meanwhile, I have been listening to it pretty constantly all week (I even found a live version that features JAMES INGRAM AND MICHAEL MCDONALD ON BACKUP, WHUTTTTT??

), feeling all wistful about my ponytailed childhood and even at one point veering precariously down Taylor Dayne lane.

Don’t worry, I reeled myself back in.

So now I’m passing on the torture to you.

Even when it’s not playing, I hear it. Maybe it appeals to me because I too play the tambourine and fling playing cards across the floor at random.

Something calming after last night’s rant. Most people would guess that Jonny Craig is my favorite singer, but not even close. It’s this guy right here, always.

<3

After asking Henry repeatedly to buy me “No Room For Rockstars,” a Warped Tour cinéma vérité, for my birthday last summer and then not receiving it because God forbid Henry should break his streak of never buying me a gift, ever, I finally bought it for myself as an early Christmas gift.

(It’s the only way, really.)

I watched it yesterday before work and wouldn’t you know I cried through the whole thing? Ask my cat Marcy. She was there.

I cried because there was so much footage of a premortem Mitch Lucker and his little girl. And I cried because Kevin Lyman, the Godfather of Warped, has made so many dreams come true for so many little bands. And then I cried some more knowing that I’m given that one day every summer as a vacation from being a “grown-up,” from sitting in an office, from never really belonging anywhere else. I’ve been ridiculed about it so many times from people who just don’t get it, or can’t be bothered to try and understand, but that doesn’t bother me anymore.

It’s where I feel at home. In fact, I brought some of my Warped Tour photos to work so whenever I feel overwhelmed or down, I can look up and do a quick countdown in my head to next summer.

And yes, I already have my ticket for next summer.

Presale FTW!

Anyway, here’s the trailer for anyone who might be curious.

Hey, here’s a shocker: Jonny Craig got kicked out of Dance Gavin Dance last summer. I think that’s something like 3 bands in 5 years. But you know what? I still bought tickets to the Rock Yourself to Sleep Tour without even knowing who was going to be singing for Dance Gavin Dance, because I wanted to show my support for me, and also because A Lot Like Birds was also on the tour.

Fun Fact (for probably no one but kids like me, and if you’re a kid like me, you already know this anyway): The singer for A Lot Like Birds is Kurt Travis, who was Jonny’s first replacement in Dance Gavin Dance, and also the guy who got the boot when everyone decided to invite Jonny back in during the summer of 2010. But it would seem everyone is on good terms. Kurt even played guitar during some of Jonny’s post-rehab solo shows last year.

A few weeks ago, Jonny had a petulant little tweet about how he hoped everyone enjoyed the Dance Gavin Dance shows, because they were supposedly refusing to perform any of the stuff Jonny did with them. (Admittedly, the two albums they wrote with Kurt aren’t my favorites, but considering Jonny refused to sing any of Kurt’s songs when he came back to DGD, it would be nice to finally hear some stuff from that era again. Plus, one of my favorite Dance Gavin Dance songs is a Kurt Travis/Nic Newsham joint, so I thought maybe, oh just maybe, we might get treated to a Kurt cameo that night.)

Guys, you should know by now that I have a textbook love/hate relationship inside my heart with Jonny Craig. I think he’s a total prat as a person (spend 30 seconds reading his tweets) but when he sings? It’s like aural honey.

Like feeling the breath of hot, naked angels on your neck.

Like a naked group hug with Bradley Cooper and Ryan Lochte.

…………

OK, OK. His voice makes me feel super awesome, let’s just leave it at that.

I knew that I would be all whiny and wistful about this, so I decided that I was going to drink, because sometimes that actually has a reverse effect on me at shows and it curtails my crazy emotions. (Seriously, I cry a lot at shows.)

Other bands in the night’s lineup:

• [Never did catch the opening band’s name. I’m pretty sure they played the same song for their entire set.]
• The Orphan The Poet
• Hail the Sun – I really, really liked them. Prog-rock-esque, and the drummer is the singer so I gotta give some hearty props to that, or I’m not a Phil Collins lover. I think Henry secretly liked them because they had the same style as his — as in, nondescript.
• I The Mighty – Pretty much a paint-by-numbers example of Music Erin Will Like. Being on Equal Vision Records was the first indication. [Watch a video here.] I was thoroughly entertained by their set, but admittedly growing restless because I really, really wanted to see A Lot Like Birds.
• A Lot Like Birds – Woooo! They stole my heart! Henry was not impressed, but I think that’s probably because he didn’t understand it. Kurt Travis can SANG, y’all. Good lord. I wanted Henry to buy me all of their hoodies but then he reminded me that I had drunk my merch fund through a red-and-white swizzle.

Henry’s Faux-Frown. Seriously, the man was not hating his life as much as he wants the Internet to believe. I think he was just mostly amused by how quickly I get drunk now in my old, boring age.

I was pretty stupid. Even crashed into the singer from the Orphan the Poet after shadow-dancing with him at the bottom of the steps during my stumbling journey to the restroom.

Somehow, I manage to crash into singers a lot at shows, just never the right ones.

Quietly judging.

Singing orgy.

I fell in love so hard with A Lot Like Birds that night. Henry’s opinion did not change.

Um. Great turn out, guys.

The last time we saw Dance Gavin Dance at the Altar Bar was March 2011, and the floor was packed almost as soon as the doors opened, all because of a little someone named Jonny Craig.

After ousting Jonny for the second time, DGD enlisted the aid of official Jonny Craig fill-in Tilian Pearson (ex-Tides of Man) to take the helm. The last time Henry and I went to see Emarosa, Jonny had left the tour THAT DAY to fly to California for detox, so Tilian was a last minute stand-in then too. I like the guy, and I think he did a better job with DGD than he did with Emarosa (though to be fair, the night we saw him with Emarosa was his first time singing with them, and it literally was a game time decision-type thing so he didn’t have much time to prepare), but there is something about his voice that gets to me after awhile. Maybe it’s just too Geddy Lee, I don’t know, but there were times where I found myself cringing.

He kind of reminds me of Craig Owens, too.

Anyway, a major upside to a Jonny-less DGD meant that the band could actually play from their entire catalogue (turns out was Jonny was wrong!), something that they took full advantage of. It was really fun to hear Self Titled and Happiness-era tracks again, especially NASA and my favorite non-Jonny DGD song of all time: “Uneasy Hearts Weigh the Most.”

Have you ever HEARD that song?!

Nic Newsham (ex-Gatsby’s American Dream) is on it, too, and it was my fucking jam during the summer of 2008.

I really, really, really thought for sure that Kurt would come out and sing it with Tilian, but they pulled up Donovan from Hail the Sun instead. Still, it was pretty cool to hear that song live again. The last time for me was 2009.

At one point, Henry pointed to (screamer) Jon Mess and yelled over the music, “What’s his name again?” OMG why do you care, Henry? Unless you really do like them? WHICH HE ADMITTED TO AFTERWARD IN THE CAR! (He still hates Jonny though, and clarified that he liked Dance Gavin Dance the best that night when Tilian left the stage and they played a song from their side project:

I mostly did OK with the changes, except when they closed down the show with “Lemon Meringue Tie.” Without Jonny, that song is kind of…just a song. So I did cry a little bit then. That was the first Dance Gavin Dance song I ever heard in 2007, planting the seed for this intervention-worthy Jonny Craig love affair.

I better get used to the changes, because they announced that Tilian, once a vagabond singer without a band, is now a perma-member of Dance Gavin Dance, and they’re writing a new album together. Whatever it takes to keep some life in that band, I’m down.

Henry’s review:

I don’t care.

Note: Random picture found on Google. Do not know who to credit.

When Pierce the Veil announced their Collide With the Sky tour over the summer, I went to work that day and immediately requested off for November 6th. I don’t fuck around with this shit. I also bought my tickets at the exact moment they went on sale because I knew they would sell out (Pierce the Veil alone could sell out a show, but when you add Sleeping with Sirens to the lineup, you can bet it’s going to sell out even faster).

And it did sell out. Like, within a few days. That’s a pretty big deal for a band in this scene!

As luck would have it, this show happened to be the night after one of the worst days I’ve ever had at work. Perfect timing. Nothing brings me back to my zone quite like a show at Mr. Small’s. And Pierce the Veil is one of my 5 favorite bands.

My co-workers are usually pretty ambivalent about the shows I go to, but apparently “piercing the corporate veil” is some legal thing so some of them were all excited about it. God, don’t ruin my moment with your lawyerly jargon!

Henry’s favorite activity: being the token Old in a forest of Youngs.

Typically, I always stand in the same place at Mr. Small’s – right against the barrier inside the 21+ area. However, Henry found out that the balcony area was free for that show (generally they require a $30 bar tab). At first, I was like, “Fuck off, old man. I’m in my spot.”

But Henry wasn’t feeling well. And everything he’s done for me over the last week alone was psychically dangled in front of my nose by God Himself, so I put down my guns and followed him upstairs. But don’t think I didn’t make him feel like shit about it! I sat down and immediately sulked.

“I’m in Old Person Hell!” I hissed through gritted teeth. Henry just laughed and made himself comfortable amongst all the other PARENTS.

FUCK.

(The view was superior though, I can’t deny that.)

Right before the show started, I felt a hand on my back. It was my old high school buddy, Rocky! His daughter wouldn’t let him be anywhere near her, so he was banished to Parentville and ended up hanging out with us.

Fuck, that show made me feel so old!

The Australian band Hands Like Houses opened the show and they were pretty much as wonderful as I expected them to be, though I was a little disappointed when Jonny Craig never walked on stage. (He sings on one of their songs, and also one of Pierce the Veil’s, so how convenient would that have been!? It’s not like he’s doing anything other than posting disgusting pictures on Instagram of making out with his plain “fiance.”) Pretty much every member of the band could be distinguished by one hirsute accessory or another, such as a bushy moustache, hair helmet or a caveman pony tail. And the singer was everything I wanted him to be. God, what a hot fucking band.

(Pretty sure I posted this on here a long time ago, oh wells.)

Rocky, after mocking me when I told him they were from Australia by saying, “Oh, well that MUST be good then!”, agreed that they were indeed a good band. So there.

Second band was Tonight Alive, another troupe of Aussies, but this one is led by a chick singer. I am super picky with female-fronted bands. Maybe it’s because Hayley Williams (Paramore) stormed onto the scene and totally raised the bar to dizzying heights. It’s hard not to hold every up-and-coming girl singer to those standards. Is it fair? No. But I can’t help it. It takes a lot for girl voices to impress me.

Tonight Alive is a good band. I felt no aversion to their music and have nothing bad to say. Henry, however, was hyper-critical. I thought he was actually comatose up until this point because he literally wasn’t talking or moving at all.

Here is what Henry says about Tonight Alive:

• “She dances like Gwen Stefani. I don’t like it.”
• “I’m sorry, but I don’t think any band can make that Mumford & Sons song sound good.”

God Henry, start a blog, why dontcha.

This actually makes me want to buy their album now. JUST TO SPITE HENRY.

And then there was Sleeping With Sirens.

How do I explain this band to someone who doesn’t know.

Their singer is, to borrow my friend Jason’s comparison, kind of like the scene kid’s answer to Justin Timberlake. High-pitched voice. Charming good looks. Stylish. Girls fucking love this kid. When I started listening to them in 2010, after the release of their first album, no one really ever talked about them. They were never in Alternative Press. They were never on Warped Tour. But somehow, something happened. Girls began figuring out what Kellin looks like? I don’t know. He’s too girly-looking, if you ask me, but he makes bitches faint, from what I hear. Their shit has blown the fuck up over the last two years. They’re a huge part of the reason why this show sold out, I know it.

I have never met Kellin Quinn, nor do I have any desire to. He just seems like some pretentious rich kid, you can just tell. In between songs, a group of girls got his attention.

“What? Someone passed out? Oh. I thought you were just being typical little girls and screaming like you little girls do. But apparently someone passed out.” And the way he said it was was so fucking ingenuine and cocky, like he was bored to death being on that stage. So while the person who passed out was being attended to, the rest of the band just kind of stood around on stage while Kellin used that as his opportunity to make disparaging remarks about the election and promote voting apathy to the hundreds of kids in front of him, some of whom might have actually been able to vote in this election. Totally turned me off.

And he’s not a very good live singer. But the rest of the band was awesome. And they ended with the song that Henry and I are going to pretend dance to at our imaginary never-wedding, so that was presh.

But who cares, because Pierce the Veil came on next and blew my memory of the rest of the bands right out of my head. I haven’t seen them headline a show since 2008. TWO THOUSAND AND EIGHT. It’s just been all Warped Tour sets in the meantime. They’re on their third album now, so they had plenty to play and I was happy with every last song. They even played one of my all-time favorite PTV songs, “Besitos.” I gripped Henry’s when Vic said they were going to play it, but Henry did what he always does and shrugged me off him.

Ugh, they’re my favorite Mexicans.

Kellin Quinn does guest vocals on Pierce the Veil’s “King For a Day,” so we figured it was a no-brainer that Kellin would back on stage for that one. (Yes, even Old Man Hank was speculating.) This happened at Warped Tour (the crowd almost masticated the stage when it did) and YouTube is stuffed with videos of Kellin’s cameo from this tour. But Pittsburgh wasn’t that lucky.

“Vic probably hates him,” Henry said, Scene Dad that he is. I agreed that he probably wasn’t wrong. Kellin or no Kellin, nothing was going to ruin that show.

I think I love this band so much because they encompass so many elements that pander to me. Vic is a lyrical genius. I don’t give a shit what anyone says. He could write circles around any of your little John Mayers out there on the radio. There is the perfect amount of screaming/heaviness to their sound that satisfies my aggro side, but the softness is still there too. While they sound nothing like The Cure, I’ve always felt their dark, oft-morbid themes are a nod to the goth kings. (The Cure is my favorite band of all time, so that’s really saying something.)

I always point my finger in Henry’s face during the “without you there is no me” part. I guess he thinks that’s more annoying than romantic, but whatever.

There were several times during the show that I gave up and let myself silently cry, especially during “Yeah Boy and Doll Face,” which was mostly acoustic and broke whatever was left of my heart. If you’re only going to watch video on this post, watch this one. :(

In that moment, a million memories of the Heaven and Hell that was 2008 rendered me breathless. I know, I’m the poster-mom for the emo movement. I get it.

On the way to the car, Henry asked me if I was alright. I started to say, “I just think they’re so perfect,” when the dam broke and I started sobbing. Henry just sighed. This has been his normal for the last 11 years of going to shows with me.

Pierce the Veil is like a warm blanket for my soul and I guess I didn’t realize how freezing I was until that night. Sometimes I feel like if not for nights like this, I might be a serial killer or sucking dick for crack under a bridge. Or worse: dead. Fuck drugs. Fuck money. Fuck therapy. Music is everything.

I really needed that night.

This has been my jam lately. Reppin’ Captain Midnite always, what!

Go download this, for real. Played the whole EP 87 times the other night on the way to a haunted trail: back roads on a crisp autumn night + Captain Midnite = chilled cherry on top the ambiance sundae.

Would I ever lie to you?

This morning, as soon as I woke up, I got in one of my bi-polar cleaning snits. Every room of this house was making me freak out and kick things, and then I called Henry and took it out on him too. When I came home from taking Chooch to school, I sat down and put on Gary Numan’s Exile album in an effort to calm myself down. And then all the memories came flooding back.

It was October of 1999. I desperately needed to find a new place to live after getting (wrongfully) evicted from my current apartment. (That’s a whole different story.) My dad had found this great duplex in Brookline and I was waiting impatiently for the landlord to call me back after I filled out the application. Renting this house was all I could think about; back then, it was a great space—HUGE for one person. Granted, this was before a boyfriend, cats and a kid would shit all over its value. (In some cases, literally.)

During this time, I was going through a heavy Gary Numan phase. Not so much Tubeway Army-era, but his more current, sludge-y Goth work. One night, in my apartment, I had fallen asleep on the couch* listening to his Exile (Extended) album on repeat and had one of the most vivid nightmares of my life, of which I still have flashbacks even to this day.

(*When I lived in that apartment, I slept on the couch every night because some old bitch always had her TV blaring 24:7 on the other side of my bedroom wall and no matter where I moved my bed, I could hear it and it was slowly making me want to take a pickaxe to her face. I even complained to the landlady about this, but that bitch was in bed with all the other old ass people living in that complex, which led to my eventual eviction.)

In the dream, I was rollerskating down highways at night, frantically trying to get to the house in Brookline. I was totally out of control, skating over medians and down cobblestone hills, unable to stop. But finally, I made it to the street. In the dream, the house had an enclosed front porch (in real life, my house does not have a front porch); I let myself in and had to squeeze my way around bikes, toys, stacked furniture, debris in various stages of decomposition. Clearly, someone was still someone living there.

Squatting down in a corner was a little girl with black hair, dressed in a nightgown. She said, “You can’t go in there, Erin.”

I asked her how she knew my name.

“Marcy told me,” she said in a monotone, and then her eyes flashed red and I woke up totally freaked the fuck out. (Marcy is my evil cat, if you didn’t already know.)

Thirteen years later and I can’t wait to get the fuck out of the house I had to rent. Thirteen years is way too long to have been renting the same place.  In my dream, I was told I couldn’t go in there, and now I feel like I can’t get out. I’m so unhappy here.

This band got me through the weekend. If this show was tonight and not November 27th, I would feel a lot better.

———-

Eight years ago, someone close to me was killed. Not close as in we were good friends, but  close in that our jobs required us to see each other’s faces for 8 hours a day. His death has always bothered me because mere days before it happened, I had found myself in a screaming match with his dad – my boss. A screaming match about him, which ultimately led to me and my co-worker Carol storming out and never looking back.

I walked into that job in 2000 with all the naïve confidence and self-esteem of a 20-year-old girl and all I took with me 4 years later was a trauma-derived stutter and a crippling fear of offices which would leave me unemployed for nearly 3 years—the beginning of an avalanche of financial duress which we are still trying to clean up.

(And Henry. I got Henry out of the deal.)

I know his death wasn’t my fault, that’s not really what this is about. And I kind of feel too mixed up and sad and tired to try and explain, because explaining means going into the whole story. And the whole story is a saga, really, which I’m technically not permitted to share, a stipulation of the settlement I was awarded after a mediation with the EEOC.

But, maybe someday.

Eight years later, I still have nightmares about what happened. The flashbacks to the phone call. He’s still alive in my dreams. I still think I see him sometimes when I’m out. (This just happened on Saturday.

That “Oh shit, it’s—-wait. No, he’s dead” heart-clutching moment.) And that is how I ended up standing awkwardly in a Jewish cemetery yesterday morning, looking for a closure which may or may not exist.

I had wanted to do this back in 2004, but I just wasn’t ready. But I needed to see it yesterday. Chooch—had he been born a day earlier, would have shared his birthday with this man’s death day—helped me lay down wildflowers along the gravestone. Chooch kept asking me questions that I wasn’t ready to answer.

I couldn’t stop staring at his picture etched into the marble.

We went to see Speck and Don at the pet cemetery after that, and that’s where I really cried, which is what I have needed to do for weeks now.

Smiling (and laughing like a crazy person) through the sadness only gets us so far before we eventually have to deal with it.

This is in my Top 10 all time favorite songs, easily; I still get chills when I hear it. Henry suffered through many nights of me crying inconsolably every time COLD played this song live. There were times when I considered not going to their concerts because I wasn’t sure if I was emotionally stable enough to handle it.

I can’t explain it! Most people would just write them off as a nu-metal band and be done with it, but ever since the very first time I saw them in 2000, playing on the smallest stage to a crowd of about 50 at Pittsburgh’s X-Fest, I had the air ripped right out of my lungs and they have been like an aural security blanket to me ever since — every so often I just really need to revisit their music to feel like myself again.

But this song. It was never one of their hits (see: “Just Got Wicked” and “No One.” Ignore: “Stupid Girl.”), and it never even really stuck out to me when I’d play their CD, but then I heard Scooter Ward sing the words live at Nick’s Fat City that same summer of 2000, and I remember looking at my friend Shawn and mouthing the words, “I think I might die.”

2:47 – 3:21 is where I usually hold my breath.

“Gave all the vampires back to God [that day]” is the tag line on the checks for my checking account (“Whoa, Wolfman’s got nards” is on the ones I share with Henry – props if you get that reference without asking the good neighbor Google). I have always been utterly fascinated with that line, and Scooter Ward, who happens to be one of the nicest, modest and sharing frontmen I have ever encountered. Twelve years ago, he gave me a Starburst outside of a venue in Hershey, PA and I still have it; I keep it in the freezer every summer so it won’t melt. Scooter Ward is the absolute antithesis of Jonny Craig – he bleeds on that stage.

And besides, how could I not love a band that used to take the stage to the Halloween theme, their guitarist Terry Balsamo behind a Michael Myers mask?

No joke, I went in the kitchen and hugged Henry while playing this song a few minutes ago. Now I’m going to listen to it 87 more times before passing out in a Puddle of Mud. Just kidding — tears.

Today on the way to work, I hosted a dance party in the car to Xiu Xiu’s slaphappy hit song “Hi.” I encouraged Henry to join me in chest-popping, but he opted instead to frown while attempting to merge lanes. Then he tried to camouflage his frown with his lower-middle-class American meatfist, as if you guys don’t know by now what his unhappy mouth hole looks like.

Anyway, listening to that song over and over in the car made me super-pumped to come to work! I even yelled through my giggles, “HOW CAN YOU NOT BE HAPPY WHEN THIS SONG IS ON!?” which Henry replied with a twisted smirk of disapproval.

Today is good.

Tomorrow will be too, because I think I am going to listen to this song and “Call Me, Maybe” back-to-back for at least two hours.

Prologue:

***

NOW:

Lisa texted me late Friday night and said, “Did you know .38 Special is playing at the Rib Fest this Sunday night for FREE!?” No, I did not know this! And just like that, I now had plans for Sunday night. You’ll never get me to go to something like this unless some relic of the 1980s music scene is going to be spitting forth free jams, like Eddie Money (where I got busted for videotaping, are you kidding me) and Bad Company.

BAD COMPANY!

[A few summers ago, my old neighbor Robin (she’s since moved and life in Brookline just hasn’t been the same) was slinking around her front yard in one of her standard terry cloth tube clothes, to the tune of Bad Company’s Greatest Hits. That was a good day.]

Since Lisa’s husband Matt was going too (an attendance for which he said she owed him), Henry said he would go too so his mom came over to babysit and we actually had one of those date things. Lisa’s friends Carrie and Wes met us down there too, so we had a legit posse which made me feel safe against all of the Steelers propaganda. (It was at Heinz Field, probably the closest I’ll ever get to that place considering my extreme dislike of football.)

At one point, I realized I had meat sweats, which was impressive considering I don’t eat meat.

But if anything was going to convert me, it was going to be the goddamn Rib Fest.

OMG, it smelled so good.

OMG and so many trophies! How can you argue with trophies?!

And then Henry spend $5 on a black cherry old-fashioned soda for me, can you even believe it? I only had to beg him for 10 minutes and then point out all of the other men who supplied their ladies with flavored wets in a tin cup.

Wow, it really was a date, you guys.

And since Henry was surrounded by barbequed flesh, about to see an age-appropriate band, he couldn’t even PRETEND to frown.

Pork samples keep my man placated.

The King of Meat! He was my favorite person there, even after he creepily demanded that Lisa take his picture with me after this. I was like, “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly—” but then his meat-hand was around my waist and I was all, “Oh! Ok…”

He made me feel like my cleavage was on point, so I made Henry go back and patronize his booth for some mac n cheese and cornbread.

I just don’t eat enough cornbread, and that’s a goddamn shame.

We soon realized that .38 Special wasn’t coming on until 9:00, two hours later than we thought. So we walked down to Rivertown, where Lisa, Matt, Henry and our waiter Mike held my hand as I took babysteps into beer-liking.

In my 33 years, I have not once been able to drink beer without clamping shut my nose. But a co-worker suggested Summer Shandy, which I just had Saturday night (along with a Lemon Berry Shandy), and while it took me 2.5 hours to drink it, I DRANK IT GODDAMMIT. And it was not too bad.

Mike kept pushing me to get the Woodchuck Fall, but hard cider is always my fall-back when I go to bars and all my normal friends are drinking beer like it’s water. So I got some Belgian white thing which wasn’t very bad but I still had to drink it slowly, and then I eventually just gave it to Henry (after drinking more than a third of it!!).

With Matt and Henry shaking their heads in the background, Lisa let me try her IPA; my tastebuds promptly curled up and died, reanimated and gnawed off the back of my throat.

(I am open to your beer-sampling suggestions, my friends. Just remember that I have a very weak and girly ale palate.)

Since I’m not a beer-drinker, that was enough to get me a little buzzed, so I was even more stoked for .38 Special. Plus, this enabled me to better fit in with my beer-breath brethren.

“We’re going to see .38 Special now, aren’t you jealous?” Lisa said mockingly to Mike the Waiter.

“Actually, I kind of am!” Mike said. “‘I Want You To Want Me’, right?” he offered as proof that he knew who we were talking about.

No, Mike. That’s Cheap Trick.

.38 SPECIAL!!! Oh my god, it was so much fun! The crowd was a perfect cross-section of middle-aged couples reliving their youth, from aging biker-babes now with literal saddle bags to 50-year-old men in polo shirts and khaki shorts clinging to their yuppie-youth. Before the show started, Lisa and I were talking about the last time we them in 1998, and how long ago that was.

“The last time I saw them was in 1980,” Henry said dourly, and we all got a good laugh at his age. Oh god, I hope he wore a Confederate flag belt buckle with his bitchin’ Adidas shirt.

(To give you some perspective, Lisa and I would have been 1.)

Lisa and I were so amped for the first 30-45 minutes, even during the medley of songs we didn’t know. Three songs in, I turned to her and shouted, “I don’t remember there being two singers!”

She just shrugged.

Henry even made physical contact with me numerous times, like we were a real couple or something. It was amazing, but then I realized he probably felt more comfortable doing so at a show where he was part of his own generation.

Then a mid-40s drunk couple drunkenly pushed past us and began drunkenly dancing and copulating through their Coors Light-sloshed boat clothes. I guess Southern Rock is the next best thing when there’s no yacht rock shows going on in town. The woman was unattractive, squat like a troll, and dressed like a nondescript mom. The man had on a white polo and jean shorts and looked like he probably worked for an insurance company or sold swimming pools. They were extremely amusing to watch as they staggeredly gyrated against each others’ clothed genitals, and the woman kept doing these washed-up stripper body rolls which was vomit-inducing in and of itself, but when she dragged one sultry hand down the man’s back, across his ass and then IN BETWEEN HIS LEGS, I had to look away. The look in her eyes was crying out, “PORN DIRECTORS! LOOK AT ME! OVER HERE!” and I felt sleaz(ier) by association.

I started to record this lascivious display, but then they moved on, becoming engulfed by the crowd. I thought it was because she caught me taping them with my phone, but I think they just felt it was time to unleash their classic rock burlesque show on fresh eyes.

This sums up the set list:

WOOOOO ROCKIN’ INTO THE NIGHT!

WAIT, THIS ISN’T STILL ROCKIN’ INTO THE NIGHT? OH, THIS IS ROUGH-HOUSING? WHY DOES IT SOUND JUST LIKE ROCKIN’ INTO THE NIGHT?

WOOOOO I HAVEN’T RECOGNIZED THE LAST 4 SONGS THEY JUST PLAYED!

YESSSS, FANTASY GIRL!!!

OMG, PLAY CAUGHT UP IN YOU, ALREADY.

I DON’T KNOW THIS SONG. That’s because it’s Lynyrd Skynyrd. I STILL DON’T KNOW THIS SONG.

OMFG CAUGHT UP IN YOU!

I WONDER WHICH OF THESE SONGS HENRY LOST HIS VIRGINITY TO?!!?

OMFG HOLD ON LOOSELY!

I also learned that Henry knows A LOT about .38 Special and was answering all sorts of questions for us. Like when there was this somber moment in between songs while the one singer was talking about his brother and then we realized, “Wait…his brother was Ronnie Van Zant?!?” and Henry was like, “Um, yeah!” And then when they sang, “Second Chance” and Lisa and I exchanged confused looks and shouted to Henry, “Wait, this is .38 SPECIAL!?” He said yes, but we didn’t believe him. Lisa was even trying to Shazam it at one point, when Henry sighed and showed us his phone. If GOOGLE says it’s so…

I always thought it was a Steve Perry song. I guess I shouldn’t have made fun of the 21-year-old girl in front of me who said, “And ‘I Want To Know What Love Is’!” when John Burnett from KDKA got on stage and rattled off a number of their big hits when introducing the band.

(I’m still dwelling on this a day later. “But it doesn’t even SOUND like them!” I cried just now to Henry. “That’s because it was sung by their keyboardist!” he shouted irritably, ready to close this chapter.)

Then we were subjected to a five-minute drum solo in a song that was written for the Super Troopers soundtrack, and Lisa and I both started to taper off. But they hadn’t played “Hold On Loosely” or “Caught Up In You” yet, so I remained firmly planted in my spot.

Does a song on the Super Troopers soundtrack (appropriately named “Trooper with an Attitude”) really need a drum solo?

Of course, they saved their two biggest songs for the end. When they sang, “Caught Up In You,” I thought I was going to die. Memories of driving around, waiting for the classic rock radio station to fulfill my request.

(I used to call CONSTANTLY asking for it; one time they played “Hold On Loosely” and I was supremely disappointed, but let’s face it, that song is pretty fucking great too.)

Lisa whipped out her hair brush and serenaded me and all of a sudden I was 18 again, with a 47-year-old man pressed up against me. Yep, sounds about right.

The company was quality, the music was fun and nostalgic, and the people-watching was prime. I really needed that night. After Henry came back from taking his babysitting mom home, he admitted on his accord that he had a lot of fun, and even THANKED me for forcing him to go.

You guys: HENRY HAD FUN.

I mean, of course he did. He was surrounded by smoked meat, Southern Rock, and had a girlfriend who was STILL younger (and with better, less reptilian skin) than most of the other women around that stage. What could have possibly been bad about that? Clearly, we need to add .38 Special to the imaginary set list for our Never-Wedding.

Henry’s heyday, reflected upon his eyeglasses. I get the biggest kick out of seeing him in his own scene.

***

I wondered out loud why it was taking Henry forever to wake up this morning.

Chooch said, “Um, he’s probably TIRED. He was with you for a LONG TIME last night, probably somewhere he didn’t want to be.”

For once, son, you are wrong!