Did you know I like the Cure? I do. A little. Just a tad. In honor of Robert Smith’s birthday, I’m posting my favorite version of The Kiss. I’ve seen it a million times, and it still knocks the wind out of me and makes me want to have hate sex. Luckily, I’m dating someone I hate so it all works out! Oh, ho ho ho.

Seriously, goosebumps galore. I still feel privileged for all the times I got to see this happen live, in front of me, standing under the same roof as Robert Smith. Or, as it were on two occasions, under the same sky. I will never take that for granted.

I used to watch this video over and over and just quite literally want to die. Many nights of drinking Manischevitz from blood red goblets come to mind. I think later today, I’ll repost the entry from when my brother Corey and I went to Philly in 2008 to see them. Because I love the Cure and I love that entry, and it’s Robert’s birthday and this is my blog so I’ll post what I want OK GOD! And maybe someday before I die, I’ll actually write about when I got to meet him, provided I can find a way to do that without getting washed down to West Virginia in a flood of my tears.

Before Chooch was born, Robert Smith was the most important man in my life. Don’t worry, Henry knows.

If you read my blog enough, it probably becomes pretty clear that cemeteries are a prominent part of my life.

I’ve:

• learned to drive in one
• fell in love with Henry in one
  • and then almost drown in a bottle of water
• been stalked in one
• puked in one
• attempted to hide from Henry in something like eight
  • once while wearing a fluorescent orange shirt
• fell in love with photography in at least a dozen
• had epiphanies in plenty
• tried to get a job in two
• cried at least once in every one

Most importantly, cemeteries are where I feel most at home. I’ve learned a lot about myself during cemetery walks and it’s where I used to tell stories to a very in utero Chooch.

When Christina and I were still friends, we didn’t see each other as much as we’d have liked since there were 300 miles between us, but when we did find ourselves together we almost inevitably wound up in a cemetery. It was on those occasions where I always felt the most alive and literally like a kid again, and those were some of the best moments of my life.

I had been waiting since over a year ago for the Isles and Glaciers EP to come out, and  I finally snatched a leak copy a few weeks ago (don’t narc on me – I bought an actual copy when it was released, jesus) . There’s a song on it called “Cemetery Weather” and even though it serves up my heart en brochette on a plate of heart ache and tear-salted lettuce, I torture myself by listening to it over and over. I took a one-day break last Thursday because it was starting to feel like, to quote the great Omarion, there was an ice box where my heart used to be.

I am literally pissing late 1990’s emo music over here, folks.

So, here. Have fun with that.

[mp3_embed playlst="https://www.ohhonestlyerin.com/wp-content/plugins/mp3-player-plugin-for-wordpress/mp3/CemeteryWeather.mp3"]

Can we speed up the process, please.

the jim yoshii pile up – reckless driving

Fuck that Mariah Carey shit. This is honestly the best song ever about obsessive love. I used to listen to it a lot the summer I got knocked up. I was really into Momus back then too and Henry hated him. He hates this song too. Probably because it makes him feel uncomfortable.

In fact, I usually picture Henry singing it when I listen to it. BECAUSE HE IS SO GODDAMN OBSESSED WITH ME.

Now if only the Jim Yoshii Pile Up would get back together so they can play a house show in my mom’s basement and I’ll pass out cocktail wieners and have the band sign my cast. (In my fantasy of this, this house show takes place a week and three days after I fall from a sorority house window and through the splintery roof of a gazebo while fleeing from the Salem Slasher.)

After the clusterfuck that is Mapquest directions and orange-barreled exits, Alisha and I didn’t get home from Cleveland until after 3am Sunday morning. And of course, I was too amped up by then to properly collapse in a snoring heap on the couch, so I wound up staying up until past 4am, trying to think of the name of some stupid rapper that Alisha had mentioned hours earlier.  I would like to take this moment to thank her again for that.

I got a little more than 3 hours sleep and was fatigued all afternoon, but refused to close my eyes during the Russian Olympic hockey game. And the next thing I knew, it was time to get Alisha and go to the Altar Bar to see one of my all-time favorite bands, Cold. This was my first time at the Altar Bar, and it was OK, I guess. A little too small for my liking, but when I got my hand stamped and looked around at all the Cold fans, it was honestly like coming home again. It’s not often that I get around to going to good old hard rock shows anymore, since I got swept away by the post-hardcore/screamo scene a few years back, and it felt amazing to not be the oldest person in the club.  I noticed a hearty collection of black hoodie-wearing men with long, bristling beards sculpted to a point and plenty of girls with ankh tattoos and smudged black liner (but not enough to be considered the raccoon eyes seen on page 56 of the scene kid style manual). I felt completely comfortable and forgot how much I liked being in that atmosphere.

The Canada-USA hockey game was being shown on the TVs behind the bar, so that kept me occupied during what seemed like an entire festival of opening bands. During Day of Fire, I made friends with two guys next to me, and we discussed the idiotic move of putting Brodeur in goal for Canada. Meanwhile, Alisha was a few feet ahead of me, being groped by sweaty porkchop hands. She was not happy and suggested that we find a new area to stand before Nonpoint came on.

Off to the left of the bar area, there was a section with banquette seating and a perfect view. Alisha gave the area her seal of approval and she got comfortable on a section of the seating while the drunkest guy in the history of alcohol claimed the spot next to me and began a series of drunk-appropriate teetering and swaying. I feared that he was going to fall on me, so I kept side-stepping closer to Alisha until I was nearly in her lap, running off my Christmas wish list. He got even worse once Nonpoint came on (and oh my God, I forgot how much I liked them back in the day) and when the singer suggested that everyone jump.  I envisioned myself coated with Pabst-scented vomit, but he ended up stumbling away.

I should have not had the energy to go along with this business of jumping, but my sleep-deprivation had placed me on the precipice of insanity and I jumped until my bra straps began slipping down my shoulders; it felt fucking great.

Team USA ended up winning the hockey game and the entire club erupted in cheers.

There was some major technical difficulties after Nonpoint, and we ended up waiting a good 45 minutes for Cold to be able to come on. I was a nervous wreck. My heart was beating so fast, I was wringing my hands. There was a time not too far back in the past where I was sure I would never get the chance to see them again. But then they reunited in the fall of 2008, and last March, Henry took me to Cleveland (House of Blues, actually) to see them and I was an emotional awakening for me. It’s always like that with Cold, but last year? I was a sniveling mess.

I knew walking into the Altar Bar that there were probably going to be tears at some point. But since I was with Alisha, and she has never seen Cold with me before, I had hoped that I could try and stifle some of that. It’s embarrassing! To be That Girl who cries at shows? I wish I could put a cork in sometimes, but the reality is that I love the pain they cause me. Yeah, it’s like taking a melon baller to my heart, but at least it reminds me I’m real, I’m alive.

(I know, I say these same things, over and over, in a variety of ways. I apologize.)

But where does that  power come from when a man can walk on a stage and a simple “Hello” into the microphone has my eyes stinging and my tongue tasting salt on my lips? It’s all Scooter Ward has to do to reduce me to a trembling volcano of emotions zipped up in a skin suit. He is the most real, most genuine musician I have ever met and I wish that I could take advantage of that, rather than starting to approach him only to spin on my heels and run away in tears.

They played “Back Home.” An older man next to me asked me if I was OK, I was crying so hard. I nodded, laughed, and cried harder. But motherfucker, I was smiling.

Most people are like, “Oh, Cold? That nu-metal band?” And it’s like, “Yeah, I guess. That ‘nu-metal’ band.” Makes me feel like I’m slitting my wrists to fucking Staind or Disturbed. They’ve never been a “nu-metal” band to me. They’ve been a band that helped me through some shitty fucking times in my life, a series of traumatic events that happened at the place where Henry and I both used to work. They’ve been a band that literally soundtracked my life as I became an adult. And going to their shows was something that Henry and I always shared together. And Henry might not have known what to do every single time I would leave their shows sobbing to the point where I couldn’t breathe, but he never made me feel stupid for it either.

I was sad that he couldn’t come with us this time. If Henry and I ever break up, Moses can add to his Commandments that I shall not ever listen to Cold again.

The first time I ever saw them was May of 2000. Their second CD had been released around that time, and “No One” was being played a lot on the radio. I remember liking it enough to buy the CD, but I never really gave it much play. May of 2000, I was at a radio festival with my friend Wonka and my neighbor Vinetta, when we happened to be walking past the smallest, most out-of-the-way stage at the outdoors venue, just as Cold was starting. I stopped and said, “I have their CD. Let’s check them out for a minute.” By the end of the first live song I heard from them, my heart was in their hands and Wonka and I vowed to try and see as many of their shows from then on.

During last Sunday’s show, I thought about Wonka a lot, how for the first time in my life I had a friend to bond with over music. How we would have conversations for weeks after a show, filled with things like, “Oh and remember when Jeremy changed the colors in his dreads” or “How great was it when Scooter and Terry played an acoustic ‘Bleed’?” I actually did the bulk of my emotional blood-letting after the show, all last week. There’s some strong connection that band has to my past, they’re interwoven with a lot of memories. And it made me think a lot about my friendship with Wonka and how much I miss him (he lives in Texas now). And I thought a lot about the place of work I mentioned earlier. It’s where I was working when I first got into Cold, and  that’s also where I met Henry and then he in turn became a fan too. But it was always a joke to my boss. “Oh, are you listening to Hot again?” he’d come into my office and ask, before letting out a spittle-laced laugh at his own failed attempt of a joke.

There were so many Cold shows seen in that four year period, and all the guys at my job had grown accustomed to me coming in the next day and gushing about how amazing the Buffalo, NY show was, or how Scooter gave me a Starburst at the Hershey show, or how Henry had thrown a muffin at my face on the way home from the Norfolk, Virginia show.  In time, I had begun to associate Cold with that chapter of my life, the [Unknown Company] chapter. And I won’t get into the gory details here, but my employment at [Unknown Company] ended extremely badly and traumatically, involving a huge shouting match with my boss, and learning of the death of his son, with whom I had a very tumultuous working relationship, that occurred two days later (it was ruled accidental but we all believed it to be suicide). That chapter closed a few months later, when I filed a complaint with the EEOC, had to face my ex-boss for the first time in mediation, and was eventually rewarded a small settlement.

I have had some therapy since then, but I never really healed. And all last week, on the way to my job (which ended on Friday), I listened to my old Cold albums in the car and let myself remember that era and I cried a lot. And I mean, a lot. But crying is good for me. I need to cry every now and then and eventually it’s like a snake shedding its skin, and I can go on about my business and start new.

Thursday morning, my friend and ex-office mate from [Unknown Company] called and told me that our ex-boss’s wife had died the previous day. And I didn’t think it would affect me. Maybe I was just already so emotionally raw, but I’m having a hard time processing it. I can’t really do anything about it, send a card or whatever, because I’m sure the last person that man wants to receive sympathy from is the girl who refused to let shit go. I know I shouldn’t feel bad for him, he was a bastard to me, but his wife was a nice lady and I had gotten to know her well from the four years I worked there. I feel kind of disturbed, like I’m back in 2004 and everything is still there, fresh and bleeding, begging to be properly buried and I don’t know how to do that when it keeps coming back up and rearing its Jewish head in my face.

But at least Cold is back to help me get past this too.

You think you’re half as good as me

The only thing you’ll ever be

Is just a way for me to bleed on this stage.

The line outside of the House of Blues was not very long and we were blessed to not be surrounded by roiling assholes. Alisha kept saying she felt old, but it seemed to be that there was a pretty good mix of ages out there. I’ve been to much younger shows so I felt like a big sister standing in this line, instead of a den mother.

Once the doors opened and our persons were checked for weaponry, we headed upstairs to the balcony. I’ve seen The Used enough times to not care too much about being close to the stage, and Alisha was still bummed about last year’s show at a shitty Pittsburgh venue where we could barely see the stage no matter where we stood. So the balcony seemed like the best bet for us.

I had a feeling I was going to dislike the opening band as soon as the curtain was drawn to reveal a set decorated with anarchy propaganda. And then Drive A bounded onto the stage and started playing stale punk anthems that knocked off old school Greenday and I was immediately in hell. I hate Greenday and therefore I hated Drive A. They had BORING stage presence too. The singer felt the need to explain what every song was about and all that accomplished was taking up more time.

After their set, two guys klutzed in front of us to claim the seats next to me. Instant entertainment. They appeared to be in their late 20s and the dorkier one was wearing slacks. The one immediately next to me spoke in a way that screamed Card Carrying Dork and seemed intent on talking loudly about all the chicks he’d fucked lately. Alisha was more annoyed than me and she wasn’t even sitting next to him. “He’s trying to impress you,” she kept saying.

When Atreyu came on, I would then learn that my new friend was a very skilled and thorough multi-air instrumentalist. He even fist-sung a few times. I was impressed for real at that point and was hoping I could be the next chick he had sex with in the back of his dad’s van.

Atreyu was boring. I swear I liked them once in my life, maybe when their first album was released? But they just weren’t holding my attention. I was freezing in that building, and was using Alisha’s coat as a blanket at that point. Rock shows should not leave a person cold.

I hated this broad. I’m not sure what it was about her: the fact that she and her boyfriend were seconds away from reproducing from the moment they sat down, her hair that I envied,  or the cattiness I detected behind her eyes. I just sincerely couldn’t stand her. I laughed when her boyfriend rubbed her back protectively when Atreyu took the stage with a sound equivalent to 800 air horns going off at once.

It was during Atreyu when I first noticed the girl screaming behind me. I don’t mind loud noises when I’m at a show. That’s what shows are meant for – screaming and acting idiotic (to a degree; I don’t condone asshole-y behavior at shows). But this girl? My god the lungs on her. It sounded like a bag of babies screeching behind my head. I have never really been in a position to say that something was blood-curdling and mean it. But my blood was curdling all the way down to West Virginia. This was not an euphoric scream meant for shows; this was better reserved for expressing just how insanely painful it is when Leatherface nips your thigh with his chainsaw as you’re stumbling through trees in the the dark woods of Texas.

I fucking hated her and the way she made my left shoulder rise up to my ear, like she had it on a fucking string.

There was an incident in the crowd below, and one of the guitarists paused before starting the next song to ask the crowd to please help out the person who I imagine must have fallen. The singer of Atreyu very disinterestedly repeated, “Yeah, give him room. Security, get out there or something. OK the next song—” only to be interrupted again by the guitarist, who was pretty much refusing to continue the show until the person in need was helped.

I was kind of disgusted at that point, because the whole situation made the singer look like an insensitive prat and somewhere around that time I had also realized that from where I sat, he looked like Dunbar from the Real World: Sydney, so I double-hated him.

“I love how you have a talent for incorporating The Real World into your daily life,” Alisha said. At first, I thought she was being sarcastic but then I noticed she was shoving her Autograph pad at me.

When The Used came on, I was immediately overcome with mixed emotions. I so badly wanted to enjoy the show, but I couldn’t fight off the nostalgia; I felt really sad and frustrated and began to wonder if it was a good idea that I came at all. When I saw them last year, my friendship with Christina had ended (God only knows what do-over number that one was) and I was at a point where I had a lot of hate for her and the situation, so seeing The Used that time was like revenge in a way. Like, “Haha, this was our favorite band but I’m going to see them with someone else, you dumb bitch.” And it felt good, like a release.

But this time was different. I don’t have hate for her anymore. That has dissipated and left me with a very raw pain and an excruciating sense of betrayal and confusion. Being there in the House of Blues, especially when they played “Blue and Yellow,” it was like having our friendship play out in front of me, while being forced to drink kerosene.

I thought I was doing a good job keeping it together though, keeping my emotions in check. Until the very end, during the encore, when this drunk Napoleon with a God complex behind me started getting to me. I could feel my skin burning as my temper rose, and it’s a feeling I know all too well.

I did not want to lose my shit there, and I kept repeating that to myself over and over until I found myself pre-rage blackout, twisting around and spitting Angry Girl ire in this fucking frat boy’s face. We exchanged heated words in a cloud of alcohol-fumes and profanity until his girlfriend (who I’m pretty sure was the murder-scream girl) begged him to shut up.

I don’t even want to get into it, really, because it doesn’t make me feel proud of myself. It doesn’t make me look “cool” or “hard.” It just makes me upset every time I replay the situation in my mind, which is something I did A LOT that night and the next morning and the next day and yesterday and right now. And it sucks. To work that hard to be a good sport, to try so hard to mind my temper, only to waste all that on some doucheknob who instigated a situation that didn’t even deserve a response from me, that wasn’t even directed solely AT me. But no, I was already so tense, so confused in my head, that I let a complete stranger get the best of me, and I’m not stupid – I know I was projected. He gave me an opportunity to unleash and I took it when I should have bit my tongue and walked away.

I wanted him to hit me. I honest to god wanted that guy to hit me.

Just so I could feel pain on the outside instead of within.

Worst of all, it created a tiff between Alisha and me. She wasn’t mad, just worried that the situation was going to escalate and she wouldn’t be able to protect me if he got physical. So I stormed ahead and acted all angsty for a few minutes before realizing how stupid I must have looked. And we were good after that, but I fucking swear to god that really killed the night for me. I’ve spent all week being totally reflective about myself and the situation and my triggers, and it’s been exhausting. Just exhausting and traumatic. Perhaps that might be the last time I see The Used.

After getting lost after the show, we found an IHOP where the plastic cover to the toilet paper rolls in the bathroom stall opened up and fell onto my lap while I peed.

(Bathroom: 3, Erin 0.)

Sometime in high school, I made the implausible leap from gangsta rap-lovin’ yo-girl to a classic rock hussy. One particular band I had an intense liking for was .38 Special, of all bands. I would listen to the classic rock station all day with a blank tape on the ready, waiting for “Caught Up In You” to come on so I could dive into some finger-stubbing “record” action.

My friend Lisa, who was into more alternative music, was probably the happiest of all my friends when I retired my gritty urban flava mix tapes in favor for music that didn’t scare, offend and irritate her. So in 1997, when I asked her to go see .38 Special with me, she was more than happy to agree.

I’m sure it didn’t hurt that my mom was buying the tickets for us.

The day of the show, my boyfriend Psycho Mike came to my house. He didn’t want me to go to the concert and thought that starting a fight with me would suddenly make my head clear so I could understand the error of my ways.

“You’re going to end up fucking some drunk guy!” he yelled, his eyes getting that crazy glint to them, like the time he told me he was going to poke out my eyes and shove them up my vagina.

“Maybe even more than one!”

Yes, Mike. You’re right. Foiled again!

He left in a huff. Soon Lisa had arrived and we left for the Rostraver Ice Garden. Not surprisingly, we were the clear winners in the “Youngest Concert-Goers” category, and probably the only one who didn’t have the Harley-Davidson logo somewhere on their person.

During Molly Hatchet and another opening band that Lisa totally loved but I can’t remember anything other than their wildly crimped and Aqua Netted manes, we took in the sheer frenzy of shaking mullets, over-sized tie-dyed shirts, and leather-vested bikers showing off prison-quality ink on their forearms. I loved every second of it. It was fun and the energy of the crowd was contagious.

During the bands, we made friends with a completely blitzed cradle robber named Nelson and his slightly sober and calmer sidekick Nick.

Sadly, if I were to revenge-cheat on Psycho Mike, Nelson and Nick were probably the cream of the crop from that crowd. I think Nelson sloshed his beer on Lisa.

Goddammit I loved that shirt. It was metallic! I didn’t love that hair though. I remember I had gotten a horrible hair cut at Fantastic Sam’s of all places (the only time I ever deviated from the fluffy salons I usually go to and immediately learned why I pay so much to get my hair done – so it will look GOOD) and spent the next month and a half pulling what was left of my hair back into ponytails.

Side bar: A few years ago, I was riding in the car with Henry, my mom and Corey after a night of haunted houses. “Caught Up In You” came on the radio and I shouted, “Yes! I love this song!” My mom, ever so casually, goes, “Huh. This is the song that was on the radio when I was driving to the hospital after your father wrecked.” You know, the wreck that killed him 27 years ago, no biggie.

***

When I came home from Cleveland at 3:00 this morning, I was about to pass out on the couch when I noticed I had a voicemail from Lisa. It started out with her humming something vaguely discernible before belting out “So caught up in you, little girl!” She went on to sing for a few more seconds before stopping to add, “So I’m at a supermarket right now and this song came on; I had to call and sing it to you.

”

Not going to lie, that kind of meant the world to me.

It started with some blue and yellow, and ends with this.

Nice to know that you care.

Back in the day, I used to read a bunch of indie music magazines that came with CD samplers. Admittedly, most of it was filled with throwaway tracks (except for the awesome European synthpop rags I would get lucky enough to find), but I remember there was this one sampler that had the most inspirational song I had heard in years, and I thought, “Wow, this would have been a good song to have heard in high school,” which is practically a pay-per-view kick-you-while-you’re-down emotional bloodbath in a large brick building. At least, parts of it were for me, anyway.

Somewhere along the way, the sampler was misplaced, but that song has always stuck with me. Periodically I’ll scour the Internet, searching for it. I finally found it the other night and was surprised at how well, lyrically, it has held up. And it still makes me feel good. Like no one can fuck with me, and if they do? Ohwellzorz, I’ll just get right back up.  I really think this song should be out there bumping elbows with My Chemical Romance’s “I’m Not Okay (I Promise)” and it is, in my bullheaded opinion, worlds better than Saosin’s “You’re Not Alone.”

I thought it would be fun to share a song every Sunday, so here it is. Listen if you want!

[mp3_embed blog_plyrs=”2″]

This song should be passed out to every kid upon entering ninth grade. And even though I’m 30 fucking years old, I still cheer when I hear it and feel like having a fucking pep rally.

This was me, New Years Eve 1999. I was all set to get all lampshade-wearin’ crazy again this year too, but a stomach bug had other ideas for me. So instead, I rang in 2010 laying on the couch under a blanket, eating Doritos (the only thing other than frozen yogurt I could fathom injesting 10 hours after my stomach cavity had been exorcised), and playing Words With Friends with Henry, who gets so mad at my 60+ point words that he yells, “You bitch!” and I know deep down it’s full of love. I was supposed to have gone to a party and was really looking forward to that, but all in all I didn’t hate my New Year’s Eve. I’ve had plenty worse. And my mantra is: If the night doesn’t end with me paddling downstream on tears, then it must have been pretty good. 

So I expected going into this post with the “Fuck 2009, bring on 2010” mindset, and then I realized that, yeah, maybe some aspects of the past year were shitty, like getting laid off and then testing positive for a drug I haven’t smoked in 10 years, but really 2009 was full of some pretty cool shit. Please excuse me while I reflect.

• THE PENGUINS WON THE STANLEY CUP, HOLLA!!
• After years of knowing him on LiveJournal, I finally got to meet Bill and his awesome lady-half Jessi.
• Discovered I’m really fucking awesome at bowling.
• Saw a lot of awesome shows
  • The “Where’s the Band?” Tour with Dustin Kensrue, Chris Conley, Matt Pryor, and Anthony Raneri
  • Cold in Cleveland, which was the first time since 2005 they toured, and it turned out to be a big waterwork sesh for me
  • Craig Owens!! in Cleveland with Alisha! I think this was tied with Cold for my favorite show of the year
  • The Used
  • Chiodos in Columbus: my big hot date with Henry
  • WARPED TOUR!!
  • The Giglife Tour with Gravemaker, Fireworks, The Swellers, Set Your Goals, and Four Year Strong
  • Brand New and Manchester Orchestra in Cleveland
  • The “Squash the Beef” tour with Of Machines, Tides of Man, Of Mice and Men, Dance Gavin Dance and Emarosa (awesome show with the exception of douchebarrel Jonny Craig from Emarosa getting blitzed and singing like shit.)
  • Thrice!!! with Polar Bear Club and the Dear Hunter!
• Got some of my Somnambulant shit in a real brick and mortar shop here in Pittsburgh
• Watched Bill and Jessi get married in Vegas via webcam
• Made it another year without managing to neglect or endanger my child
• Had some photoshoot fun
• Made it a priority to spend more time with friends
• Went to the wedding of one of my oldest friends, Lisa. And cried.
• Was served a broken toe by Henry (Wait, wrong list.)
• Reconnected with my mom, for better or worse
• Got to go to my first Penguins game since 1997!

Please allow me to be cheesy for a second, but the best part of 2009 was reuniting with Alisha. We met back in 2005, became fast friends, but then had a falling out. Mostly because I’m a bullheaded psycho (and even worse, I was a bullheaded psycho amped up on pregnancy hormones). But we’re friends again and I’m not sure how I would have dealt with some things (that seem so insignificant now anyway) if she hadn’t been around. Plus, I have big plans for her involving cherry pies, blindfolds and stilts.

I think the greatest lesson I took away from 2009 is that no matter how much the universe shits on you, you just have to get up and brush it off. Wallowing will get you nowhere. It’s a tough mindset to uphold at times, but I’m not sure where I’d be right now if I let myself stew in self-pity. It also helps to have someone like Henry around who gets all mother hen and will say shit like, “OK, that’s enough. Go call someone and go out.”

I hope you all had a great New Year’s Eve and that 2010 will be full of delux awesome! Thanks to anyone who still continues to read this shit!

Wednesday night,  Chooch was over Janna’s house, making her family think he’s some kind of angel or something. Feeling inspired to listen to something other than the stack of MP3 CDs I have in the car, I backpeddled to one of my CD racks, closed my eyes, and plucked out a CD by the Pale to listen to on my way to pick up Chooch. (Yes, a CD! Remember those?) I vaguely remember liking The Pale enough to put them on mixes back in the day – I think this might have been circa 2003-4. I also vaguely remember that they changed their name to the Pale Pacific sometime after the release of this album and I never really followed them after that.

The first song didn’t really move me much, but by the time the opening notes of the second tracks filled my freezing car, I was 24 years old again, it was spring time, and Henry and I were walking in a cemetery. And then I listened to the words, really listened, and suddenly my face was wet and I was murmuring “Aw” out loud and I swear to you, the last eight years of my life flashed by and it hit me, fucking cold-cocked me in the face, and not that I didn’t already know, but I was taken over by this overwhelming realization of how lucky I am to have Henry. Yes, I said it! I have fucked up so many times that it’s almost like, why get a job? I have one! I work in the Fucking-Up Lab. And somehow Henry forgives me every time (though he keeps track).

I am the one who can solve all your problems
A savior with only you to save
That’s why I’m here
At least I tell myself that
The motivation becomes so blurred

Henry’s always picking up the pieces (sometimes quite literally, because I’m a destructive wild woman), always making sure I don’t run off with a razor blade/bottle of sleeping bills/keys to the car, always supporting me even when everyone else is placing bets for me to fail.

And you want them to see
And you want them to know
But they never find the real you
You never once complained
But now twenty years are gone
And you’re ready to explode

That’s me, Vesuvius Rachelle.

In light of recent events, I’ve just been finding perspective everywhere. In music, in my little family, in my underwear. It doesn’t matter if not everyone appreciates you, as long as that one person does. So, I don’t know. I guess, thank you Henry. And don’t get too used to these PDAs.

The Pale – Gravity Gets Things Done

When tickets for Thrice went on sale over the summer, I bought them the very day. No hesitation. I believe my exact words were, “We might not have a place to live by November, but at least we’re going to see Thrice.” It’s like when people are financially-strapped, but still find ways to buy cigarettes. That’s me and concerts. I’m just lucky that all the shows I want to go to are typically $15 tickets.

The hard part was buying the tickets in August and then having to wait until November 15th for the show.

The venue was Diesel, which used to be Nick’s Fat City and at one time in my life, I spent more time there than anywhere else in the city. It was my favorite venue and I saw Cold there countless times. Now, it’s some trendy club piece of shit for mulleted Roethlisburger-jersey-wearin’ yinzers and faux-fur wearing hos to fuck in a dimly corner, Mike’s Hard Lemonades in both hands. In other words, it’s a shitty fucking place to watch a rock show.

Henry and I started out in the upstairs lounge, but it’s impossible to see anything up there now. But because Henry is An Old Guy, I let him rest his arthritic laurels on a creepy leather couch during the opening bands. And I really like the opening bands (Polar Bear Club and The Dear Hunter), so he should have been giving me a hand job AT LEAST. If he wasn’t too busy trying to figure out everyone’s sexual orientation. And just because there were bands playing, don’t think for a minute that meant anyone around us stopped talking. No, everyone just upped their indoor voice’s to ale-scented SCREAMS and went about their conversations like they were casually mingling around a punch bowl at Uncle Jimmy’s retirement-from-pedophilia party. And you KNOW all they were discoursing was that BOO HOO the Steelerslost. Oh fucking well! Jesus wept, now get the fuck on with your life.

I only had one drink there. But before we left, I had downed (read: chugged) a large glass of Chardonnay. I was feeling fucking frisky. And I was also ready to go the fuck downstairs where I could be around the people who maybe gave a bit of a shit about Thrice. I could tell Henry was 100% against this plan, but I paid for his ticket so he was at my mercy. The floor downstairs was packed, but I wasn’t too bothered by it. Thrice pulls in an older crowd, so I didn’t have to worry about accidentally grazing underage cock. (This was in Henry’s “con” column, though.)

During the longest sound check in the world, the burly man next to me kept massaging my left boob with his elbow. I kept laughing about this, and Henry would turn around and, also laughing like he was in on the joke, would ask, “What?” I’d just shake my head guiltily and laugh harder because it was EROTIC OK? I kind of LIKED IT. That guy was (one of) my type(s).

Finally, Thrice took the stage. I won’t go into too much detail because I’m sure no one gives a shit, but they were spot on and amazing as usual. It was a very testosterone-driven crowd, but there was no violence to be concerned with, just a mutual admiration for the talent before us. I spent a good bit of the show wiping tears from my eyes because Thrice is just really that good. I named my kid after their drummer, for Christ’s sake! (To clarify, it was mostly because he had an Ask Riley column in Alternative Press for awhile during  my pregnancy, so that kind of put the name on my radar. But he is a really tremendous drummer!)

My favorite part of the night was watching Henry, who was still standing statue-like in front of me, twitch in irritation through the whole show. The group of people to our left were really moving around a lot and singing, which didn’t bother me at all. In fact, I really liked the crowd around us. But Henry kept getting bumped by them and I’d see him turn stiffly and give off Pissed Off Dad radiation waves. I could NOT stop laughing. He was in so much anguish. Sometimes I’d see him swipe at his brow in defeat.

It got even better when they lit a joint and began passing it around. The clench in Henry’s ass was so fucking hardcore at this point that the military could have used it to crush al qaeda necks. I wanted so badly for one of them to offer it to Henry so I could see him unleash 1986 Panama-stationed Air Force Hank on their stoned asses.

The show was over by 10:00pm. Thrice was being rushed off the stage because, in Dustin Kensrue’s words, “discotheque 2000” was about to start.

There is one way in and out of that dump, and of course every fucking idiot began a mass exodus in the general vicinity of the exit. I was trying to hold on to the back of Henry’s shirt so I wouldn’t get swept away. The merch tables were all lined up by the exit, so people were stopping, causing everyone else to slam into each other. Some leather-jacketed scenester analdrip kept pushing me. And not just little nudges, like he was going with the momentum of the rushing crowd. No, these were hands-on-my-back shoves.

So I’m standing there, smashed inside a wall of sweaty dudes, inhaling beer breath and ripe body odor, and I’m getting angrier and angrier. Clearly, we’re all trying to achieve the same successes in life: to get out of this boiler room in one piece, before the shitty house music starts bumping. But he’s pushing me, and he’s pushing me one too many times and I lost  my temper. I turned around and screamed, “Dude, I can’t fucking GO ANYWHERE, motherfucker.”

And still, he pushed.

So I yelled again, “Dude, STOP PUSHING ME.” I dug my feet into the floor and leaned back into him.

And then, oh this is my FAVORITE part. He took his hands and RAN THEM DOWN MY BACK. And it was NOT sensual! AT ALL.

I jabbed that motherfucker in the gut so hard with my elbow.

Meanwhile, Henry’s bobbing on ahead of me, whistling Disney toons and throwing a yo-yo.

Once outside, I stomped the entire way back to the car, bitching about how murderous that prat made me, and demanding Henry to look at my hands, all a’shook with THE RAGE.

I try, I try so HARD to stay cool in situations like this. But I have a really sick temper. And it gets worse with age. I try to tell myself that you just can’t be too cautious in situations like that, that someone could have a knife or a gun. And it doesn’t matter that he was a guy and I’m a girl. That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have hauled off and cold-cocked me in the face. And we all know Henry does not, and will never have my back, because he’s always the first one to say that my inability to bite my tongue is going to get me in trouble one day.

And this may be so, but it wasn’t that way last night, and I’m glad I got to get a shot at that asshole behind me. NO ONE PUSHES ME AROUND.

FUCK.

It was a shitty end to a really great night. Well, that and the repulsive middle-aged couple we passed on our way out, who were wearing age-inappropriate spandex-mix and practically fucking up against a wall. Discotheque 2000, indeed.

(Srsly almost lost my shit when they played this.)

In Fear and Faith + Craigery Owens = palpable beauty. A Craig-less Chiodos is going to be a hard pill to swallow, but at least he’s peeing all over other areas of the scene.

In other news, Henry pointed out that I use him as a proxy for my rage against everyone else in my life who consistently let me down, and by george, I think he’s right. Perhaps I don’t hate him as much as I thought.

Oh well, who needs friends and family when there’s music (& wine), is what my motto’s always been.

Oh hay, someone should buy me.

The original of this painting sold back in January to someone local. She wanted to meet in person rather than have me ship it, and I’m really, truly, honest to god not good at that. But I met her anyway one night at a gas station down the street from FedEx (RIP to that job) and it was exactly the recipe for awkward situation that I imagined it to be. The gas station was in a shady area and I totally raped the underneath of my car by driving over a medium that I couldn’t see, and as if that didn’t have my heart in aerobics, our art transaction totally looked like a drug deal. The really awkward part came after she paid me and we both just stood there and I’m thinking, “Oh god, please don’t ask me to get coffee or sometime, please let’s just rip this band-aid off and go our separate ways” and probably I was being paranoid but I thought I saw her body start to do that forward-lurch shoulder-scrunch routine that people do right before going in for a hug, so I interrupted by saying “Thanks!” for the fortieth time and that was that.

And I remember driving home that night thinking that if it really had been drugs, I’d have had so much more money in my wallet right then. After that, I just felt really depressed and while I can’t remember the rest of this with 100% accuracy, I’m willing to bet I went home, drank a ton of wine and cut myself a little a la Degrassi’s Ellie Nash before watching MTV reality shows.

Nice lady, though. Too bad she had to meet up with a paranoid socially retarded freak.

I’ve always felt that if this painting could have it’s own musical theme, it would be “Empty” by B! Machine (only my favorite synthpop musician EVER).

When I met The Cure’s Robert Smith nine years ago in Canberra, Australia, the experience was so great, so life-changing, that I still to this day have not been able to write about it.

When I met Emarosa’s Jonny Craig last Wednesday night at Mr. Small’s, the experience was shitty and slightly crushing, and because of that, it’s about to be written.

I first met him a year ago in Buffalo when I was there for the Pierce the Veil tour. He was disingenuous, monotone, and seemed to be bothered that Christina and I had the audacity to bug him while he was idling behind the merch booth. This was after he had urged his (twenty) fans to come see him after the set. I had heard stories that he was a dick but thought, “Yeah, but I’m an adult. It should be different.” It wasn’t different. Maybe the fact that I’m older even made it worse, who knows. Christina tried to Novacaine the situation by pointing out that he seemed to be high, that maybe we just caught him on an off night.

So last week, when I saw him and Will from Dance Gavin Dance enter the bar area during Of Machine’s set, I decided to test Christina’s theory. I waited for Of Machine (who killed it, as did Of Mice and Men) to finish up before approaching Jonny, who was sitting at the bar mere feet away from me. We made eye contact as I rose, but by the time I took the TWO STEPS over to him, he had suddenly become extremely interested in his phone, like the fucking White House had just Tweeted him.

As I said hello, he and Will conversed solely with their eyes while I stood in front of them frozen for what seemed to be hours and I suddenly understood the  term “pregnant pause” because I felt that in that time I could have easily got fucked and carried a bastard-child to term, and let me tell you I’d rather go through all the nausea and the hip-spreading and the nine-month sobriety than have to ever be snubbed by some golden boy of the scene. Knowing without a doubt that this wasn’t going to end well, I said hello again and something fucking cliche about being excited for Emarosa’s set and somewhere during this awkward verbal spewage, he gave me the limpest handshake, loosely gripping nothing past my fingertips, and I wanted to say something like, “You know, this is how the Amish fuck” but he wouldn’t even look me in the eyes and at that point, I thought, Well shit, I’m not going to exalt this pompous motherfucker, so I muttered something like, “Enjoy Pittsburgh” or some other Board of Tourism staple and sulked back to my stool. It couldn’t have been more clear that he wanted nothing to do with me at that moment, ever, and made no attempt to even pretend like he gave a shit about anything some lowly life form such as myself had to say.

I’m not some giddy, hyperventilating pizza-faced 15-year-old girl with braces trying to fuck him. I’m a thirty-year-old woman trying to show this piece of shit some respect, and he should be doing the same. I wasn’t looking for an extended tour of Emarosa’s van, for him to halt his entire universe  in order to show me his appreciation by giving me head against a dumpster in an alley; I wasn’t even expecting to take more than a minute of his time.

All I expected was for him to hear what I had to say and at least pretend like it meant something to him, so that I didn’t have to walk away feeling like a blown-off asshole.

When I sat back down, Alisha – who had been within earshot –  said something to the effect of, “Are you fucking kidding me?” I just shrugged and said, “I don’t have time to care. The fucking Penguins are playing tonight.”

Jonny proceeded to sit at the bar (not talking to fans) during the next two bands (Tides of Man and Of Mice and Men), not stepping away from his booze until god forbid his band was ready to go on.

And god bless his band members – they’re really fucking energenic and passionate musicians. But Jonny ruined the set. His voice was off. He was showboating. He was wasted. He had the nerve to rant about respect. It was Alisha’s first time seeing them and I felt bad, because my exchange with him had tampered with the way she viewed him.  And who does he think he is anyway, motherfucking Bono? If there were 100 kids in front of that stage during his set, I’d have been surprised. He should consider himself lucky he got THAT many people to care.

In some cases, I could brush it off. Band members are humans too and they can’t be expected to make time for every single fan; I know this. But it wasn’t like there was a throng of maniacal fans shoving CD inserts in his face and hanging off his shoulders for photos. Because Jonny’s music, his voice, has had an impact on me, it really was a let down. It sucks to know that I’ve spent hours listening to old Dance Gavin Dance (he was the original singer before they kicked him out and Emarosa took him in), letting his voice (which has always been like hot tea in a cavity to me) super glue the synapses in my head when I felt like I was at the end of my rope and I can’t tell him that because a) he wouldn’t care, b) he doesn’t even deserve to know at this point.

I watched him after he left the stage, watched him bypass all the kids on the floor and come straight back to the bar. I won’t lie, Emarosa is a young band with young fans. There were very few of us in the bar area. He should have been out at his merch table, where his fans – the kids – could have talked to him. If he wanted to get wasted at Mr. Small’s without having to “deal” with fans, then he should have brought a bottle of fucking Patron with him and drank himself into a stupor backstage, far away from the feelings of the people who have spent money on t-shirts and albums and shows, where he could send out a hundred misspelled Tweets in private begging for his fans coming to the shows to bring him packs of white Fruit of the Loom t-shirts, size small. Yes, this is what he tweets about and you know what? I’m not your fucking mother, get your own fucking mommy to buy you t-shirts, you  supercilious  beady-eyed fuck stick. Seriously, I have never seen eyes so small and close-set, except on a fucking mole. In fact, he should take the stage by popping out of a mound of goddamn soil, that fucking ginger Napoleon. Who the fuck does he think he is? He hasn’t been in the scene long enough to be able to get away with acting this exultant (shit, he isn’t even HOT enough to pull that off), but even then, there are guys like Craig Owens and Anthony Green who command respect yet are so gracious and appreciative of their fans, because they get it. THAT IS HOW THEY GOT TO WHERE THEY ARE. Oh, and also the fact that their lyrics aren’t vapid exercises in mediocrity.

Clearly Jonny Craig has a circus peanut dick.

Dance Gavin Dance was fierce as shit, though.

I just found out over the weekend that one of my favorite defunct bands has reunited and a new album is due out this November on Trustkill. You know how I found out? I tweeted this  last December:

15:38 all i want for xmas is for armsbendback to reunite. get on that, fat man.

In my heart, I always knew that posting my tweets to my blog would benefit me someday (on top of the fact that 75% of my tweets were vaporized during the Great Twitter/Facbook Outage of Summer ’09), and this was finally validated over the weekend when SANTA HIMSELF found the entry containing that tweet and left this comment:

well merry fuckin christmas

http://rockassdick.blogspot.com/2009/09/armsbendback-new-album.html

odd how i was trying to find out more about this fantastic news and this blog is the first thing that came up in the search

I listened to their album “The Waiting Room” a lot back when it came out in 2003. It got me through some tense and frustrating days at Weiss Meats, where I was the office manager and spent most of my four years there plotting suicide and homocide. And even to this day it remains one of the few albums that I can listen to start to finish, no skipping required.

This song in particular, “Arms of Automation,” STILL makes my eyes sting with tears when I hear it.

Thank you, Santa. I will never refer to you as “Fat Man” ever again.

(I hope they tour. Get on that one next, Santa.)