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.

What I really want to do is just lay my body down across the keyboard and post whatever comes of it; only then would you understand what it was like to be inside my head as Henry and I followed Jason down the hall and through the door to the Alternative Press offices.

I know a lot of people don’t really get it; maybe you feel underwhelmed about it at best, because really—why get so excited over a magazine?  But if you really knew me, you would know that this was my Make-A-Wish-Kid moment. Because in a world of car payments, rent, student loans and chaperoning preschool field trips, this is the one connection I have left to my youth. This is something to get excited about every month when I get the mail and find it amongst all the bills and political propaganda. (And Henry’s issues of Better Homes & Gardens.) And when you devour a magazine from front to back like I do, the names you read every month become as familiar as family; you start to value their opinions and it maybe makes you feel slightly less alone in a community of grown-up friends.

So maybe it makes sense to you now, and you can understand why I was practically riding Henry’s back through the doorway.

“I’m too nervous to walk in first,” I whispered to Henry. “I’m just going to stand behind you the whole time.” But Friday’s definition of “stand” had clearly changed to “to meld one’s body against the backside of another.”

The first thing I saw was the wall of framed AP covers. I had heard about this wall, how it will literally stop bands in their tracks when they walk into the office, but I had no idea it would make my breath catch in my throat. The first issues were there as well, the ones that (AP creator) Mike Shea put together by hand and for the first time in awhile, I felt that I could use the word “awesome” in its appropriate sense.  It was better than a museum. (For me, anyway. I’m sure Henry thought it was cool, but he’d probably have rather gone to a strip club or some Air Force memorial.) There was so much history on the walls, so many signatures and memorabilia, it was all I could do not to act like some jejune farm girl plucked straight from the corn fields of Iowa. I just wanted to touch everything and squeal like a rosy-cheeked girl who’s never watched porn.

Jason took us around and introduced us to people, all while making me sound way cooler than I actually am; there were times when I wanted to say, “Dude, I know who this is” but opted to smile politely in lieu of desecrating the office with my overt creepiness.

I remembered standing in line outside of the Grog Shop in 2009, waiting for the doors to open for Craig Owens’ solo show. I used to get Craig’s tweets sent to my phone back then, like a good little hyper-fangirl, and while I was standing out there, shivering, he sent a tweet saying that he was hanging out at the AP offices  before the show.

I was with Alisha that night, and I remember turning to her and saying all bitterly, “He’s so lucky.”

Almost exactly two years later, my Facebook status said something like, “Just sitting in Jason Pettigrew’s office, listening to The Cure. No biggie.”

When Jason told me a few weeks ago that he’d like to give me a tour of “where the magic happens,” my first thought was to wonder if I’d get to meet Mike Shea.

“I’ll cry,” I told Henry. “And then probably puke.” At the risk of sounding like a syncophatic psychopath, his is a name that I’ve known for a long time.

I did get to meet him, but I didn’t puke on his shoes or cry in his face. I felt I did a good job keeping it together even though what I really wanted to do was squeeze Henry’s hand harder than your typical woman in labor. I have so much respect for him. (Mike Shea, not Henry. Bitch, please.) Especially after the Oral History of AP was printed over the course of several issues and I saw how much adversity he overcame to keep the magazine alive. Because music is that important.

That’s the kind of person I want to know still exists in this world.

There were moments where I legitimately cried while reading the oral history, and I don’t care if the whole Internet knows.

I think “appreciation” is the best word to describe it.

Jason told him how long I’ve been subscribing, and Mike thanked me. But really what I wanted to do was thank him. I’m not even sure if I did, it was all such a blur. All I remember now is petting his dog and asking him if he wanted me to shut his door on the way out, then feeling my eyes burn a little with tears when we went back to Jason’s office.

I also remember Mike asking me, “So what are you listening to these days?” Without hesitation I blurted out, “Dance Gavin Dance,” much to Henry’s chagrin. Well, I’m not going to lie to the man.

I texted Barb and Andrea a bunch of over-capitalized jibberish to express my sheer mania. I suspect they were able to translate it appropriately. Seriously one of the coolest moments of my life; the whole afternoon was perfect. I didn’t even care that I got made fun of for liking the band Xiu Xiu, because I was in a building full of people who actually know who Xiu Xiu is.

As we walked out of the office a few hours later, my arms full of AP swag, Jason asked me if I was happy. How do you effectively convey that you feel like the happiest girl alive, without the aid of a confetti gun?

Happy Mother’s Day. My only plans are to watch D.R.U.G.S. videos all day and reminisce with Henry about how awesome Friday night was, at which point he’ll say, “It was alright.” But I know what that really means is, “I have a man-crush on Craig Owens and don’t want you to ruin it for me so I will continue to act emotionally disinterested every time we talk about the show.

”

Here’s hoping your kids don’t act like assholes today. Can’t make any promises for my own.

EDIT:

Me: All I want for Mother’s Day is for you to not be a jackass.
Chooch: No, never. I’ll never stop.
Me: :(
Chooch: Can’t I just buy you something instead?

Yo! Henry and I peaced out of Pittsburgh this morning in favor of Cleveland. My friend Jason [see this post] invited us out to be his guests for the last night of the Alternative Press Spring Tour. Craig Owens’ new band D.R.U.G.S. is among the five bands on the line up, and if you know me or have maybe skimmed this lame blog, you know that Craig is in my Top 5 of all time favorite singers. His word are inked into my flesh, even.

So that alone has me beside myself.

But then Jason threw in lunch at Melt (more for your trivia card collection: grilled cheese is my most favorite food ever) and the chance to see “where the magic happens” at the AP office and now I know what Charlie felt like when he got the motherfucking golden ticket.

Last night, it was like trying to sleep through Christmas Eve. This morning, I was in such a spastic state that I could barely dress myself. I wound up putting on the same shirt I wore to work last night just to save myself from throwing clothes all over the floor like a girl dressing for her first date.

You have to understand that Alternative Press shaped who I am today: a music-obsessed scene mom. 80% of what I listen to was discovered in the pages of that magazine. The rest was mostly from west coast pen pals in the early ’90s and sheer serendipity.

Henry and I were in Cleveland in the mid-00s for the Curiosa Festival. I tried to get him to find the AP office for me then, because I just “wanted to admire it from afar.” He refused, thought it was weird I guess, although I did finagle him to find the intersection of E99 & St. Clair, an homage to Bone Thugs n Harmony. We almost broke up because of that, in the heart of Cleveland’s ghetto, and I have it all on tape.

This is way longer than I intended and now I’ve added motion sickness to my already nervous stomach. But now you’ll know what I’ll be doing today: having dreams come true and probably puking.

I went through a ridiculous 80s phase in 1999-2000 which commanded me to buy every obscure collection of audio relics that I could find. (I miss the days of Mommy’s American Express card.) I scoured the Internet for all the underground gems, stuff that would never be played on your local pop station’s Flashback Friday. None of that Toni Basil ear-diarrhea, 99 annoying balloons and fuck your walk on sunshine while you’re at it. I really only liked the new wave, goth and synthpop 80s souvenirs. One of the CDs I bought had Cock Robin’s “When Your Heart is Weak” on it and it immediately went on one of the millions of mix tapes that littered the innards of my Eagle Talon. I used to sing this song with such exaggerated relish that my boyfriend at the time—Jeff— eventually banned it from being played in his presence.

My favorite part is when he says he’s going to come without warning. ORLY? I prefer it when my men blow a little trumpet to announce the arrival of their ejaculate, so I consider this to be a threat.

I thought this was the greatest song of all time. Then I saw the video and realized that this is also the greatest VIDEO OF ALL TIME. Yeah, I said it Kanye.

So now I have this sick fantasy of recreating it, which has really made me apply extra pressure on Henry because how great would it be to recreate this AT OUR WEDDING RECEPTION?

I made him watch it the other day while I stifled my laughter into his shoulder. He made it through 30 seconds before his eyes looked elsewhere.

And that’s when the biggest, brightest light bulb to date flicked on in my brain and I shouted, “No, fuck recreating it at the reception. This should BE OUR ACTUAL WEDDING.”

He looked at me dumbly. My inner sense of reality also looked at me dumbly. Don’t worry, I’ll work out the logistics. All you need to know is that by the end of the reenactment, Henry and I will be husband and wife. (For real, not the band husband&wife.)

Henry already has the flaming dorkiness of the singer down pat, and I’m sure I could figure out a way to pop up in front of the camera with a smoldering look that doesn’t at all look like the universal expression for constipation. I can already hit a ball of twine with the best of them, so I don’t have to worry about that part. And whoever I choose to be the drummer should consider himself one lucky motherfucker. That’s the BEST PART!

This song is about two minutes too long. He gets a little carried away at the end, so you can just imagine what it sounded like coming from me. (Jeff always maintained that I sounded like Pee Wee when I sang the “mmm-hmmms” at the end. Which is a great honor.)