My week can be summarized in two parts:

• OMG MY BACK HURTS OW OW GRAB MY CANE
• OMG I LOVE JONNY CRAIG EVEN THOUGH HE IS A RODENT-LOOKING DOUCHEBAG

Let’s start with my back. I guess it’s a pinched nerve, I don’t know. I’m not actually a doctor (don’t tell those Mexican girls waiting in my basement for an abortion). Every time it starts to feel OK, I exercise (because I’m weight-obsessed, if you hadn’t noticed; please send tape worms to My House, Pittsburgh PA 15226) and then it gets all jacked up again and I have to listen to Henry say the words, “I told you so” which always makes me hate his face even more than usual.

If I’m lucky, I can get my lazy, uncaring son to walk on my back which floods me with relief, but I can only have him do this when Henry is home supervising, otherwise I might be typing this right now from a straw in my mouth. The other day, Chooch said to Henry, “I can’t wait for Mommy’s head to hurt so I can walk on her face.”

And then at the playground on Wednesday, he ran past me with a bunch of kids. With frantic jazz-hands he said, “My mom can’t play with us” and then in a shitty tone laden with sarcasm and packed with more condescension than any 5-year-old should be able to muster, he added, “because her BACK hurts her!” What a fucker. I yelled after him, “I wouldn’t play with you anyway!”

Five-year-olds are assholes.

Meanwhile, there were grandparents at the playground more able-bodied than me, running across tire-bridges and playing tag with their grandkids while I was curled up arthritically on a bench, looking all sad and pouty-lipped.

And in Jonny Craig news, it’s been getting really out of control in my house. I should explain myself lest anyone thinks I seriously AM 15-years-old: My mania is in large part attributed to the fact that it annoys the shit out of Henry. And what is my sole purpose in life? Annoying the shit out of Henry.

Jonny Craig is a HUGE douche bag. In fact, two years ago on this blog I wrote about him being a piece of shit, and it is to-this-day the single most viewed post I’ve ever written. The search terms for my blog every day are variations of “Jonny Craig is an asshole.” Random kids STILL comment on that post, sharing their tales of Jonny-woe. He is notorious in the post-hardcore scene. The only thing that keeps me coming back for more Jonny Craig is that I am absolutely head-over-heels in love with his voice. Literally, it will make me quake and get all stupid-swoony and light-headed and this concerns Henry because he cannot provide me with such ecstacy.

Therefore, Henry hates Jonny Craig.

So what better way to get under Henry’s skin than to project my love for Emarosa and Dance Gavin Dance onto their fire-crotched arrogant vocalist (ex-vocalist, in Emarosa’s case)? Jonny is already our desktop background and my iPhone wallpaper. On Tuesday, I made a special trip to Target to buy an 8×10 frame for the picture of him at Bamboozle that I tore out of Alternative Press months ago. It’s now hanging on our wall and Henry is very unhappy about this.

“Why don’t you just tape up some posters too?” he spat miserbly so I went on eBay that night at work to look for some.

Yesterday, I painted my nails and then etched Jonny’s name on my left hand.

It was supposed to be a surprise, I wanted to see how long it would take Henry to notice when he came home, but fucking Chooch the Snitch called him immediately and said, “Ugh, Mommy put Jonny Craig’s name on her NAILS.” Still, when Henry came home, I made sure to lovingly stroke his beard with my Jonny-hand. (And I do mean the beard on his face.) He kept shrugging me away from him. I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY.

Then at work last night, Barb, Sandy and I posted pictures of Jonny Craig on Henry’s Facebook wall, which gave me great joy.

“I need to find a real douchey one,” Barb said, Googling his name.

“Yeah, that’s not going to be hard,” I said.

Henry never said a word about it when I came home last night.

This one from Sandy was my favorite, so I made it my profile picture:

That moustache alone should get its own entry in the Douchebag Dictionary.

But back to my broken back: we’re supposed to be going to the Westmoreland County Fair tomorrow, so that should add a new dimension to the usual pain of the carnival rides. The last time we went to this one, I had a broken toe and the carnies had to help me on all of the rides, which was hotter than anything I experience at home with Henry. Perhaps he’ll let me interview him again! (Provided he doesn’t dump me for someone more age-appropriate before then.)

“Henry!” I said all breathlessly into the phone, which is his cue to brace himself. “I just saw the line up for the Rock Yourself To Sleep tour and guess who’s co-headlining?”

In a bored monotone, Henry muttered, “I don’t know.”

“No, guess!”

“Chiodos,” Henry guessed with a heavy sigh.

“Wha—? No!” I couldn’t believe he didn’t get it right off the bat.

“D.R.U.G.S.,” was Henry’s noncommittal second guess.

Meanwhile, I have my kid sitting next to me yelling, “THE CURE! Jonny Craig!”

“God, it’s Dance Gavin Dance!” I yelled into the phone. “I can’t believe that wasn’t your first guess.”

“I didn’t want to guess it,” Henry said in a tired voice. “Because I didn’t want it to be true.”

I HOPE IT COMES TO/NEAR PITTSBURGH!

***

In other pre-teen glee, we went to my friend John’s son’s 4th birthday party yesterday. I didn’t know anyone there at the park, and Chooch pushed the birthday boy down a hill within the first 15 minutes of us arriving*, so I was grateful when John’s cousin Chrissy sat across from me and introduced herself. Her daughter Alex joined us and my first thought was, “I wonder where she got that cool bow in her hair?”

(*This is why we don’t get invited places.)

“Look, Erin’s nails are painted almost the same as yours,” Chrissy said to Alex. (We both had symbols painted on just one hand, opting to keep the other hand plain.) A few minutes later, she also pointed out that Alex and I are both vegetarians (though I do fancy some fish nowadays, to be fair).

When Henry and I were alone a few minutes later, I said to him, “Isn’t it funny that the one person here I have the most in common with is a fourteen-year-old girl? I wonder if she wants to run away from home all the time, too.”

“Sad,” Henry mumbled.

But considering that Henry always compares me to twelve-year-olds, this is an improvement, no? In fact, on the way to the party, he was ridiculing me in the car.

“You have the hands of a 12-year-old,” he scoffed when I fanned out my left hand in front of his face. The fact that every ring I wore that day was made of neon plastic and cost a quarter only gave him more reason to jeer. “‘Look what I did, Daddy!'” he mocked, rolling his eyes at the ampersand I painstakingly painted on my thumb the night before.

“I should have painted ‘Jonny Craig’ on my nails,” I said, mostly to myself.

“Jesus Christ,” Henry mumbled, looking out the window, clearly wishing he commanded my attention as much as this ginger douchebag does.

Back at the party, Chrissy was pointing at my shoes and asking, “Are those TOMS? Alex wants a pair of those.” A little bit later, Alex walked by and said, “I like your shoes!” causing Henry to shake his head and flash me one of his signature Disappointed Smirks.

When we were leaving, Chrissy said jokingly, “You and my daughter will have to hang out sometime!”

(Only if she likes Dance Gavin Dance!)

Henry looked all chagrined by this, and Chrissy added, “What, you don’t want her to be an old lady, do you Henry?” YEAH HENRY! I AM WHO I AM, OK ? Stop trying to make me boring.

The rink owner told me I could bring in my own music for Roller DJ to play during my party, and you better believe I did just that. I slaved over this mix for weeks, trying to get it as close to three hours as possible. It started out as a list on paper, just a casual scribbling of possibilities that soon morphed into The Most Important List in the World and had me getting out of bed in the middle of the night to add to it. (So this is why, when Janna said she was going to request the Hokey Pokey, I almost chewed her face off. THERE WAS NO TIME FOR SHENANIGANS! I had it down to the second.)

When I gave Roller DJ the music, I said to him, “I only have one request. Before “Heart & Soul” by T’Pau comes on, can you give me a birthday shout out?” Roller DJ is pretty experienced with me by now, so he just sighed and said sure.

AND HE DID JUST THAT TOO. It was like 1988 all over again, except I was wearing a side pony with an over-sized bow in my hair.

(Why wasn’t I wearing a side pony with an over-sized bow in my hair?)

I really wanted to have some comfort songs from my childhood, back when roller skating was the popular thing to do and didn’t inspire the “Whoa, people still roller skate in 2011?” reaction that I normally get. So I threw on some New Order, Depeche Mode, Pet Shop Boys, Naked Eyes, the Cure of course, Duran Duran, Mummy Calls, Siouxsie and the Banshees…at one point, the rink owner snagged me during my party (people kept doing this when I was clearly trying to be a dream on wheels!) and said laughingly, “Hey Erin, do you work at a discotheque?”

YES, HOW DID YOU KNOW.

I also wanted to have the other side of the 80’s spectrum: Some Phil Collins/Genesis such as “Tonight Tonight Tonight” and “Easy Lover,” which I was very vocal about missing while I was unwrapping presents.  Billy Ocean and Madonna when she was still cool (“Borderline” FTW). Whitesnake and Foreigner to fulfill the monster ballad quota. Some 90s throwbacks in the form of Sophie B. Hawkins and Boyz II Men (Henry wouldn’t skate with me during “End of the Road” even though he knew it was dying wish).

“Return of the Mack” of course. There is no way I will ever not skate to “Return of the Mack.” Quintessential skate jam.

The day before my party, I jokingly tweeted that I even included “Jackie Blue” because I wanted to have something from Barb’s generation to make her happy. Coincidentally, that happened to be the song that was playing when she arrived at the rink. We were both like, “Whaaaaat is happening right now.” (I seriously do love the shit out of that song, though. It backfired though because I think it made Henry feel more at home on the rink. And giving him an enjoyable time is the opposite of my life’s mission.)

And then when Kaitlin arrived with my Robert Smith cake (which stopped me in my tracks, it was so perfect), “The Baby Screams” was playing.

Creepy but awesome.

Of course I wanted to appease everyone with the music selection, especially after Henry lectured me about alienating people. I had some current r&b and pop hits, some Fall Out Boy for Henry’s nieces, Britney Spears and Rihanna, but you know there was that part of me that was itching for my favorites, those songs that make my heart bleed. So I loaded up some Dance Gavin Dance, Emarosa and Chiodos as well. I was dying to hear some post-hardcore at the roller rink.

Roller DJ kicked off my party by playing an Emarosa track.

“Not gonna lie, this is pretty cool,” Blake said when I skated past him and pointed up at the speakers.

Near the end of the night, when Jonny Craig’s voice permeated the Roller Drome with the words “Tailored sheets,”  Chooch and I screamed in unison from opposite sides of the rink. His voice sounded even more beautiful to me, reverberating off that smooth wooden floor, making my knees all weak. It was the only time of the night I almost fell.

Roller skating to Emarosa and Dance Gavin Dance was the best birthday present EVER.

Ahhhhhh! Old Folk approaching! Hide your hard candy!

Have you ever wondered what Warped Tour is like for a super old man who shuns fun and is the Poster Elder for “surly”? You’re in luck because my very own, personal Old Man let me ask him some questions about his day spent outside in 95+ degree heat surrounded by machine-gun drumming and exploding-node screaming.

But he had this girl by his side, so how terrible could it have been, right?

(RIGHT!?)

Erin, pen in hand: Why do you wear a bandanna to Warped Tour? Is it because you think it makes you look hard? (Because it doesn’t.)

Henry, sitting next to me on the couch and glaring: Because it was hot. [Thinks deeper.] And it keeps the hair out of my eyes.

Erin: So does a hair cut.

I really believe he wears a bandanna because he feels like it will repel scene kids. Like if they see some dildo approaching them with a cotton condom fastened around his head, they’ll think he’s security or a member of a biker gang, when meanwhile he drives a Ford Focus and looks like the treasurer of a washed-up Village People fan club.

Erin, pressing the issue because I know people care about Henry’s head toppings: And how do you decide what color to wear?

Henry, mumbling as he works the TV remote: Whatever matches what shirt I’m wearing.

Erin: Now did you learn that on the “Blue-Collared Beverage Warehouse Manager” episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy?

Henry, actually looking away from the TV for the first time since this writer has been asking questions: What? What the fuck are you talking about? [One corner of his mouth tugged up a bit, which constitutes as a SMILE in the world of bearded douchebags.]

Erin: Is it true you bought a graphic tee at Target specifically for Warped Tour so you’d fit in better and joke-block me of non-descript t-shirt fodder?

Henry: No. I didn’t buy ANYTHING for Warped Tour. [Scrunches up face in irritation, which most people would take as the universal visage for constipation.]

This is a complete lie. He bought sun screen and individually-wrapped prunes.

Henry, reaching in his Old Man Cargo Shorts for an individually-wrapped prune. Note his expression: It never changed.

Erin: What was your favorite band of the day.

Henry: [LONG PAUSE. I thought he was thinking but really was watching Good Eats.]

Erin: [Stabbed him in the ribs with elbow.]

Henry: What?! [Notices me scribbling down my own answer on his behalf.] What are you writing? Don’t write Dance Gavin Dance, because it wasn’t.

This means it was Blood on the Dance Floor. Scantily-clad scene posers get him every time. Jeffree Star and all that.

Erin: Speaking of Dance Gavin Dance, what are your thoughts on them?

Henry: I don’t HAVE any thoughts on Dance Gavin Dance.

Maybe not, but he definitely dreams about them considering their last album is on constant repeat in the bedroom.

Erin: Not even on Jonny Craig?

Henry: Jonny Craig is a douchebag.

Erin: If you had to spend money at one merch booth, which would it be?

Henry: [Seriously considering for entirely too long.]

Me, noticing the small puff-shapes his lips are making: Hello! You’re falling asleep!

Henry, jolting at my shrill voice: No, I was thinking. And the thinking is putting me to sleep. [I have to repeat the question.] It would probably be what you want since I get no say in anything.

What he meant to say was, “The first merch booth we come across that has booty shorts in my size. I hope it’s Blood on the Dance Floor or Black Veil Brides!”

Henry’s “I ain’t got my dentures in & I just spent the last of your money on a Powerade” face.

Erin: How disappointed were you that Craig Owens (singer for D.R.U.G.S.) darkened his hair?

Henry: A little disappointed.

It was the FIRST THING he noticed when Craig came out on stage.

Erin: Does that make him less attractive to you?

Henry: No.

OMG that means he’s attracted to him in the first place.

Erin: Why wouldn’t you stand near me during Of Mice & Men? Was it because you didn’t want to get your face melted off?

Henry: Too many kids around me.

Lies. Here are my top 3 reasons why Henry took 87 giant steps back away from the crowd:

1. He didn’t want his pedophilia to be that transparent.
2. He doesn’t love me enough/have enough upper body strength to keep bodies from falling on my head, which won’t matter if he’s a million feet away from me.
   
3. He’s embarrassed to be seen too close to me. (Because I cry during shows, but mostly because I’m ugly.)

Erin: When you saw that girl pass out right before Set Your Goals, why didn’t you spring into action? Isn’t that what they taught you in THE SERVICE or were you too busy trying to look like Erik Estrada instead of attending all the Be a Hero seminars?

Henry: [For real sleeping.]

Erin: [Repeats question, and by that I mean I kneed him in the nuts.]

Henry: [Started to “think,” then fell back asleep.]

Erin: HENRY, PLEASE!

Henry, waking up abruptly: I don’t know! Because there were already people “springing into action!”

Or! Because he left his balls with his ex-wife.

Someone for Henry to share his prunes with!

Erin: Any tips for other elders attending Warped Tour? And don’t say, “Don’t go.”

Henry, about to say “don’t go.”: Damn. Bring plenty of money so you don’t have to drink tap water. Leave your girlfriend at home.

Erin: And don’t forget your joint cream.

Henry, forgetting that he’s like 80 years old: What do I need my joint cream for?

Erin: What was your favorite part of Warped Tour and don’t say leaving.

Henry: But that was my favorite part. Probably watching all the people run when it started to rain even though they were in bathing suits.

Translation: Watching all the wet under-age girls run in bathing suits. See? Warped Tour’s not all that bad!

Erin: Least favorite?

Henry, with no hesitation: The heat.

Erin: What heat? Don’t men of your blue-collared ilk spend their childhood summers working in my rich relative’s yards for milk money? You should be acclimated to the heat by now.

Henry: Whatever, asshole.

Erin: If (Warped Tour founder) Kevin Lyman named a stage after you, what bands would you demand be on the lineup? And don’t say Judas Priest.

Henry: I don’t know.

Ew, I hate when he says that. Especially when his voice cracks in irritation like he’s some pissed off Peter fucking Brady.

Erin: Henry, I will kick you in the nuts.

Henry, clearly peaced out from the interview process like a little prissy Girl Scout: I don’t know what bands I would have!

This means he’s too embarrassed to admit to the Internet that it would be Creed, Nickelback, whatever nü-metal bands are still together, and a Carpenters cover band.

Erin: Are you looking forward to next year’s Warped Tour?

Henry: I never look forward.

****

Thank you for reading this lame interview. Clearly I need to find more interesting subjects. You suck, Henry. Learn some words!

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

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

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

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

August Burns Red

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two of my favorite bands have new videos so please indulge me while I put on my giddy 16-year-old scene girl face and watch them repeatedly for days. I have a real post forthcoming, but I couldn’t resist sharing these.

Craig or no Craig, Chiodos is still so fantastic. Hopefully people will accept that they’re doing just fine, if not better, with Brandon Bolmer and then start going to their shows again. The one I went to last winter had a pretty dismal turn-out and these dudes deserve better than that, so get stoked for Chiodos you guys.

This is probably my least favorite song on Selfish Machines, but I still love it because even though it sounds so poppy, the lyrics are actually dark and pretty devastating. Vic Fuentes is such an underrated songwriter. Hope they make a video for “Besitos.”

(OMG Warped Tour is in 9 days!)

Been a little (OK a lot) down lately. You know it’s bad when someone at work asks how you’re doing and you answer them by essentially doing the cartoon tear-squirt.

Then Craig Owens (<33333) posted this new song on Facebook last night and it was like finally getting that warm hug I’ve been craving.

And I got the notification email that my Warped Tour ticket has been mailed. That’s all I have right now, but it’s also really all I need. Music saves, you guys.

It’s a My Chemical Romance kind of day. This song just kills me dead.

You know what else kills me dead?

Home improvement.
Working with Henry.
Working with Henry on home improvement.

We’re in the process of painting our kitchen. Mostly just the cabinets and drawers. I wanted orange and green (we have a red countertop so I had to carefully consider complementary colors, which is hard when you don’t really give a shit about the color wheel) but Henry got all bitchy about this selection in the middle of Home Depot so I ended up swapping the green with a yellow and just so you know, yellow is pretty much my least favorite color, right next to puce. I fucking hate Home Depot and I fucking hate Henry and I fucking hate painting. THIS WAS THE WORST IDEA EVER. (And mama ain’t just talking about painting the kitchen. Oh my god.)

(If you’ve ever been in our kitchen, you know it needs a hell of a lot more than sunny paint hues to change it from broke-backed womens shelter to Martha Stewart’s culinary-sex nook.)

Yesterday, we did the “priming” thing and by priming I mean that Henry did most of it and then let me help for less than one minute (no exaggeration) before screaming at me to go sit down and then Chooch bumped me into the door frame, which was the only thing that I had attempted to paint so I got primer all over my stupid black sweatpants and I cried about that for a little while because now how am I going to look to the dead bodies when I’m jogging next to their graves wearing STAINED PANTS.

Why does painting have to be so obnoxious? Surely if all those asshole homeowners on Trading Spaces can do it, I should be able to accomplish more than a few strokes. I mean, my arms are pretty strong from all the far-reaching handjobs I’ve given to boys hanging above me on monkey bars, but just thinking about handling a paint roller makes my biceps atrophy.

I wanted this to be done yesterday. I always forget about that “priming” step, and then we got sidetracked with making popsicles, which I guess will be tomorrow’s post if I come out of the other side of this home improvement episode alive.

(What the fuck—Henry is all nonchalantly talking about “the second coat” and I’m all, “What is this “second coat” you speak of, because it sounds more painful than anal?”)

I was skulking about Clairton three summers ago with my camera. All my local friends know what a terrific idea THAT is. I saw this guy palling around with some of his friends and he just really appealed to me. I was going to try and photo-stalk him, but ended up opting for the direct approach and asked  if I could photograph him.

“For a school project.”

That’s honestly the best excuse on Earth.

“No really, it’s for a college project and not at all for my blog! I don’t even have a blog! What is a blog!?”

A few weeks ago, Pittsburgh’s urban radio station—WAMO—made its big comeback debut. It went off-air in 2009, money problems I’m sure. You’re probably thinking, “But you’re a music snob. Why do you care about radio?” Look, urban radio is my shit, especially in the summer. I need my summer jams for when I’m carousing the cemeteries. And WAMO was always the only radio station that never pissed me off.

This new incarnation of WAMO, though, I don’t know what’s going on. They play LADY GAGA. BRUNO MARS. That is not r&b nor is it hop hop!

They play that Katy Perry trash. Look, I get that she’s got Kanye in that one song, but that doesn’t make it OK to play it 8 times an hour.

What bothers me most, though, I mean what REALLY gets under my skin, is the motherfucking Black Eyed Peas every goddamn time I turn it on. Fergie’s lucky if she gets to sing two notes before I’m bashing in the radio with the heel of my hand.  I was so incensed about this yesterday that I “liked” WAMO on Facebook JUST SO I COULD WRITE ON THEIR WALL.

Fuck the Black Eyed Peas! Fuck the whole collective with pine cones! THAT IS NOT URBAN MUSIC. That’s shit soccer moms listen to when they’re waiting to pick their kids up from fucking karate. Country fans listen to that shit when they want to feel like a “bad ass.” WAMO is supposed to be for black people and me!

I guarantee you if I went back to Clairton and sought out the dude in the picture above, he’d be all, “SHIIIIIIIIIIIT girl, that’s WHITE PEOPLE music.” CAN I GET A HELL YEAH.

I almost didn’t get to go see The Get Up Kids & Saves the Day last Sunday. Henry was being a tightwad as usual, tossing in some guilt about how buying tickets was like taking food from our child’s mouth. But then, much to Henry’s chagrin, I won two tickets through the promoter’s Facebook page. I never win tickets! The last tickets I won was to a sneak preview of “The Substitute” in 1996. Included in that was a poster and the soundtrack, which I actually played the fuck out of it because it was all rap and I was deep in the Yo! Culture.

The message they sent me on Facebook said to make sure that my Facebook name and name on my ID were the same. I already knew they were, so I was a little confused as to why there was a hold-up at the will-call counter at Mr. Small’s that night.

“You don’t seem to be on the list,” a pixie-haired girl said, squinting to read the names in the dim light. “Are you sure you won?” she asked with a nervous laugh.

I said yes in a high-pitched voice constricted by worry. I started to fumble for my phone for proof when Henry sighed and mumbled, “It’s on there. I see it.”

They had me listed as Erin Appledale. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why until it dawned on me later that one day, I added Appledale as my maiden name, so it comes up on Facebook next to my full name in parenthesis.

There was a moment of hesitation on the ticket girl’s part. I was ready to burst into tears if my winnings were taken away, and she seemed like she really wanted to believe me but didn’t want to get in trouble in case I’m just a really great Sally Struthers impersonator. I was ready to show her the confirmation I had on my phone when she crossed out Erin Appledale with her highlighter and said, “It’s OK, I believe you. But if someone named Erin Appledale comes looking for her tickets—-” and we all had a good laugh. Well, all of us except for Henry, who realized he fucked himself by pointing out my name on the list. That could have been his out! He was so irritated that he actually tweeted about it, and boyfriend barely ever tweets.

I knew Henry was majorly put out by having to be there that night, mostly because he had to leave for work later on around 2AM, but also because 90s emo means nothing to him. So in an effort to make him happier (like that’s ever possible), I stayed in the back of Mr. Small’s with him, next to one of the bars. I even suggested that he get a beer, since we saved money on tickets, but he very curtly reminded me that he had to be at work at 2AM. OK, sorry, big shot. I pointed out several times that for once, Henry wasn’t even close to being the oldest guy at the show. There was nary a scene kid in sight. It was kind of nice.

My friend Bonecrusher arrived with her fiance Brendan, who also had no interest being there so I thought that maybe he and Henry could commiserate about that and moustaches, but then I remembered that Henry won’t talk to anyone he hasn’t met at least 4 times. He’s so weird. So I essentially stood with my back toward Henry and talked to them, which is exactly what Henry and I were making fun of some other guy for doing to his date earlier, now that I think about it. Yes! I’m officially That Douchey Guy in the Bike Shop T-shirt. They stayed with us for the whole show which was cool but of course my social second-guessing had me paranoid that they felt stuck, and then I felt guilty and wondered if they thought I was super lame for standing all the way in the back. These are things that happen when one doesn’t take anything for social anxiety.

I don’t remember who the opening band was. They were local and OK.

Saves the Day played for around 90 minutes and it was non-stop amazement. I tried to make Henry clap a couple times and then he nearly broke my fingers, which is how I found out he doesn’t appreciate me using his hand to touch guys’ asses.

He also yelled at me for having fun.

When Saves the Day played “Tomorrow Too Late,” I almost lost it. THAT IS MY FAVORITE SONG. That whole album makes me think of when I finally walked out of the job where I had been emotionally abused for four years.

(Not from the show I went to, but best quality I could find on YouTube.)

“This would be a good time,” I yelled in Henry’s ear, wagging my ring finger in his face. He rolled his eyes and smirked.

“A good time for WHO?” he asked.

The guy in front of us had his arm around his drunk girlfriend. I tried to get Henry to sling his limp arm around me, but he was busy jabbing at his phone with fat thumbs.

“Who are you texting?” I yelled, trying to read it upside down.

He pushed my hand away. “Scott, my roommate from THE SERVICE.”

OH MY GOD. I’m going to have to do some recon on this. This could be our inside into Henry’s SERVICE DAYS.

And then The Get Up Kids came out and I thought it was pretty impossible not to just smile and be happy, but of course Henry proved me wrong.  The only song The Get Up Kids sang that Henry enjoyed was a fucking Blur cover. It’s weird, but instead of feeling old because these bands have been around for so long, it actually made me feel younger. Maybe because I’m so used to being the Scene Mom at all the usual shows we go to.

Henry said I was being exceptionally annoying all night.

It’s 90 degrees in my house right now, so I will just say that The Get Up Kids were awesome, Saves the Day were awesome, and it was nice to just be able to enjoy a show for once without crying through the whole fucking thing because I’m an emotional wreck.  I even caught Henry clapping once. ON HIS OWN!

For the last ten years, B! Machine has been one of my all-time favorite synthpop artists. He is criminally under-appreciated.

I’m really feeling some synthpop for a darkened room today.

“If any guy ever WOKE ME UP to ask me what color my eyes are, I’d be like, ‘Fuck you, motherfucker! You should have every facet of me memorized because I am the best thing that will ever happen to you!’ as I detached their penis with hedge-clippers,” I spat to Henry during the 86729864389317409 listen of Dance Gavin Dance’s “Blue Dream,” which ends with a recording of a phone call asking just that.

I should have just kept my mouth shut, allowed (what’s left of) Henry’s wavering male worth to be fumigated by my strong female independence, but instead I went on to add, “Unless it was Jonny Craig. Then I’d be all, ‘Why, what color do you want them to be? Tell me AND I WILL MAKE THEM CHANGE!'” I said this in a very weak and feminine tone, with a hint of floral and batting eyelashes. Because even though he’s a veritable petri dish for new and exciting STD strands, and has rodent eyes, I would drop Henry for him like a sack of hot balls.

Henry looked at me with a certain visage that made me think he finally realized he stinks of sewage. “You’re pathetic,” he sneered.

I just single-handedly fucked Girl Power in its liberated Susan Powter vagina. I HAVE MY WEAKNESSES  TOO, OK.

(I have no idea where Susan Powter came from, but go with it.)

Christina and I were driving around one night when I was visiting her in Cincinnati. A demo of this song came on the mix CD I brought with us, and even in its extreme shitty quality, it brought me to tears and I wanted to be home with Henry so bad.

But don’t tell him that.

It felt weird listening to them with her and not him.

Cold was here in March and I missed it.

That’s the first time I’ve ever missed them playing in Pittsburgh.

Sometimes I sincerely hate working nights.

“Beauty Has Her Way” is the epitome of the ’80s for me. It’s impossible not to associate it with The Lost Boys, which will always be one of the best vampire movies of all time (get fucked, Twilight), and to this day it’s still my favorite movie soundtrack based on the strength of this song alone. It’s one of those gems that I would never, ever skip over when it comes on.

I always wanted it to be about me.

But then, what girl (and Henry) wouldn’t?

I had their only release on cassette, which I found years and years ago on eBay and it was already pretty warn. Today, I found it on soulseek and I almost died, hearing “Chestnut Tree” again.

It’s making me want to have another 80s party.

What song defines the 80s for you?

After checking into the hotel, I had enough time to eat the other half of my massive grilled cheese and call home to talk to my son who clearly didn’t give a shit that I was 2.5 hours away before it was time to meet Jason and managing editor Annie at the House of Blues. I was immediately carded, which pleased me greatly and became another sparkling facet to the best day ever. While we waited for Jason to get our tickets and passes to the opera box, I got my first glimpse of Craig Owens, who was doing a signing with D.R.U.G.S. Jeffree Star was there too and I wondered why anyone would want his autograph, but I guess that’s just me being old.

Or rational.

Annie pointed out a scene mom and I hope that if I ever age into that brand of trashy crispy duo-toned hair and too-small-for-my-fat-frame Hot Topic clothing, Henry will asphyxiate me with a burlap sack. Also, it was clear that she and her scene kids were there to see Black Veil Brides, who I was not looking forward to, if we’re being honest here.

I’ve been to the House of Blues before, but never got to sit in the opera box. It was fantastic! Just us and a bunch of people from AP; no drunk assholes behind me tying to instigate a fight, no douchey couples in front of me talking loudly through the whole show. There was no Tallest Man In the World standing in front of me, obstructing my view with his sweat-soaked back. And there was a dutiful waitress who re-appeared every time I needed another drink.

It was the coolest way to enjoy a show.

(Not that I don’t also enjoy experiencing it from the floor. I don’t mind getting jostled around here and there, as long as there’s no Lurch optically-blocking me.)

But for Old Man Henry, it was awesome because he got to drink beer and stuff his face with food, while not worrying about possibly having to defend my honor (like when some guy pushed me at a Thrice show and Henry turned his face and pretended it didn’t happen). For him, it was the next best thing to not having to go at all.

It was definitely interesting to scope the crowd and try to guess what bands they were there to represent. With such a diverse lineup, it was kind of like a scene safari—so many varying breeds and hybrids to scope. BVB fans were easiest to pick out because they were mostly girls and femme-boys, these neo-Goths in all black with stupid shit painted on their faces. Really, it wasn’t a far cry from the kids who were into nu-metal back in the early-00’s. They probably had those stupid metal rings on their pants, too.

The girls who were there for Craig Owens—I mean, D.R.U.G.S.—were also easy to spot because they were the quintessential scene girls with so many layers of makeup, they’d be unidentifiable on a slab at the morgue without it. They also wear giant bows on their heads.

The more Minnie Mouse in girth, the greater the devotion to the scene.

And then you have regular people, like Henry and me, who look like we’re there against our will because of our kids. This is only true in Henry’s case. I still get the psychotic butterflies in my gut while waiting for the show to start, just like all the kids do. I hope that never goes away. I suspect it won’t.

Conditions was the first band to go on, and while their sound is pleasant and they’re energetic enough, the highlight was definitely when members of the other bands stormed the stage and started playing along. The same happened during VersaEmerge’s set, when Jeffree Star was carried across the stage on a couch. Jason said the last night of the AP Tour is always like that, so now I’ll obviously only be going to the Cleveland shows from now on. I don’t think Henry knows that yet.

I was happy I See Stars was on the tour because I needed to hear some screaming. It was absolute pandemonium near the end of their set. We saw them last year at Warped Tour and it was pretty unmemorable, but they left a lasting impression this time. However, it would have been 4567815689x more awesome if Bizzie Bone had made an appearance since he guested on their first album and he’s from Cleveland. They really should have tried harder to:

1. make that happen
2. provide a private room in which Bizzie could make numerous attempts to sire my child.

Bone Thugs n Harmony will always be deeply rooted in my heart, no matter where my musical tastes currently lie. No shame.

I admitted to Jason that I might cry when D.R.U.G.S. came on. I haven’t seen Craig perform since the last time he was at Warped Tour with Chiodos in 2009. When they kicked him out that fall, I never worried about not getting to see him again, because someone with the talent of Craig doesn’t just stop making music. I don’t think he could if he wanted to. What I did worry about was what kind of band he’d find himself in, if they’d be even close to comparable to the juggernaut Chiodos had become with Craig at the helm. I worried that it wouldn’t have that same emotional impact on me as Chiodos had.

But Craig didn’t let any of us down. D.R.U.G.S. is a goddamn powerhouse, practically a scene supergroup comprised of ex-members of From First To Last, Story of the Year, Matchbook Romance and Underminded (Nick Martin is totally my favorite). I think this is going to be the band that propels Craig out of the scene and into the mainstream. That and the fact that he’s been linked to Ashlee Simpson, never mind the fact that her husband Pete Wentz was the guy who picked Craig up off the ground after Chiodos dumped him, signed him to his record label, and helped build the band around him. Pretty skeezy, Craig.

The last time I was at the salon, I flipped open an issue of InTouch right to a page showing Craig and Ashlee walking side-by-side. Never would have imagined seeing his mug in a magazine fixated on who wore it best, Angelina Jolie, and American Idol updates.

Craig has always had this demi-god presence on stage, but it seemed amplified that night. He would stand on the edge of the stage, making the crowd scream louder, and his eyes just looked so crazed as he drank in all this maniacal worship. He’s always struck me as an extreme narcissist, but it definitely seems to have gotten worse. Still, it felt so good to hear Craig scream again.

And yes, I cried.

I was 100% convinced that this was one of the Roloffs from Little People Big World, since you know, obviously all midgets look the same, but I think it was just random little person. I REALLY wanted it to be Zach Roloff though.

D.R.U.G.S. was definitely the best performance of the night. They should have headlined.

But instead, Black Veil Brides did and I couldn’t have been more underwhelmed.

Long black hair? Check.

Tight leather pants? Check.

Black face paint in varying designs? Check.

Whoa-oa’s in every last motherfucking song? CHECK ME OUT OF HERE.

But the kids loved it, and I guess that was the whole point of having them headline.

What really pissed me off, was the completely unnecessary DRUM SOLO that went on for fucking ten minutes. I watched all this was bored eyes and mouth slightly agape. They were the only band that didn’t participate in any last show shenanigans. No one from other bands came out on the stage. In fact, no one was really even standing on the side of the stage. During all the other bands, there were pretty large crowds watching from the side of the stage.

I also thought a lot of their interactions with each other seemed staged at best, like a beefy manager was standing on the side, yelling, “OK, now play your guitars back-to-back!” The one kid was a spitting image of Jami Gertz circa The Lost Boys. I couldn’t stop looking.

***

After BVB were finished emulating KISS, we followed Jason through a door and down some steps, where a House of Blues girl checked our names off a list (I’ve never been on a list before!) and an elevator took us to the Foundation Room. When the doors opened, I had one of those YOU GO FIRST!! moments and pushed Henry ahead of me. Everything was dark and plush—the walls were covered with some kind of tapestry, I don’t even know, but the whole ambiance screamed EXCLUSIVE! and VIP ONLY! and YOU MIGHT NOT MAKE IT OUT OF HERE ALIVE! There were a lot of candles everywhere. I hoped there wouldn’t be a fire.

There weren’t many people in there yet, thank God, and none of the bands were there yet either, so my anxiety level was pretty much at a steady “medium.

” Jason went to the bar to get our drinks and told me to go in this private room watched over by a huge cobra monument. I walked in, looked around, and came back out. Meanwhile, some other people had gone inside in my wake.

When Jason saw this, he said, “I told you to go in there!”

“Oh, you wanted me to STAY in there?” I don’t take direction well. Luckily, those people ended up walking right back out, so we were able to re-claim it, no thanks to me. I think at that moment, Jason got a small sampling of what Henry goes through daily.

I had lost my voice during the show, thanks to this nagging sickness I’ve had for the last week, so I spent the whole time croaking inaudibly across the table to Annie and her boyfriend Matt, wishing I had a white board to communicate with instead. Jason received word that Craig had split right after the show to go home to Michigan, and I was kind of relieved. I don’t think I could have handled seeing him. He freaks me out and makes me cry. Especially now that he seems to be completely engulfed by his own ego.

I blurted out that I thought BVB were boring, and was told, “Well, that’s because you’ve seen that all before.” I was glad I wasn’t the only one who didn’t see their appeal.

Jason had to leave us several times to make the rounds, and I was glad we were able to stay behind in that room. I wouldn’t have been able to socialize without coming off as some starstruck reject from Kansas. Besides, it was more fun staying with Annie and Matt and getting laughed at for liking Cold.

At one point, I mentioned that I was barely able to sleep the night before. “It felt like Christmas Eve!” I exclaimed as much as someone with 5% of a voice can actually exclaim.

“Isn’t she fucking adorable?” Jason said. “How can you not love her.” And at that moment, Henry’s head exploded as he mentally wrote a dissertation on all the millions of ways he could argue Jason’s point.

Best fucking day ever.