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.)

 Henry had Chooch listening to A Skylit Drive at Hot Topic on Saturday, and lately he’s taken a liking to singing the Chiodos lyrics which are tattooed on my arm, complete with screaming into an imaginary microphone he fashions with his fist.  (And then at the end he dramatically says, “Oh, Chiodos.”)  He comes over to the computer and requests Bayside, Pierce the Veil, Isles and Glaciers, and The Used (which he refers to solely as Bert, because he’s on a first name basis with the singers of all of his favorite bands) and usually only needs to hear a few seconds of a song’s opening to determine who he’s listening to.

When he hears something new, he considers it for a minute and then says, “I’m gonna see them at Warped Tour.” I think this might be the most excited I’ve been since becoming a mother! Aside from Chooch (obviously), music is the most important thing in my life and to be able to share that with him is a fucking dream.

He had me repaint his nails yesterday (much to Henry’s delight), and when I was done, he fanned his fingers out and admired them, then blew on them slightly and murmured, “Just like Bert.”

I’m certain that Chooch will be fronting a post-hardcore band by the time he’s nine. Or at the very least, a metalcore outfit.

His current favorite video:

I love my kid.

All I wanted for my birthday was to go to the Giglife show Wednesday night at Mr. Smalls. It was mostly to see Set Your Goals but Grave Maker, The Swellers, Fireworks, and Four Year Strong were also on the bill. I had spent most of the day helping Alisha move into her new apartment (conveniently located five minutes from me so now when I need to run away and find myself without a car, I can just WALK to her apartment and throw rocks at her window like I used to do to my friend Lisa in high school, what?) and to be fair, she did way more work than I did (is anyone shocked) so I was expecting her to say she didn’t want to go.

BUT SHE WENT and hoo-boy did she have a stellar time!

A breakdown of the bands and what I thought, because my opinion is surely what will make or break them:

• Grave Maker: LOVED IT. Like, goosebumps-sprouting-on-my-arm loved it. It was the best stress-reliever, all that bass and shouting and mad testosterone filling the air. If I was a dude, I’d have murdered someone in the circle pit. But as it is, I’m a wimpy little girl so I did my best to avoid the pit and stay unbloodied. Although, my t-shirt would have probably looked hot with some rips in it.

  Alisha said she liked the music, but that every song sounded the same. I served her with friend-divorce papers after that.

  Also, during their set is when I began to question if I locked the car doors or not.

• The Swellers: according to my tweets, they were friendly on the ears, but they bored me a little. And obviously they weren’t memorable if I ha dto check my tweets to remember my opinion. They were Alisha’s favorite. I think probably because this was when her boyfriend, affectionately dubbed Jolly Green Giant, stood directly in front of her and barricaded her view.

    By this point, every time I thought about the possibility of my car being unlocked, the blood would rush to my face and I would tug at my collar a little.

• Fireworks: Straight up pop-punk. They were fun and I could think of worse ways to waste time before Set Your Goals finally took the stage, but occasionally the singer sounded me a little bit like Isaac from Children of the Corn. This was around the time the big circle jerk began for Grave Maker. Evidently, it was their last night on the tour and every band made the hugest deal about it. I’ve been to A L OT of shows and have never experienced that level of ego-massaging. The boys in Grave Maker must give amazing reach arounds. 

Music aside, I had some complaints about Fireworks: THEY TALKED TOO MUCH. And it was all inside joke bullshit, like we were supposed to stand there in awe and wish that we had even an iota of a clue what they were talking about. And what was infuriating to me was how they started talking like it was the end of their set after the third song, so I was getting my hopes up. “Oh goodie, Set Your Goals time!” And then they’d play two more songs, thank Grave Maker again, play another song, give a shout out to the other bands, dedicate the next song to Grave Maker, ramble incoherently in an auctioneer’s voice, play a thirty second song. When it finally was their last song, I didn’t believe them.

Their songs didn’t keep my mind from wandering back to my car and wondering if it had been jacked yet. Or towed, because did I park in a legal spot? Did I? Why couldn’t I remember?  What if my car gets towed?

(In between sets, “Spooky” by Classics IV came on the soundsystem and I got so amped. I shouted, “Oh shit, it’s my JAM” and then I was pantomiming along to it and pointing in Alisha’s face and for some reason, she DID NOT LIKE THAT AT ALL. She told me to get away from her and I cried a little, but really I think it was just from sweat getting in my eyes. It was awesome, spending the whole day sweating and then voluntarily going to a crowded venue to sweat some more.)

• Set Your Goals!: Oh my word, they were just so amazing. They opened with “This Will Be the Death of Us” and I wanted to elbow Alisha in the ribs because that is my universal sign for “OMG I’M SO EXCITED AND I JUST CAN’T HIDE IT” but we made eye contact right before my elbow touched base and the look on her face alerted me to the fact that perhaps I should keep my hands to myself. She was standing in that prime spot that every show has which acts as the entrance to the circle pit. Sweaty guys kept shoving past her, sliming her arm with their glandular juice. At one point, she was feeling generous enough to transfer some to my arm, too. It was like a bonding moment, I think.

Apparently, there was some gigantic ogre who was windmilling in the pit, causing everyone to rush backward into Alisha. I remained unscathed because I was more on the side,   against the divider wall for the bar area. Alisha did not find that amusing at all, and she really hated the guy in front of me, too. She said she wanted to punch him in the back of the neck. I myself found him to be quite adorable.

In fact, the only problem I had all night was when some doofus shoved him way through thr crowd, only to plant his lame ass right in front of me, and then proceed to look around like he was lost. And when I say “right in front of me,” I mean that his back was flush with my front. I could see each individual bead of sweat glistening among his albino pubed head. But I mean, it’s a show; people are bound to snake their way up closer and stand in front of you. Whatever. But please don’t stand so close that if I were a dude, my penis would totally be pressed against your ass. He was so close that our body heat was beginning to fuse together, making it at least 15 degrees hotter where I was standing. On some planets, I might have been impregnated by that point. THAT IS HOW UNCOMFORTABLY CLOSE TO ME HE WAS. Luckily, his thirteen-year-old girlfriend turned around and caught me scowling, so she tugged him away. He wasn’t even watching the band!

Shit goddamn, was their set high-energy. I wanted to repeatedly punch a wall. Or a nun’s crotch. And I didn’t think about the car dilemma once.

• Four Year Strong:  I was looking forward to seeing them headline. Their set was also high-energy and very pleasing. I really felt a strong alliance with the keyboardist, Josh Lyford, who was totally hardcore and busted out amazing jumps.

(NOT MY PICTURE, OBVS! It’s that Dan Lebo guy’s.)

 Alisha was all, “Yeah, he was cool, but I liked that dude with the beard” and I was like, “Shut up, you’re stupid” and then she cried.

 However, at that point, the silent hysteria regarding the car was building up and by now, I had  made a mental list of who I could call to pick us up in fifteen minutes when I   discovered a vacant spot on the street that once cradled my sad Focus.

Luckily, Alisha wasn’t about lingering around after the show to get her breasts autographed, because I think it’s safe to say that the day’s events had thrown its final blow and we were both completely exhausted. And thirsty. And hungry. So we left and as we walked down the street, I filled her in on the swishing turmoil that I had dealt with during the entire show. “Um, well, your car’s right there,” she said. I cheered, and then we went to Taco Bell. The best way to end a great stress-relieving pre-birthday night.

I didn’t like their first album because they were too New Found Glory-ish (little known fact: two of least favorite bands are New Found Glory and Blink182, let the horrific outcries commence), but their new album which just came out last Tuesday is very pleasing to me. Actually, any band that features guest vocals by Vinnie Caruana is immediately made right in my world. Like, Vinnie and Jessica Simpson could duet and….no, never mind. I lied.

Anyway, I am wanting to go see them next week. I’m not sure if I’ll be working then or not, because I only just took my drug test the other day and I have to wait for that and the OMG-background check to come back. (They basically made me reapply all over again, which is annoying to everyone involved but it’s the law of FedEx.) I swear I won’t do what I did last time I was hired there, and immediately ask for a day off during my FIRST WEEK because I had tickets to Chiodos. (And I mean, it’s CHIODOS and I had bought those fuckers the day they went on sale.) If I end up working that night, I have no qualms about going to the show alone, straight from work. Even though I’ll look like a socially-crippled creeper lurking in the shadows.

Oh wait, that’s just when I visit nursery schools.

I waited all year for Warped Tour. It’s the closest thing to Christmas I have in my life and I savor every fucking second of it. It’s music music music all day long. And I do love that there music. This year, we were going to attempt to take Chooch, but ticket prices were raised and since we’re going back to one income, we decided to pawn him off on Janna. I think he ended up having a day just as full as ours, anyway. (Thank you, Janna!)

We stood in line for a good half hour because I made sure we got there as soon as the lot opened, which was an hour before the actual gates open, because I’m tightly wound and panicked for a week about the possibility of missing a band I really like because they don’t announce set times until that morning, and and and omg someone get me a valium. There was an abandoned mother standing next to Henry and every time I looked over at her, she’d catch my eye and every time it looked like she wanted to strike up a conversation, but instead she’d just smile. Henry was getting uncomfortable because she kept standing so close to him. I thought it was cute, in a “When Oldies Collide” sort of way.

The good thing about standing in line, besides scene kid-watching, is accumulating free shit and demos from members of small local bands. One of those bands was Remember Thy Name, who were handing out flyers which had their set time and stage info on it and urging everyone to check them out. Since the flyer touched my hand and I said “OK I will” out loud to the dude, I felt obliged to make good on my word. And then I went back to bouncing up and down and squealing “I’m so excited!” in Henry’s ear until they finally opened the door to my own version of Heaven and we all pushed our way in only to stand around looking dumb and confused like lost puppies. You know, the usual.

Henry and I aren’t mean enough to make Blake and Deanna hang with old people all day, so we said goodbye to them and then continued roaming around and looking lost and confused.

Luckily, we got inside with enough time to find the appropriate stage and check out Remember Thy Name. One of my favorite moments of the day was when we approached the side of the stage just in time to be met with a barrage of guttural bellows and machine gun drumming, causing Henry to mutter, “Oh yay, I love them already.” I actually did end up loving them, a lot. Thank you for soliciting me in the parking lot, Remember Thy Name.

It had only been about thirty minutes since we began mingling with Western Pennsylvania’s finest collection of kids, and Henry already looked like a billboard for Advil. Perhaps he was sad that he didn’t bring enough money for concert gear. Last year, I know he had his eyes on some booty shorts.

We got to catch a little bit of Underoath’s set on the mainstage (another band that makes Henry grit his teeth) before shouldering our way to the Hurley stage for Bayside. I figured Henry would probably appreciate their set because they’re not screamo and the crowd was decidedly older and less scene. Yet, every time I asked him if he liked them, he’d mumble, “They were OK.” What he was thinking was probably, “They’re no Kansas.” But whatever, they wound up being one of my favorite sets of the day. And it was nice getting to be up close and not having to worry about having my neck broken. Although, throughout the day, I kept seeing some girl with a neckbrace and found myself in an oddly uncomfortable state of covetry.

So, if you’ve read this blog a few times you probably won’t be shocked to find out that I was primarily there for one band. As in, the price of the ticket was worth a thirty-minute set by them alone and I could’ve left straight after and have been happy. Chiodos, main stage, 1:55.

I dragged Henry up to the front of the stage just as Flogging Molly was finishing up. Chiodos are worth the risk of having my brittle, over-aged bones cracked and acquiring attractive barrier bruises along my ribcage. I’m still not too fond of having bitches dropped on my head, so my peripheral vision has to be on-call for this shit.

We could see Chiodos behind the stage, getting ready, and I had a fifteen-year-old girl moment when Bradley returned my wave with spirit fingers. I fucking love Bradley. And then I had a twenty-nine-year-old adult moment when some skanky bitch behind me repeatedly screamed JOEY! into my ear and I don’t know who I hated more: the skank and her skank-shout, or Joey for not hearing her skanky beckoning from all the way in the center of the massive throng of kids that had accumulated in preparation for Chiodos. Fucking answer her, Joey!

They opened with Undertaker’s Thirst for Revenge is Unquenchable and I was stoked when Nick Martin (Underminded) came out to scream. He’s on the album-version of that song and in the video, and he was on Craig’s solo tour last spring, but I have never seen him live on stage with Chiodos. I squealed. Several times. Even tugged Henry’s arm. It’s kind of like that feeling when you think you’re only going to be having sex with one person that night, but then surprise! Menage a trois. What a fucking treat.

Nick Martin can scream in my face all day and I would still beg for more.

And at one point, Jag from A Skylit Drive filled a small guest spot on vocals. It’s exciting to me when people play musical-bands at Warped Tour, because when else could you see, say, Jeffree Star sharing a stage with Breathe Carolina? Not that that’s a good thing.

I liked watching the expressions of security when Craig decided, during “A Letter From Janelle,” that he wanted to get as many people crowd-surfing as possible. Like they really needed to be told. I love watching this, kids simultaneously popping up into the sky everywhere, like some bizarre birthing art-installation. It never gets old for me. Until some motherfucker’s shoe knocks me unconscious. Then I probably won’t enjoy watching too much after that.

Yes, I pay money to be immersed in this.

Nick came out again and was all crouched down at the edge of the stage, completely in an angry-scream zone, and BSouth (The Receiving End of Sirens – RIP to a great band) kept nudging him with his foot until Nick ended up on the shoulders of one of the security guys, never missing a beat. I think it was my favorite moment of the day, aside from Henry’s anguish, which was less of a moment and more of, you know, THE ENTIRE DAY AS A WHOLE. But he likes Chiodos, I know it.

They ended the much-too-short 30 minute set with “There’s No Penguins In Alaska,” which I hope reminded them that their hockey team were bested by the Penguins. Oh, burn.

They didn’t play any new songs, so that was a bit of a bummer. Craig has been taunting everyone on Twitter with tiny updates about the new album they’re writing and I was hoping he’d toss us rabid fans a bone. But they did my favorites: “Baby, You Wouldn’t Last a Minute on the Creek” and “The Word ‘Best Friend’ Becomes Redefined” (still not fantastical tattoo-tingling during it, though).

We took a break in the shade so I could eat my contraband protein bar lunch. Henry looks like his labret is pierced in this photo but I think it’s just lint. Old men have lint.

I did some Versa Emerge-stalking for Alisha, since she couldn’t be there to (not) do it herself.

I kept touching the camera lens all day long, as this photo denotes. This was right after Deanna informed Henry that two people holding hands does not mean they’re going out. Or as Henry still says: “Going together.”

One of the bands that surprised me the most was A Skylit Drive. I missed most of their set because they played the same time as Versa Emerge and I was trying to split the sets so I could see both. But I made it to their stage in time to hear enough to fall in love. They ended with “Eva the Carrier” and I fucking almost started crying. The singer sounds like how I imagine a mer-man to sing: high-pitched and ethereal, like wetting your finger and running it around the lip of a crystal goblet. The stage they were playing on was the one under the ampitheater and the acoustics of it sent his voice traveling all the way up to where we sat, making chills drip down my spine.

I’ve been listening to that song 15x a day ever since.

Henry was not impressed. Like, at all. And somehow, he later managed to sleep through Dance Gavin Dance’s and Black Tide’s entire sets. I twitpic’d a photo of him sleeping, and my friend Matt had the good call of replying with “Hahaha, what’s up Father Time.” INDEED.

Warped Tour abominations:

1. Millionaires. A trio of half-naked skanks hopping around on stage, and lip-synching rapping. They had about as much rhythm as me and all I could make out was “Fuck” being slung incessantly because probably they are too vapid to come up with anything else. You know, GOOD RAPS like I used to write under the Glocks On Our Dicks alias.

2. Jeffree Star.

I know people bitch about how Warped Tour has taken the punk ethos and raped it silly, but I’ve always admired Kevin Lyman’s ballsiness in adding screamo, metalcore, and dance punk into the mix. I think that there’s a really great mixture of music in the lineup and if there’s not at least one band you can be down with, then probably these things just aren’t for you in the first place. However, I have a big problem with shit like Jeffree Star and Millionaires because it’s hokey and if what Gabe Sapora says about Millionaries is true (that if you don’t like the, you just don’t get the joke) then that’s a little insulting to those of us who give shit about music. And as for Jeffree Star, he doesn’t care about his music, he’s just in it for shock value from what I can see, and that’s not very punk rock.

But maybe I’m just old and jaded.

I wonder if their pubes are that natty. If so, it must be a real BITCH for the STDs to get through, like a dolphin in netting.

One of the last  bands of the day  was Dear and the Headlights, a band I’ve loved long time, but have never seen live. I can’t tell you how excited I was. Too bad they weren’t very fun. I mean, they sounded great, but seemed very aloof on stage and kind of ambivalent to the prospect of playing at Warped Tour. And then the singer asked what everyone wanted to hear and some girl near me yelled “Daysleeper” and I was like, “Oh yes, God yes, play Daysleeper” because that’s my favorite, and so he proceeded to ask, “Um, why that one? It didn’t even make any of our albums.” And there was something slightly condescending about how he said it, so that made me lose a little love. Although, I too was a little cranky by that point so maybe I won’t hold it against them. They ended up never playing “Daysleeper” though, those cocksuckers.

I ate Gobstoppers on the way home.

I find myself swimming farther than I ever planned to go out in this lost ocean /
I still feel hate reaching out to save me, it’s deep down, OH but it’s there.

Hello, sums up how I feel lately, like I’m doggy-paddling vigorously and nothing is happening. Thank god for Emarosa.

Thank god I follow Craig Owens on Twitter, else I might not have known about the handful of pre-Warped dates they decided to schedule in several very lucky cities (and that he can still remember what his first girlfriend smells like, wtf Craig). I was prepared to be let down when I checked the dates, and I wasn’t surprised at all to see that Pittsburgh wasn’t getting any love. However, Columbus was on the list and it happened to fall on a Friday so tickets were snatched up on the ASAP. Originally, Alisha was going to accompany me, but due to a very sad family matter that had her flying back home to Arkansas last week, Henry became her fill-in.

And he was thrilled. THRILLED. And on a road trip with me clocking in at 6 hours round-trip, who wouldn’t be? (Don’t answer that.)

The drive started out rocky, last minute snafus had us leaving the house thirty minutes later than I would have liked. And then Henry bought shitty pretzels to snack on and everyone knows (or should) that pretzels rate a negative one on my road trip snackability chart. But at least I got to whine the entire time about how starved I was, which is at the top of Henry’s pet peeve list and always makes him snap, “You’re not STARVED! You might be HUNGRY, but you’re not STARVING. Let me put you in the desert for a week with no food and then you will know what it’s like to be starving.” To which I always remind him that, like every other spoiled teenage girl looking for a reason to suffer, I was anorexic for AT LEAST two weeks when I was 14 so I know plenty well what it feels like to starve.

Then Henry talked about stuff that I don’t care about, like his work and his days in the SERVICE, but I distracted myself with a highway mix consisting of Frank Turner, A Camp, Sights and Sounds, and This City Needs Guns. (And, not gonna lie, some old school Taking Back Sunday.)

We stopped in some rustic Ohio lake town a few miles outside of Columbus, in search of something more filling than pretzels. We settled on Subway, and I left Henry alone  to describe to the sandwich artist what I wanted while I tried to make it in and out of the bathroom unscathed. I was almost successful, except that my ring got snagged on my underwear and somehow that resulted in me performing the most retarded, uncoordinated, grand scale version of a Cats Cradle and I broke a slight sweat across my brow and wondered how noticeable it would be if I exited the bathroom with a swath of pink-hearted cotton dangling from my thumb like a pennant someone might wave after date raping a cheerleader.

You can stop holding your breath now because after I realized it would be more sensible to remove my ring and not my underwear, my confidence returned and I thought to myself, “I am not going to be bested by a fucking  steampunk beetle ring” and the next thing I knew, I had come out on the other side of the untangling process with little more than a bent leg on my beetle and somehow my lipstick was smeared. Unfortunately, the rush I experienced from winning that battle was negated when I realized that the sub Henry designed for me was little more than a mayo sandwich.

In Columbus, we were immediately met with traffic coming off the highway. I was OK with this because in our neighboring lane could be found a gang of aging bikers trying so hard to look tough when I just knew deep down they were aching to slip into a comfy pair of deck shoes. Each bike was radiating a different country song and it was just one of those things that provoked my inner giddiness and I completely lost control. I was laughing so hard that I was doubled over in my seat, tears streaming down my face, Henry ordering me to “knock it off.”

“They’re probably going to a country music concert, I bet that’s why there’s so much traffic,” Henry postulated because he knows everything. I asked him what he was using as evidence and he pointed up ahead. “There’s a woman holding a sign for tickets and she looks like a country music fan.”

It turned out to be a homeless woman, holding a sign for food. And besides, all the homeless people I’ve ever known have been into bluegrass and Appalachian murder ballads.

Meanwhile, we had made it onto another street and were still flanked by the bikers. “Oh please, can I say something to them?” I wheezed through peals of laughter. People in surrounding cars were starting to stare, and that only made me laugh harder and Henry grimace deeper.

“Say something like what?” Henry snapped. “They’re not even doing anything.” Here is where he began rubbing his temples.

“But they think they’re so hardcore, look at them! They’re so funny!” And here is where I began trying not to piss my pants. “How is this not funny to you?” At this point, I could barely speak, the hilarity was choking me, no lie. I wanted one of them so badly to crank the Seals and Croft.

“It’s apparently only funny to you younger generation assholes,” Henry muttered. Then he made a left hand turn from the center lane and pissed off a bunch of people, which only doubled my hysteria. And then when he went to pay the attendant of a parking lot, the attendant said he didn’t have change so Henry had to dig through his pockets for quarters and I’ll tell you, at this point I thought I was going to have to be hospitalized for laughter-induced rib-cracking. Ooooh boy, Henry was so pissed off at me, too.

We ended up walking toward the venue in the middle of a family. “Let’s pretend like we’re with these people,” I whispered loudly, “so it looks like we belong here.”

“Uh, I’m actually pretending like I’m not with YOU,” Henry answered, right before he tried to trick me into going the opposite direction. And in our adopted family was a group of little boys who were talking excitedly, and at one point I heard the words “Stanley Cup” and “Penguins.” Waiting to cross the street, I blatantly eavesdropped, which made Henry uncomfortable. When there was a pause in their conversation, I blurted out, “The Penguins are going to win.” It came out real snotty, too, I have no idea why. And in unison, they all started praising the Penguins too and Henry grabbed me by the elbow and scolded me for talking to small children. “That’s creepy!” he whispered.

“I’m talking to them about hockey, not trying to flash a tit,” I argued. Fucking hockey, man. Even when I’m about to see one of my favorite bands it’s on the forefront of my dumb mind.

The show was at the Basement, which is probably one of the smallest venues I’ve ever been to. This is what Chiodos had promised too — they wanted it as intimate as possible and that’s exactly what they got. It was a sold out show, so I was glad I bought tickets the day it was announced.

We sat at the bar and I immediately hated every person there. This was enhanced the more I drank until I was eventually shaking and Henry had to babysit me only because he’s too much of a pussy to throw a blow after I provoke dudes. (I almost always target jock-y bro-types when I drink.)  On this particular occasion, there were two assholes who had feet upon free of empty floor but chose to stand flush against the back of my bar stool. Just what I wanted, generic frat boy ornaments on my back. But it only got worse once they opened their mouths and never shut up. The smaller of the two had this horrible high-pitched voice that could have given him a great future at Hanna-Barbera and he was relentlessly trash-talking Pittsburgh and I was doing that thing that sometimes you see crazy people do in sanitariums where they laugh hysterically and maniacally but their eyes are screaming, “Look at me now you motherfucker, oh ho ho ho I’m so fucking pissed that I can’t stop laughing at how rewarding it’s going to be when I impale you with a fistful of broken glass and rip your voice box out through the shredded flesh wound” and several times I swiveled in my chair and we made eye contact and Henry was murmuring, “Fucking stop, let it go” because he was only in the Air Force so his fighting skills consist of the shove-and-run method.

And then the other bro was a veritable fount of music knowledge and I laughed disgustedly as he stood behind me, raping facts up the ass with a Nickleback poster. He said that Isles and Glaciers were made up of members of MxPx and some other guys too and I looked at Henry with my mouth agape and loudly asked, “Is he fucking retarded?” and I know that 99% of the people reading this are like, “OK who cares” BUT I DO. I was raging so hard, my heart thumping so angrily,  that it’s times like that when I begin to wonder if someone’s been slipping me unbeknownst steroid shakes.

This is why I try to abstain from drinking at shows.

The opening band, Miss May I, started around that time and those assholes found somewhere else to stand which is probably a good thing because they didn’t look like they were opposed to punching a girl in the face. (Which is surprising that this hasn’t happened yet.)

So Miss May I were boisterous and guttural, which is just what I needed right then. I liked them a lot a lot a lot and that’s only partially related to the fact that Henry hated them.

After them was my new favorite band, Your Best Friend. I knew their music beforehand and was very excited to see them live. They didn’t disappoint one bit. Even with a slightly slurred and sluggish attention span, I was captivated through the entire set. The next day, I immediately ordered their CD. Midwestern emo will always get Valentines from my heart.

I was also excited to see the Silent Years, who played next, because I have liked what I’ve heard from them in the past (this song, specifically). Unfortunately, like a lot of indie music  in general lately, they sounded good but just didn’t hold my attention. (I go through phases.) That could also have something to do with the fact that Craig was sitting five seats away from me at the bar.

My favorite member of Chiodos, drummer Derrick Frost, recently left the band, so it was somewhat sad not seeing him that night. Every other member walked past me at some point throughout the night and I would softly say, “Aw, yay.”

Eschewing the large stage and fancy lights did little to reduce the fullness of their sound; they were giants up there on that tiny stage and when they played “The Words ‘Best Friend’ Become Redefined” my tattoo didn’t ignite with blue flames and regenerate the dead parts of my heart like I had hoped, but it sure felt good to trace it and have a very important decision reaffirmed.

They were amazing as usual, and while I had mega sad-face when it was over, I was not sad to leave the Basement and the stench of 200 sweaty scene kids behind me. I feel lucky that I got to see them, and that I have a (somewhat) nice boyfriend who went with me. I was sad to not have Alisha there, but it was still nice to get to spend some quality time with the old man. Especially on the three hour drive home, when he was fighting to stay awake and I was too drunk to relieve him at the wheel, so I blasted some Dillinger Escape Plan.  Smarties!

The Used, with Space Pimps and Maison at Club Zoo

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

• The first opening band, Maison, was already playing by the time Alisha and I got dropped off by Henry, who was kind enough to leave his second job early to enable me to get to go in the first place. I made him drop us off around the corner, and then he repeatedly beeped the horn just as two scene girls walked by. Thanks, Dad. That was fantastic. Maison mainly did covers and for someone who acted unenthused by them, Alisha sure was pushy about finding a spot where she could see them.
• I totally had a crush on some flannel guy.

• The second opening band, Spacepimps, are apparently Pittsburgh’s darlings, but I wasn’t impressed. They were homogenous, early 2000’s-sounding pop punk, but for some reason, they kept the crowd rapt. I think that’s a good testament for this city and how ridiculously behind it is with music trends.
  • But then they briefly trash-talked the Washington Capitals so I was like, “OMG I love them, Alisha!”
    • And then they won over Alisha with their charming cover of “Wannabe” by Spice Girls.
• The crowd was a decent goulash of ages, very few scene kids and a lot of older fans. Alisha and I were glad for that. Alisha was especially glad for the tiny girl swimming in an oversized ICP baseball jersey who kept walking past us. “I feel like she should be in bed,” Alisha said, because of the nightgown-esque length of her shirt. “In bed in 1998,” I added and Alisha laughed really hard because I’m so funny and she can barely stand it most of the time. Then some half-nude sweaty guy rubbed his glandular juice all over Alisha’s bare arm as he brushed past her (and by “brushed past,” I mean that if they were naked there’s a good chance she might be pregnant right now).

• There were only three people in the entire crowd I hated. They perched needlessly on top of the small gate protecting the sound area, making it impossible for the rest of us to see. Then the sound guy yelled at them brusquely and I loved him for that. Besides, we didn’t want to have to fight our way any closer than where we were, because we are old and have brittle bones. I mean, I hate my nose and all, but I’m not sure how far I’m willing to go to change it. And my luck, having it broken would make me look like Mask.

• Alisha, i.e Starving Ethiopian at the Used Show, was covertly popping Cheezits in her mouth at one point. I swear to god, her eyes were darting around all furtively, like she was going to be asked by some stranger to share. Alisha, they’re crackers, not ‘shrooms.
• The Used came out around 9 and completely blew the place up with “Take It Away.” It was so good to see a band that I have loved for a long time, without being too emotionally wrapped up in them. I was able to just have fun and not cry for once. Plus, it was awesome when they did “Liar, Liar” in light of recent ex-best friend events. (We were still talking when I had found out The Used were coming, and she threw one of her signature psychopathic fits of jealousy because oh my God, how could I consider going to the show with anyone but HER. This is just one of the things I dealt with from her for the past six years.)

Set List:

Take It Away

Bird and the Worm

Liar Liar

Hospital

Blood on My Hands

I Caught Fire <3333!

Taste of Ink

All That I’ve Got

Buried Myself Alive

Paralyzed

Handsome Awkward

Box Full of Sharp Objects*

• Speaking of setlists! After the show, the sound guy gave Alisha his copy of the setlist for no reason other than he knew she would give it to me. He probably overheard me boasting of the chest tattoo that I’m considering, which will say, “I’m the breast best” and no doubt he became enamored of me then.

What a great show. A short show, but great nonetheless. It’s a good time every time I’ve seen them. I love the Used.

*My absolute fave! Although, funny story: Around the time their first album came out, I had that song on a mixed CD in the car. This one afternoon, Henry and I went out for a drive when suddenly I became overwrought with nausea. Turned out that I was pregnant (not with Chooch) and instead of becoming averse to certain foods, I became physically opposed to every song on that mixed CD and even after I wasn’t pregnant anymore, it took me a long time to be able to listen to anything other than soft rock because of the bass. TMI? Maybe. But you should know that about me by now.

It was back to Cleveland on Sunday to catch Craig Owens on his solo run. I was so thankful that it was another weekend show, otherwise I probably wouldn’t have made it and then you’d all have to suffer through bitchy angst-ridden posts for at least two weeks. Another thing I was thankful for was the fact that Alisha and I dusted off our friendship earlier in the year and that she was willing to spend time with me in an enclosed space and see some bands she didn’t know much about. Thank god for Alisha!

The Drive

Before we exited Pennsylvania, we stopped at Ruby Tuesday’s for lunch, and I brought in my empty Starbucks cup in hopes of disposing it because I have issues about leaving garbage in the car, something Henry is very insensitive of, do not get me started, DO NOT. My anxiety of seeing Craig Owens was starting to make me do stupid things, like squeal a lot, squirt soap all over my arm in the restroom, and stash the empty coffee cup in my purse UPSIDE DOWN upon discovering there was no garbage can outside the restaurant, so Alisha suggested I order an adult beverage. She slid the drink menu toward me, but I go, “No, I’m good. Seriously.” I think she was relieved when I ordered water instead of more coffee, but after a few more minutes of me giggling degenerately and doing weird breathing exercises, she was all, “No really, I insist” and then I found myself getting carded over a Sangria which made me VERY HAPPY. Especially when I got to pull my ID out of my iCarly purse.

After we left, I realized that when I retardedly stashed the empty coffee cup upside down in my purse, the remnants spilled out right onto the painting I made for Craig. Henry had painstakingly (not really, but he did act put-out that I asked him to do it) wrapped it for me that morning  and it was completely stained on one side. “I can’t give him something that looks like it was fished from a dumpster, what the fuck am I going to do?” and I could tell that Alisha was preparing to pull over and have me sedated, but I was OK once I peeled the painting out and saw that it remained untainted. The envelope to the card, however, was also stained. So I outlined it and turned it into a dumb little creature and prayed for the best.

There was a rogue diaper strewn across the backseat, and I considered wrapping the painting in that, you know, to keep it safe and give it some pizzazz. “I can guarantee he’s never received anything wrapped in a diaper,” Alisha said. And it would soften the blow when I lost my nerve to hand it to him, and ended up chucking it at his head and bolting. But ultimately, I decided that messing with it any further would likely turn into a disaster, so I stashed the painting in the backseat and tried very hard to forget about it.

And then I was fine, really fucking fine, until we made it to Cedar Road, which was the third to the last street we needed before reaching the Grog Shop. That’s when I started getting all stupid and dizzy-feeling and Alisha began tensing up because my anxiety was contagious and then I fucked up the directions and she cried a little. It was an amazing 15 mile track of emotional roller coaster. And it only got better after we parked and began walking the street, looking for a place to pee, only to settle on a grocery store in which I accidentally locked myself in the restroom and then BROKE MY ICARLY PURSE trying to break out. It was awful. Who was going to take me seriously without a purse that says “LOL” on the zipper pull?

In Line

Because I’m not normal, I really enjoy standing in line before doors open. It’s a great opportunity to people watch and make enemies, which almost always is inevitable. This time it was immediate, so that was fucking lovely. I overheard a girl behind me mention she had seen Chiodos last year at Club Zoo, so I excused myself for butting in, and then asked, “Are you from Pittsburgh? We’re from Pittsburgh,” you know, just trying to make convo with someone to kill time. Well, this dumb ginger bitch was all, “Um, yeah, kind of, but not really” but the way she said it? It came out like a word-encapsulated scoff dipped in a vat of holy attitude jam and wrapped in pretension and I swear to god I wanted to punch it right back into her crooked-toothed maw. It was like a hobo having the audacity to speak to Paris Hilton, is exactly what she made me feel like. My hate bell was ding dang RUNG, bitches.

A few minutes later, I heard her complain about there being so many scene kids there and my palms were instantly half-mooned. Seriously? What did she think SHE was with her Stay Positive hoodie, day-glo t-shirt and seam-popping skinny jeans? And you all know how deep my scene kid love runs, so she was really stirring my pot. And she had hideous lime green eye liner on and I wanted to spit on her eyeballs and scrub it off with a Brillo pad, that dumb whore. You are in line with a bunch of people who share the same love of music as you do, so put a fucking hat on the hate, Jesus Christ. I wouldn’t even be making fun of her right now if she hadn’t opened up the ignorance spout. I can’t stand that shit.

Oh, and she thought she was a regular Chelsea Handler too, with her dead-panned commentary of every fucker who walked past us. I kept making faces at Alisha and hissing, “SHE IS SO NOT FUNNY WTF??” And unbeknownst to me, one of her minions heard me talking shit on her and ratted me out. Alisha knew of this, and was wise enough to not tell me until much later when we were inside because she didn’t feel like dealing with a fight. But evidently the girl was all, “I don’t care!” and Alisha said something else non-threatening was said but it wasn’t bad enough for her to remember I guess. And when she told me this, we were sitting at the bar, and I found myself scanning the room looking for that douchebarrel so I could kill her. Alisha reminded me that she was underage. I DON’T CARE.

So no, I guess that pickled tampon really wasn’t a scene kid; she wasn’t awesome enough.

Aside from that. the wait in line was cold yet entertaining. We got to watch some boys in front of act like assholes with a half-full bottle of Vitamin Water and Alisha was braced to call 911. It ended up bursting at one point, the contents splashing right past my feet. I cried, “I so knew that was going to happen!” and they were genuinely apologetic, which I was NOT expecting. They kept asking, “Are you sure it didn’t get on your shoes? I’m so sorry!” and then the one boy was all, “And those are really cool shoes, too, by the way” and I was like, “OMG a scene kid accepted me!” and I was so happy and Alisha was like, “You are so pathetic” but I could NOT STOP SMILING even though it was like 40 degrees and I wasn’t wearing a coat. I seriously smile like a mentally incapacitated farm hand the entire time. When I later relayed to Henry that for once people were approaching me left and right, I hypothesized that it must be my darker hair. But Henry goes, “No, it’s because you didn’t have a 44-year-old man standing next to you.” Touche, Henry.

There was also this crazy phenomenon where, no matter where we stood, passers-by trying to get into the neighboring sports bar or Chipotle would always cut in front of us. But not without a warm “Excuse me” and a smile. Alisha was getting annoyed, and finally deduced that it was because of me, not her, because she was not wearing an inviting expression like I was. “I’m like, the golden entrance,” I said with a shrug, and then decided that sounded like a porno so it became even more apropos. Alisha’s final straw was when some guy said, “Chinese cut!” before squeezing past us. I couldn’t stop laughing. Two of the guys from VersaEmerge — the fantastic opening band — chose me to squeeze past as well, and they were both very gentlemanly and friendly about it. Especially the drummer, with whom I wound up dancing  in my effort to step out of his way when he tried to enter the Grog Shop, and we shared a laugh over that so you know, we’re bros now obviously. And every time this would happen, I would turn to Alisha and laugh and she would roll her eyes.

The Show

Inside, the doorman was all taken aback that I was ready to greet him with my ID, because apparently we were the first people over-21 he had encountered in line so far. It was hilarious, but once the room started filling up, I was shocked at how many older people had turned out to support Craig. It was a beautiful thing. Especially since we sat at the bar most of the night and I proceeded to get drunk off cider and walk into the men’s room two fucking times in a row, like it was my first time in a fucking bar.

VersaEmerge and The Color Fred preceded Craig, and both had excellent sets, although Fred’s went on a little longer than we liked. It had a little to do with the fact that he broke a string, twice, and only had one guitar. Both times that happened, he allowed people to go on stage and tell a joke while he rushed to restring. One of my Vitamin Water friends went up and told a joke and I was like, “OMG YES!” and clapped and screamed real loud, and Alisha was all, “STFU.” But that was our BOY Tony, I said to her! And then I wondered aloud if he still had a price sticker on his ass, which Alisha prevented me from telling him about in line because it would be too “mom-like.”

But VersaEmerge were incredible, and not just because the singer was a really hot chick with magnificent scene hair. Alisha ran off to buy their EP but swore it had nothing to do with her fast-developing crush. And later, we chatted with their bassist Devin, when he came over to the bar for a drink and I had to rub my eyes because that boy did not look 21. He was very down-to-earth and personable, and seemed genuinely humbled when he saw Alisha’s copy of their EP resting on the bar in front of her. After he retreated with his drinks, the bartender paused to talk to us about how  nice he was, and how she’s much more willing to cater to bands who are kind.

“The boys in Agnostic Front? Some of the nicest guys I have ever dealt with, no lie,” and that was when she noticed that I was drinking Woodchuck. “Ever tried Strongbow?” she asked, and then proceeded to sell me the perks of the English import. She gave me a sample in a plastic cup, and when I agreed that it was really so much better than Woodchuck, she set a tall glass of it in front of me and said, “That one’s on me.”

I really love the fucking Grog Shop.

But what I didn’t really fucking love was the texts I was getting from Henry, keeping me abreast of the Pens game, which they lost. It nearly ruined my night. I’m sure Alisha thought that I was reading a text alerting me to a horrible accident at the homefront, but when I tilted my phone her way and she saw that I was just reading the score to the hockey game, she was like, “Oh” and then quickly added, “That sucks.”

 By the time Craig walked past us, I was feeling REALLY FUCKING good. So good, in fact, that I was able to enjoy the entire set without bawling, sobbing, shaking, or obsessing over giving him that fucking painting. I just remember smiling so big and feeling happy and lucky to be sitting there with Craig singing a few feet away.

He started with “Letter From Janelle” and I was all, “Oh yay!” and next thing I knew my fingers were involuntarily curving into heart-formation, and Alisha was happy too because she likes that song, and it was just good, so so so good. He did a Bright Eyes cover, two Cinematic Sunrise tracks (I thought of my friend Jessa when he busted out “You Told Me You Loved Me”), and the most beautifully heart-stopping acoustic version of “Baby, You Wouldn’t Last a Minute on the Creek” that I ever could have imagined possible and I know I was beaming like a five-year-old getting a unicorn and a Mogwai all on the same Christmas. And maybe also like Henry when he was getting a hand job, the Vick’s VapoRub edition, from a Thai hooker.  OK, maybe my grin was not so sleazy. I hope, anyway.

But then today I watched a video of it that s0meone posted and since I no longer have hard cider acting as a dam for my emotions, I got all emotional band-y and cried a little. But seriously, this song has some prime fucking real estate staked out on my heart.

(Original version here.)

Craig was happy and full of humor and stories. I didn’t expect to go to this show and laugh! He said “J/K” for some reason, and some girl up front mocked him. He was all, “Did you just mock me? I’ll punch you in your face, little girl” and I started to think, “Wow, he could punch me in my face anyday!” but then I remembered that I don’t like anyone that much to receive a fisted gift in the grill. Not even my own son, but he still does it anyway.

So, Craig admitted that the reason he was so happy was because he’s in love now, and like any good fangirl, I already knew about his girlfriend (who is so freaking cute, by the way). He wrote a song for her, tentatively titled “Song For Joanna” and before he played it, he had everyone sit on the floor, and then he, Brian (Isles & Glaciers, ex-Receiving End of Sirens) and Nick (of Underminded, Cinematic Sunrise, Isles & Glaciers) all sat at the edge of the stage, sans microphones, and Craig proceeded to serenade the room campfire-style. It was intimate and absolutely beautiful. They played the rest of the set like that, including “Vacation to Hell” which he wrote when he was 16, and “Intensity in Ten Cities” (one of my favorite songs off Bone Palace Ballet and Chiodos never plays it live). It was like nothing I had ever experienced at a show before. That alone was worth it.

He is so beautiful, in a myriad of ways, and I could barely stand it.

After the show, we ran back to the car so I could grab the painting, and then spent the next 30 minutes or so standing in a small group of anxious fans eager to say hello to him. I realized there was a half-assed line forming, and Alisha and I were sort of off to the side of it. A young couple heard me mention it and turned around to say it probably wasn’t a big deal.

“I’m not trying to cut in line and take away anyone’s time with Craig. In fact, I don’t even want to talk to him. I just need to hand him this painting and then run away.” So then we started chatting a bit (I almost said “for a spell” because apparently I’m an eighty-year-old now) and the boy member of the couple reached out to touch my arm (this is according to Alisha, as I was kind of hammered) as a means to console me since I was probably blubbering on about how I’m a social reject. Alisha said his girlfriend seemed angered by the physical contact and that was the end of that convo.

While standing around, I was thinking about how awesome it was that there was such a large turn-out of older people; but then I saw one of those older people (a ginger around my age, I guess) who was so drunk she was laying on the floor and being a general nuisance, and suddenly I remembered why I enjoy shows that have a primarily under-age attendance. Alisha thought she was hot.

Eventually, my bartender friend emerged from the back and gave us the bad news that Craig wasn’t feeling well and therefore was not going to be able to come and talk to us. I was disappointed for about .000005 seconds until I realized, “Hey, now I don’t have to unravel into an overzealous and embarrassing display of verbal impotence.” Spotting Nick Martin coiling up some wire on the stage, I decided to just pawn it off on him, but felt like an absolute heel in doing so. It’s like, “Hey faceless boy who plays guitar with Craig, this token of appreciation is NOT for, can you please give it to Craig? Wait, what did you say your name was?” But really, I love Nick. I think he’s amazingly talented and I tried to convey that as eloquently as possible as a preface to my request, but unfotunately it sounded more like, “Oh wow, you were awesome. You guys were awesome. What an awesome show. Would be awesome  to see you in Pittsburgh. How ’bout the awesome weather. I’m upchucking the awesome. Oh, and can you give this to Craig thanks see ya.” I felt awful about it, but he was so sweet and said, “I promise you this will be in his hands tonight.”

I know, wow, fan art. How fucking precious. But, you know. Craig’s lyrics are what inspired a lot of my paintings. So what better way to say thanks than to give him one that’s made especially for him. I trust that Nick gave it to him, and I feel content and even a little relieved, to know that maybe, in some small way, I might have been able to touch Craig’s life like he has touched mine. And I don’t care how cornville that sounds, motherfucker.

 ***

On the way home, I stared out the window at the dark, malignant expanse of forest next to the highway and asked, “Do you ever wonder if someone, right now as we drive by, is getting murdered in those woods?”

In a horrified tone, Alisha answered, “Um no. But now I am, thanks.”

[This is not going to be articulate, and I don’t care because I’m crying.]

When Henry and I first started dating, my favorite band was Cold. And by favorite, I mean that I would sob through their sets and be an emotional wreck for days after. The first road trip Henry and I ever took together was to Wisconsin, where they were performing a 30  minute set at a radio festival. It took us two days to get there and it was worth every fucking second, even when I cried for an hour on the way home and fought with Henry because he wouldn’t take me to Wisconsin Dells (this is totally one of those stories that will get passed on from generation to generation). We also saw them in Norfolk, Virginia and a million times here in Pittsburgh. And before Henry, there was my best guy-friend Wonka, and together we saw them together in Hershey, Columbus OH, and Buffalo. I still have the orange Starburst that Scooter Ward gave me before the show in Hershey, where we bonded over Robert Smith and I cried in his face. I keep it in the freezer every summer to keep it from melting.

The last time I had the chance to see them was April of 2004, and I was in a very bad place emotionally. I had written Scooter a letter, thanking him for his words and for always being there for his fans. Cold shows were one of the only times I felt I belonged somewhere, and I needed him to know that. But I couldn’t find the nerve to give him the letter. He was standing a few feet away from me before that show and I panicked. Henry, supportive boyfriend that he is, was so angry with me.

“Just give him the fucking letter! He’s right over there! No one’s even bothering him!” Henry doesn’t get it, that it’s not just some petty star-struck syndrome. It’s something more than that, something greater. It’s about being in the presence of someone who I know gets it, someone who I feel a connection with, even if I don’t know them personally. Someone who, in a strange and inexplicable way, was the only one there for me.

I remember wanting to go home. Doors hadn’t even opened yet and I was ready to surrender and just walk away. I knew that I was going to walk inside that venue, the now-defunct Rock Jungle, and lose my shit like I always did when they took the stage. But Henry convinced me to stay, and once inside, he swiped the letter from me and hand-delivered it to Sam, the drummer. Henry wasn’t happy about it, because it made him feel lame, like he was passing notes in high school. But it made me feel like a weight had been lifted.

The next time they went on tour, I was pregnant and knew it would be  a bad idea, so I didn’t go to any of the shows.

Unfortunately, they broke up soon after that, and I had always regretted that I missed what could have been my last chance to see them. I knew that Scooter was going through some shit, and I was worried that he wouldn’t bounce back, that the scene would take away another underrated, amazingly talented and inspirational man.

In October, my friend Jenny texted me, alerting me that they had reunited. I will never forget where I was — in line for Cheeseman’s Haunted Hayride. It was one of the best nights ever.

And that’s how Henry and I ended up in Cleveland last night, watching them live at the House of Blues. For the first time in five years. FIVE YEARS and they still rip my heart right through my fucking ribcage.

I think my favorite part of the night, and the only part where my face wasn’t wet, was when Henry lost his cell phone. We were sitting upstairs, and had switched seats three times because Henry is a fucking retard and kept choosing inappropriate seats. (He was happy to be seeing a band with an older fanbase, where sitting down didn’t call forth the Old Person spotlight.) So in our last seat switch, he reached down and noticed his cell phone was missing. “That’s what you get for clipping it on your belt like an asshole,” I scoffed. Within seconds, people around us noticed that something was amiss, and a small search party had spontaneously formed. I couldn’t call his phone, because I had no service (I found out a few minutes later that it was only in the exact spot I was sitting, and that if I moved my arm to the left, it worked, but owellz0rz Henry), so some dude was all, “Hey bud, I am old too like you so I want to come to your aid. Here, please use my phone to locate your own!” And Henry was all, “OMG thank you, Hot Older Guy!” and then tried in vain to tuck in his Fellow Oldie boner.

Anyway, the man two seats down from me had been sitting on it, so he handed it over and everyone had a good chuckle. I continued sitting there as I had been all along, rolling my eyes. Seriously, there were at least seven to nine people scrambling around, looking under seats, and scratching their temples, but I was not one of them.

Girlfriend of the year!

I know, right – where’s the climax to THAT story?

The opening band  -Drama Club – came on around 8. I was a little ambivalent about them. The singer sounded like he was trying to come across way more glam than he was, but then some of the band members looked like they were on the cusp of being scene yet stuck in a decidedly non-scene band. I didn’t mind them, but I wasn’t riveted. It made me miss the energy of younger crowds at post-hardcore shows and this is no joke, there was a fleeting moment when I imagined I was in the middle of a scene kid group hug. I made the mistake of telling Henry after Drama Club’s set and he of course was annoyed.

[Music geek side note: there were several moments when the singer of Drama Club sounded vaguely familiar to me, and then he mentioned that they’re from Wilkes-Barre, PA. I thought to myself, “Huh. I wonder if that’s the dude from Lifer” because how many bands are actually from Wilkes-Barre, and it totally is; he just dyed his hair black and became fey. The whole way home, I kept bragging to Henry about being a music genius and I think he wanted to dickslap me. Now I’m nostalgic for Lifer.]

The next band was the Killer and the Star, Scooter’s side project which currently features Rocky Gray (ex-Evanescence) and Michael Harris (Idiot Pilot). Scooter sat down at his piano and by the time the second word was sung, my cheeks were salty. I didn’t even try to stop it, I know a thing or two about futility. But sitting there, listening to these beautiful songs, it made me angry that he doesn’t get more respect, that some people think “Just Got Wicked” or “Stupid Girl” is the extent of what he has to offer, when his songwriting weaves the perfect blend of melancholy, angst, and aggression, the resulting product something I can’t even put a label on. Call Cold nu-metal if you want, but there’s depth there in the music and the lyrics. A lot of it. And this new project is the perfect vessel for him to scream “LOOK AT WHAT I CAN DO!” Killer and the Star is still slightly heavy but Scooter’s piano-playing and soulful vocals (he sings differently with this band) bring a bluesy element to the plate, making it impossible to compare it to anything else.

“Hallelujah” was my favorite song, and Michael Harris was amazing to watch on stage. The vocals he provided melted with Scooter’s and I kind of couldn’t handle it. I imagine it’s what church-y people feel like on Sundays – goosebumps, tear-stung eyeballs, and involuntary shudders. The hairs on my arms were erect. (ERECT.)

I really was so unsure that I would ever get to hear this man sing live again, and to have him there, mere feet away, it  made me appreciate him so much more. After that set, I looked at Henry and whispered, “I’m not so sure I can handle this.”

“Yes you can,” he said, and gave me a patronizing back-pat. My man.

I distracted myself by hating the Southern drawlers behind me, one of which was wearing some nasty patchouli/ash concoction that buffeted me every time she came back from getting a beer. Then I noticed one of the stage guys propping a bust of Michael Myers on top of one of the speakers and I felt giddy. Terry Balsamo used to come out on stage wearing a Michael Myers mask, but he quit doing that sometime after they stopped touring for 13 Ways To Bleed On Stage. And then he left to play for Evanescence, but that’s all I’ll say about that, otherwise I’ll get angry.

Before Scooter came back out with Cold, there was a little tribute video that was played on the big screen in front of the stage, recapping Cold’s journey to get where they are now, starting in the early nineties when they were Grundig. And even that proved to be a test for my tear ducts.

This is the first time the original 5-man lineup has been back together in something like five years. In fact, the last time I saw them live, it was the new lineup and it felt so strange and unfamiliar, like the first holiday after a family member dies.

I would love to go through every song they played, giving you objective thoughts and reviews based on technical merit and sound quality, but the truth is, I’m still an emotional wreck. Today, I was still crying as I recounted the show to a friend on the phone. I still got choked up when I said, “Scooter seems happier now,” because while I don’t know him personally, I care about him very hard.  To see him on stage, in his glory, in his element – it was fantastic. And he is so humble, pausing to thank his fans after every song. A middle-aged woman with spiky red hair and clothes too tight for her age, yelled, “No, thank YOU!” and I thought to myself, “Hey old broad, you might be too old to get away with wearing that studded belt that I know you think you’re rocking, but Amen.” But then I secretly wished she’d fall over the balcony, because fuck, she was annoying.

The show was like being home again.

I didn’t talk.

I didn’t scream.

I didn’t move, apart from a few feeble attempts at applause.

I just sat there, motionless, and, with a few friendly reminders to breathe, I let my heart melt. It is agony at times, running this psychotic gamut of emotions, like swishing hot tea over a toothache – painful but it feels so fucking good.

On the way to the car, I looked at Henry and tried to talk but all that came out was audible sobs (Henry’s instinct was to ignore me and ask aloud, “I wonder which way I should go to get out of here” as he left the parking garage, and I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a greater scope to that question). I felt emotionally exhausted, drained, numb, but 100% willing to do it again, like, right now.

You can make fun of me for crying. You can tell me that Cold is so 2002. You can tell me to get a life. But the one thing I know for sure is that, no matter how much it hurts, I would rather feel this than nothing at all. And if, someday, music stops making me feel that way? Well, why bother.

Henry and I don’t get out very often, but we had tickets to the Where’s the Band? show on Saturday night and I was really looking forward to it. The tour showcases the solo efforts of Anthony Raneri (Bayside), Chris Conley (Saves the Day), Matt Pryor (The Get Up Kids, New Amsterdam, et al) and Dustin Kensrue (Thrice) and if you know me at all, you can guess that I was spittling all over myself when I heard it was coming to town.

We ditched Chooch with Henry’s mom and left for Mr. Small’s. I kept insinuating that it was a date, and I think it made Henry nervous, like he was worried he’d have to put out later or, God forbid, hold a door open for me. He at least knew he wouldn’t be expected to hold my hand during the show, because, you know, ew.

Arriving thirty minutes before the show was set to start, Henry pointed out that the marquee said the show was sold out. “I fucking told you it would sell out, you idiot!” I spat. I started getting really heated, tugging at my collar like a coal miner about to whale on his wife for not having dinner ready at 6:05pm, until Henry reminded me that we already had our tickets. “Yeah, thanks to me!” I yelled. And then I realized that it was ok to calm down and savor yet another moment of righteousness.

Inside, I was pleased to see that it was an older crowd. We stood behind a couple and when the guy put his arm around the girl’s back, I motioned to his wedding band and quipped, “You don’t see that very often at the shows we’re accustomed to, ha-ha” (and that’s how I laughed too–a staccato “ha” followed by another staccato “ha”), but Henry didn’t get it. “You know, because the people at  most shows we go to aren’t legal for marriage” I explained, but he wasn’t paying attention to me ON OUR DATE so I don’t give a fuck if he ever gets another joke in his life.

We’re waiting for the show to start, and it’s a little delayed. So Henry, he tries to make small talk and suggests that he show probably sold out because the tickets were cheap. “Oh right, and it wouldn’t have anything to do with the lineup” I sassed. But he had the audacity to laugh and say, “Yeah, it’s the cheap tickets” which made me rant about how these guys that were about to bleed their hearts on stage are likely going to be legends by the time they die.

That only made Henry laugh even harder. But Henry, he’s old; he quit understanding music sometime right after the arrival of Quiet Riot.

The show finally started around 7:30, and I loved it because there was no frilly, flouncy bullshit. There was no waiting twenty to thirty minutes between sets, waiting for the next one to come out. One left, the next walked on.  Just each dude and his guitar, so fucking vulnerable, but at the same time it made them look even bigger. I also liked how, sans band, their individual stage personalities were showcased alongside of their songwriting brilliance. It was interesting to see how they varied from each other, and while I was musing about this, and also the fact that I bet their mommies are so proud of them, I realized, “Yes, I’m officially old. I’m analyzing their showmanship and not wondering how big their weeners are.”

• First up was Anthony Raneri. I’m not the biggest Bayside fan, so he was the act I was least looking forward to. Well, from the first pluck at his guitar, he had me eating out of his. I bought a ticket primarily for Dustin Kensrue, but Anthony Raneri may have won my heart that night. Besides Dustin, he’d the only one who made me weep openly, and that was when sang the Bayside song “Don’t Call Me Peanut.”

This isn’t from the Pittsburgh show, but it’s the best quality video I could find on YouTube. When the song was over, I hoarsely whispered to Henry, “I want to kill myself. I want to fucking kill myself,” and he was like, “Yay! Please do!” While Anthony engaged in light banter now and then — like when he informed up that the next song he was going to play was political and that it’s such an exciting time in the country which predictably led to some heavy grumbling over in Henry’s corner– his set was fairly straightforward. He played the songs he came to play, and left. With my heart. There, I said it.

• Chris Conley was next and brought with him a set that was heavy in crowd participation. He took requests for each song, which turned into a screaming free-for-all. Henry’s musical memory sucks, and he kept asking me a million questions about Chris (I think he thought he was hot, I don’t know) and I kept saying, “He’s the guy from Saves the Day, you idiot. I have all their albums. You’re not going to like him.” And predictably, as soon as Chris sung the first estrogen-laced note, Henry’s balls were sucked up into his bowels.

Again, not from the Pittsburgh show.

Chris told us a story about some crazy guy they saw that day, pushing a broken down car, who got angry when Chris and the rest of the guys asked if he needed help. “Yeah, you can get the fuck out of the way” and then apologized, saying it had been a rough day. So Chris goes, “I guess you’re just naturally sweet, right?” which apparently greatly offended the dude, because you just don’t go around telling guys in Cleveland that they’re sweet unless you want to get shot. It wasn’t that funny of a story really, but the fact that it was Chris Conley telling it made it so. It was right around that time that Henry got a call from his mom, saying that Chooch wouldn’t stop screaming and had apparently wedged himself in a corner and she wasn’t sure if maybe he was dying or what, so Henry took that as his cue to leave. “I’ll come back for you later,” were the parting words that drifted back to me in his anxious wake. Honestly, he booked out of there so fast, it was like a fucking echo. You lucked out this time, Henry J. Robbins, but next time you won’t be so lucky.

Chris ended his set by bringing out Matt Pryor to sing “At Your Funeral” with him. It was beautiful.

• I really like the Get Up Kids, but never had the opportunity to see them live when they were still together, so Matt Pryor is kind of this mythical character to me. Out of all four performers, he lit up the stage most of all. In fact, I admit to being more entertained by his rapport with the crowd than by his actual songs (most of which were super short. He summoned Chris from the wings to play the tambourine during one song. “Do you even know how to play the tambourine?” he dourly asked Chris, who turned toward us and pumped his arms in an exasperated “Are you fucking kidding me?” motion. Afterward, when Chris left the stage, Matt goes, “Chris Conley makes me so happy. Did you see him, all blissed out, playing the tambourine with his eyes closed? That dude is so weird.”
  

Pittsburgh people, put  your fucking videos on YouTube already, shit.

Matt was wearing a newsboy cap at the Pittsburgh show, and he complained that it was his first time wearing a hat while on stage and he kept bumping it off the mic. “But I’ve been wearing it all day, and you know, once you commit to wearing a hat, you have to follow through.” Then he paused and realized, “Wow, I’ve been such a whiny bitch up here. They’re going to have to change the name of this t our to Diva Camp.” And I laughed so hard, you’d have thought it was my first time finding out about motherfucking Dave Chapelle or some shit; like if Matt had been closer, I’d have slapped him and maniacally shouted “OH MATT YOU CARD HAHAHAHA.”

Then he goes, and this is where I get all somber again, he goes, “Anyone here on a date? Well, these last two songs are LOVE SONGS. Just think of me as your BALLADEER for the evening.” But of course, what I heard was, “Erin Appledale is a loser and here by herself because she’s not awesome enough to go out on dates” and then a bucket of pig’s blood overturned and painted me pathetic.

Thank you, Matt Pryor.

• DUSTIN KENSRUE DUSTIN KENSRUE DUSTIN KENSRUE!!! Fucking Dustin Kensrue!!! I do not have enough superlatives in my pea-sized, fan-girl vocabulary for him. His presence is very god-like. He picks up his guitar and you hold your breath. That’s just how it is, unless you just don’t love music. His main gig is with Thrice and while they’re a powerful, unmistakably intelligent post-hardcore outfit, he is just as big and powerful and intelligent on his own. His solo style is alt-country and he even brings out his harmonica, complete with the around-the-head contraption, and I’m not like some raging harmonihomo, but good goddamn that man amazes me.

I was super pleased when he christened his set with an acoustic version of the title track from “The Artist In the Ambulance.” Stripped down, it just takes on a brand new meaning; it’s so raw and moving.  That album is so personal to me because I associate it with Henry, when our relationship was still new and we were learning about each other. I remember driving around one Sunday, ending up in West Virginia with no destination in sight, and listening to that album. It was one of the first times Henry admitted to sharing somewhat of a partiality to a band I liked.  So Thrice always makes me feel bonded to him, in some intrinsic way, because music is the biggest way I bond with people. I never told Henry this, so he’ll probably read this and be all “awww gosh darnit” but then he will act like it didn’t faze him. You know, the Henry Way.

So I’m standing there, by myself, next to a girl with her boyfriend who slurs, “Oh wow, [Dustin Kensrue] is so hot” and then proceeds to  spend the entire set texting. And down a few heads from her is this gaggle of peacoated sorority whores who never stopped loudly conversing in their twatty faux-Valley Girl cadence . I mean, it was a goddamn ACOUSTIC SHOW, how loud do you really need to shout? That is when I realized that perhaps I prefer shows with a younger crowd, because those kids are there for the music. They show respect for the artists that have sacrificed so much just to be able  to get up on a stage and play for us. Those kids, they don’t go to shows and stand with their backs to the stage, giggling with their tactless posse.

And that is also when I realized I didn’t mind the guy standing slightly behind me, who had taken on the role of Dustin’s backup singer and LOUDLY sang along to each and every song, even the covers, and in between pauses, he would shout little pieces of trivia about Dustin and Thrice to his very tall and curly-haired friend who evidently didn’t know much. Anyway, Dustin the Second and I were the only two people in our area who screamed loudly and applauded furiously after each song.

It’s fucking Dustin Kensrue, ya’ll. His drummer is my fucking son’s namesake.

Out of all the guys that night, Dustin was the one who meant serious business. Instead of telling us stories about crazy tweakin’ men pushing cars or trying to egg the crowd into heckling him (seriously, someone said, “screw you” to Matt Pryor after he begged to be heckled, prompting Matt to take a swig of beer and dryly retort, “Ooooh, screw you. Good one.”), Dustin went off on fucking brilliant tangents about faith and spirituality and accepting the fact that he will never know everything there is to know, and it was so articulate that I won’t even try to paraphrase it, because we all know I’m practically illiterate. But here is the profound statement that Obsessive Texter’s boyfriend made about it: “He is like, so smart.” Word.

And then he played this song about his wife, wherein I lost my shit and gave myself Tammy Faye Bakker eyes.

Dustin ended his set, devoid of any bells and whistles, with the  most heart-wrenching cover of “Round Here.” Now, I like the Counting Crows; I won’t try and act like I’m too elite to appreciate radio-friendly alternative. (Plus Jennifer Aniston dated Adam Durwitz and hello, she’s my fucking homegirl, whut.) But there was something very moving about Dustin’s rendition of it, that my heart felt constricted in my ribcage and I sobbed the whole way through it.

• Encore: Dustin and Matt re-staged and attempted to do a duet of Ryan Adams’ “Sweet Carolina,” but  Matt was having tuning problems and had to run off stage to grab a new guitar, shouting, “I’m so fucking prepared for this” as he disappeared. When he came back, he mentioned that someone had told him he looked like a ’30s gangster in that hat, so he proceeded to talk out of one side of his mouth in this creepy Dick Tracy-esque drawl. It was nice, much-needed moment of levity after Dustin’s amazingly sovereign set. And when they finally sang the song, it was sweeping and gorgeous and gave me chills up my spine.
• Afterward, Chris and Anthony joined them for aJawbreaker cover, and thenNOFX’s “Linoleum” which I felt was a perfect note to end on.

I’m very grateful that I got to be there for such a wonderfully gut-wrenching night of music from some of the most revered men in today’s scene. I just wish I had been able to share it with someone, because the only thing worse than post-show depression is not having anyone to ruminate with. (Not that Henry is wildly known for his post-show ruminations, but you know what I mean.)

Fucking music, man.

[Note: Chooch was fine, just being a drama king because mommy and daddy left him with his grandmother, oh the horror. And for the record? If Chooch had been hurt, and not just overreacting to the fact that we weren’t home, I totally would not have stayed at that show. I’m not THAT terrible of a mother, no matter what you’ve heard.]

For my friend Jessa, who appreciates Craig Owens as much as me!

In other lame areas of my life, I had the first game night of 2009 on Sunday but have been too lazy to write about it. Blogging is becoming a chore again. All I want to do is listen to music, write stories and skin missionaries. Drink some wine after that’s all done. You know, the usual.

I think my goal for 2009 is to make crepes filled with rich delicacies of the world. Then I will open a creperie and I will dress the windows with crepe draperies. I’ll have a specialty crepe called The Janna, which will have boot straps strategically folded in.  Another goal for 2009 is to learn how to make crepes in the first place.

Also for 2009, I would like to stop typing without my contacts in.

My friend Francesco had everyone ask him questions about 2008, and I’m going to ask everyone the one I asked him because I like it when you people tell me shit:

You have one day from 2008 to relive, maybe it’s because you want the chance to do it differently, or because it was just so good that you want to live it all over again. What day would you choose and why?

And I will tell you my answer, because you know I’m just screaming on the inside to talk about more about myself, tralala:

2008 wasn’t too horrible for me so I wouldn’t want to really change any of it. Even the parts that found me crying and puking out my guts in a cemetery? Those parts went on to become better days. So I would want to relive my favorite day of 2008 and there are two that are impossible for me to choose between so I guess if suddenly it were possible to make this question a reality and go back in time, I’d have to flip a fucking coin and then also I would want to go and have sex with Moses and see if that would make it in the Bible. And then after that, I would go thieve some bitches in Constantinople so next time I had to flip a fucking coin, I’d least have something cooler than a goddamn quarter.

Anyway, I’d pick either Warped Tour in July (obv.) or the Westmoreland County Fair in August which I can’t explain, but that was a fun fucking evening. For me, anyway. Henry notsomuch. Last summer was just really rad.

OK YOUR TURN DO IT NOW GO.

My New Underage Homies

Somewhere in between salivating over the extensive candy spread that was being sold as skater’s fuel and Christina trying to fillet herself with a saw, we braved the cold in order to have a cigarette. This is where, beneath rain that was trying desperately to be ice, we met Jordan. Boasting an I <3 Haters t-shirt and braces, Jordan proceeded to give an argument that he was, in fact, 18 and oh brother could we please spare a smoke? Apparently, his argument was convincing enough for Christina to flick him a Camel with no hesitation. I guess he felt obligated to give us some chatty as payment, as he hung around and told wild tales of being the only black kid in his school who likes hard music. “Well, except for one other black kid. But he’s gay.” He then went on  to say that being gay is like the new goth, and Christina and I agreed fervishly, as we had just made fun of a faux-lesbo couple inside the show. They were literally dragging each other around, holding hands with feigned passion, and then quickly scanning everyone around them to see if anyone was noticing. It was the lamest thing I think I’ve ever seen. Kind of like when Christina wears bandanas as headbands.

Then some other youngin’ with a nearly-Canadian accent ambled over, skateboard in tow, and weasled his own cigarette from Christina, the human tobacco dispenser. She’s like an anti-Truth billboard. He wove yarns about chain-smoking Camel Crushes and coughing up blood. “They were recalled, you know,” he said in earnest. Christina looked horrified because evidently she’s been smoking them too. I waited for her to fall asleep that night in the hotel room before chanting, in a soft, monotone whisper, “Smoke more Crushes. Have another Crush. You think Crushes are better than pot. Smoke them all day long. No more food, just Crushes.”

I think that kid’s name was Kyle. He looks like a Kyle, in any case. Kurt. Kam. Kleatus. He was going to give Christina a cigarette as soon as his friends came back in the car where he left his pack. But that’s like basically saying, “What, baby? I put on a condom, I promise.” She told him not to worry about it, which is a good thing considering THAT CAR DOESN’T EXIST.

The Bathroom Condition

I don’t generally make use of the facilities when I’m at shows because club bathrooms make me feel like I’m walking into an STD incubator. But I had been drinking a torpedo-sized can of Monster and kind of really sort of had to go.

The stalls weren’t too bad. I was able to enter one without the need for a hockey stick to slap away sullied tampons or soggy wads of toilet water. Soggy from the commode water or emo tears of angst, who knows? I was able to pee without worrying some rare bacterial eel from Asia was going to swim up from the pipes and enter my vagina. I was even able to wash my hands with a lovely aromatic hand soap and not that orange shit that reeks of hospitals and  high school science labs. A very surprising jaunt into a public restroom, to be sure.

But I did not attempt to return to the bathroom later on and here is why: Two girls  were hogging the sink area, posing sexily with each other, lips all smooched out and dripping with glittery lip gloss, taking their photos into the mirror. The one girl’s hip was jutted out so far that it kept grazing my thigh as I tried desperately to suds up while fixating on my hands and not at the creepy sexual circus that was opening its big top right next to me. The worst part was that they looked like they had ended up there accidentally after leaving a Hollister sale and decided, “Oh what the fuck, while we’re here let’s update our Facebook pics because OMGWE’REATAROCKSHOW!” They looked to be in their early twenties, making this display completely unacceptable. I wanted to toss some Maroon5 tickets at them to get them to go away.

Maybe I should have just looked for a nice photo booth to piss in.

The Worst Moment of My Life

Sometime after my accidental immersion in restroom eroticism, Jonny from Emarosa was back behind the merch table, not being noticed. Christina wanted to go talk to him, but I kept saying I didn’t want to. I knew what was going to happen: I was going to get up there, he was going to look at me expectantly, and I was going to blubber all over his pants. It happens all the time when I meet people in bands that genuinely affect me. So Christina is all, “Well, I want to meet him” and somewhere inside the pit of my soul, the thirteen-year-old in me reared her unreasonably jealous head and whined, “THAT’S NOT FAIR I LIKED THEM FIRST AND I LIKE THEM MOST.” Still not wanting to do this, but also not wanting her to meet him on her own, I reluctantly trailed behind her with my head down.

Here is where I am going to be honest: this was a really painful moment for me. It hurt me so deeply that I haven’t wanted to write about this trip at all and I have barely talked about it even with my friends. But here is what happened in a nut shell – Jonny essentially didn’t notice me at all because as usual, boring old Erin was eclipsed by Christina’s showy charm and no matter how many times I tried to talk, he would always go back to her. So of course, she gets this brilliant idea to try to make me look like the super fan, which backfired and made me look like a fucking loser. Oh look, it’s the new Suicide Smoothie from Jamba Juice, and it’s seeping from my pores. We probably only had a minute of face time with him, but it dragged out in excruciating intervals and I could hear my own stammering voice, laced with fear and doubt, as though I was screaming to be heard outside of the fishbowl on my head. After I told him he was awesome for the FOURTH time (wtf ugh), I thought the game warden had finally arrived with the shotgun but NO. NO NO NO that fucking tampon Christina had to go and be a fucking backstabber by asking if she could take a picture with him. So then it was all, “Here Erin take this photo of us” and then I don’t know which of them had the brilliant afterthought to include ME, the one who actually LIKES HIS MUSIC AND OWNS EMAROSA’S ALBUM, but the next thing I knew, I was in the asshole picture too and let me tell you that picture is like keeping the jizz of the trucker who raped you in the rest stop THAT IS HOW SICKENING this momento is to me. Horrible. Awful. Painful.

I vaguely remember almost tripping over someone’s bike as I retreated. I almost wish I would have. That would have been the richest ending to this story. AND THEN ERIN WAS IMPALED BY THE SPOKES OF SOME THIRTEEN YEAR OLD’S BIKE AND BLED OUT ALL OVER THE FLOOR BUT THE SHOW STILL WENT ON THE END.

Later that night, Christina had the audacity to say that the most traumatic moment of the night for her was that goddamn Benny Hill Show scene with the fucking Mountain Dew can. Oh, well la de da. I was just psychologically mauled back there by the merch booth, but hold the phones, Christina didn’t know where to set down a can of fucking Mountain Dew. That bitch is lucky I didn’t haul off and wizard kick her fucking cartoon face right then and there.  God, get fucked.

Anyway, it’s always nice when you take solace in someone’s music and then when you try to tell them that, they act like they would rather by q-tipping their dickhole than sharing the same air as you. But to quote Christina, after we walked away, “OMG JONNY WAS SO NICE SQUUUUEEEE” and you know I’m pissed off when I write the word “squee.”

Trying not to let it ruin my night, I consoled myself by going back to scene kid adoration and trying my best to enjoy Breathe Carolina’s set while blocking out the horror show that had just transpired, knowing I’d have the rest of my life to replay it over and over and over in my head like that fucking 1-800-MY-LEMON commercial that I hate so much.

I wish I had been there with Purple Hood. I bet she would have acted like half of a faux-lesbian couple with me, holding my hand tenderly while not forcing me to talk to Jonny. Maybe she would have won me a cute pink stuffed sea barnacle from a Claw machine after the show, braided my hair and told me I was pretty while playing me a mix tape full of Seaweed and Sunny Day. Then the next day we’d go to the mall so she could get her cartilage pierced and then she’d buy me a bracelet at Hot Topic and maybe we might stop for a Slushie at 7-11 and talk about how rad Jennifer Aniston is (Team Aniston FO’ LYFE). Shit, now I want to date that girl.

And then later I hugged a Teletubby. People in costume always prod my desire to dole out hugs. I don’t know what it is, but at haunted houses especially, I’m always wanting to dry hump every last Joe in a Kmart mask.

And then I made Judas tip him.

At some point, Pierce the Veil came on and I was able to go back to that sensation of inner peace for awhile. I was a little sad though that Henry wasn’t with me, because he likes them too and their songs always make me think of him. I was partially aware that Christina wasn’t even really watching the show, which annoyed me but whatever. She broke up a chick fight at one point because she always has to meddle. Me? I’d have liked to have seen how that would have panned out, but whatever. I will say, however, that by the  time Christina stepped in, the back of the one girl’s head looked like what’s beneath Tyra’s weave. It was all nest-y and knotted and I can only imagine how badly her scalp must have ached. I wanted to know what started the fight, and for whatever reason, I dwelled on that for days following.

This dude was standing near the front with us and it was kind of like having Henry there. Old? Check. Earplugs? Check. Glasses and 1980’s THE SERVICE ‘stache? Check. Except this guy was shaking his jock all over the place. He was INTO IT and it was incredible. He was also recording a lot of the show, and I was worried because there were two young girls in front of him who were dancing with each other. It started out innocently, but before I knew it, they were essentially simulating sex. The one girl kept throwing her head back and a few times it hit my arm. I was afraid they were going to get me pregnant so I stepped to the side. So yes, I was worried that the Bizzaro Henry was clandestinely filming them for some sick, underground clothed porn ring, but then I think the one girl was his daughter. Which, depending on how you tend to view sex in the 21st century, is still alarmingly awkward.

Also next to me was a young kid with gaudy fake eyelashes who I assumed was a chick until he leaned over me to shout in a husky tone, “Is Monica here?” There was definitely a bobbing Adam’s apple. The youngest trannie I’ve ever seen in person (and the first scene trannie), as I happily jotted in my diary later that night.

I really like Pierce the Veil because a lot of their lyrics are about soul-crushing love and suicide and just being fucking miserable. Among my favorites are:

“Please understand me when
I’d rather see you dead
Than live without me, so thirsty for more
Beyond the sea blue light I met the love of my life
She’d rather see me dead than face me
I like your starry eyes, they yell surprise! Surprise!
I’m in love…but not for long”

***

“Another boy without a sharper knife
The moment, that’s where I
Kill the conversation
Wrap this up
With a knife that loves to feel
How do you know how deep to go before it’s real “

***

Plus, there’s some screaming too which stirs the anger I always got brewing in my veins. I love you, Pierce the Veil.

I am done with this fucking saga.

Part I Part II