Wednesday, February 11th, fuck yeah! That was the night of the Pierce the Veil/Sleeping with Sirens World Tour here in Pittsburgh. They played here for two nights because Pittsburgh goes HARD for PTV; I wanted to go both nights but Henry was like YEAH RIGHT PICK ONE so we went the second night because everyone knows that the second night is the best. (That’s a thing, isn’t it?)

We went to Rivertown first for a quick pizza dinner and drinks, passing the ever-growing line of kids outside of Stage AE. Worried about not getting a good spot, I lied and said that the show started at 6. “An early show tonight, I guess,” I shrugged, and Henry didn’t question me.  I rushed him out of Rivertown around 5 so we could get in line.

“Are you kidding me?!” Henry cried, double-checking his ticket once we were already firmly planted in the snaking row of scene kids. “It says DOORS at 6, not SHOW at 6!” And I just laughed, because duh. So we stood outside in the cold for the next hour while crackheads tried to get us to buy their black market PTV t-shirts (my favorite was when one of them dropped one on the ground, accidentally stepped on it, and then waved it around in the air, hollering about how great the quality was). The wait in line was mostly OK, the group of kids in front of us were relatively tame, but the one had her mom with her and she got increasingly more showboat-y as the wait progressed. She kept trying to be all self-deprecating about her age (39) but then tried to make up for it by bragging relentlessly about all the shows she’s been to. (BLACK SABBATH. BREAKING BENJAMIN. THE VERY FIRST WARPED TOUR EVER OMG.) And then she was like, “CLUTCH IS SUPPOSED TO BE COMING HERE SOON I WOULD LIKE TO GO SEE CLUTCH I THINK THEY’RE PLAYING HERE NEXT WEEK CLUTCH CLUTCH CLUTCH” and it was like, “OK WE GET IT YOU LIKE CLUTCH.” Personally, I don’t like Clutch, and this bitch was making me dislike them even more. She just kept going on and on about all these old concerts and how she was probably dating herself, because you know, being “old” means you have to go to great lengths to prove that you still like music.

So I kept trying to raise Henry’s arm in the air while obnoxiously crying out, “Judas Priest! Ted Nugent! CHEAP TRICK!” For some reason, this just put Henry in an even worse mood and then he looked like this:

I was going to launch into a rant here about age versus music and why does it even have to be a factor, but I’m trying to live a stress-free life and that topic just makes me angry. I’m sure Henry could offer up a transcript of the rant he had to listen to before the show at Rivertown, if anyone is interested. (Kidding. Henry doesn’t listen to me when I speak.)

Bottom line is you’re never “too old” to be a fan of a band. If I didn’t go to a show because I was afraid of being the oldest one there, or having people mistake me for a chaperone/mom, that would just be a shame. And also, I would probably not go to a LOT of shows then since most bands I like have a young fan base.

Once the doors opened, the line moved relatively quickly. Henry and I got separated at the security checkpoint, and he was extremely dismayed to learn that I made it in first and claimed a prime spot against a railing. I thought this was a Good Thing since he didn’t want to go all the way onto the floor with the children (plus, I wanted to be able to see while still being in the midst of things, so this spot was seriously the best of both worlds because we were raised up just high enough that no one could stand in front of me on the floor and block my view); apparently though Henry had hoped that we could go upstairs with the parents in the balcony. I just laughed, because no. I told him he was welcome to go up there alone, but he always gets scared when I get faux-courteous. Who knows if he’ll get castrated later for taking me up on my trick offer.

Now is the part where I type words about the bands that were there, so you are welcome to peace out.

I. PVRIS

I am notoriously snobby when it comes to girl singers. I always have to laugh when Scene Fems get all up in arms that there are “never enough” females on Warped Tour because why flood the tour with mediocre music? PVRIS is one of the few bands with a female lead that has actually gotten my attention in awhile. I hesitate to describe them as dark electro-pop, because that usually calls to mind something of a more Goth nature, but to me they sound like a glorious collision of synthpop and post-hardcore. They are SO YOUNG and started making waves in the scene before they even had an album out. I like that they’re bringing some estrogen to Rise Records, and I also like that they have essentially been groomed by Blake and Sierra from Versa. It shows.  Lynn’s voice is just what this scene has been missing. Ugh, they are wonderful. This is why I can’t write about music for a living, because it’s all HEART EYES and UGH YOU GUYS THEY PENETRATE MY SOUL. Can’t turn off how I feel, ever.

This is basically the same way I felt when I first heard Paramore back in the day. “Fuck yes, a singer-broad who doesn’t annoy me!” I can’t wait to go see them 934790374 more times. They remind me a little of The Flir, and I fucking loved The Flir so much but then they just kind of….stopped.

Henry said they were “OK” but that “the singing needs worked on.” You can catch Henry on the next season of The Voice, by the way.

I think I’ve posted about them on here before, but here is an acoustic video in case you felt the urge to put something in your hearing orifices.

II. Mallory Knox

They’re from England and this was their first time on tour in the States. So that was cool. I don’t know what else to say. It’s not that I didn’t like them, but my attention was definitely elsewhere during their set. The Penguin game had started and I was frantically checking my phone for updates, etc. and then I saw on Instagram that EMAROSA announced they’re playing Warped Tour this summer so I was basically peaced out of Mallory Knox’s set from that moment on….until I heard what I was sure was about to be a Whitesnake cover and then realized that the singer just kind of sounded like David Coverdale. I shared this observation with Henry, who just frowned and shook his head no.

Maybe I need to listen to them some more, I don’t know.

III. Sleeping With Sirens

Sleeping with Sirens is kind of THE BOY BAND of this scene. Their opening video montage even spoofed off of that, actually. So when Mallory Knox was over and the SWS backdrop slowly began to rise, the girls in the crowd went ballistic. “Take it easy!” Henry spat disgustedly into the general area. “They’re not even coming out yet!”

Truth: I was disappointed when this tour was initially announced and I saw that Pierce the Veil was co-headlining with SWS. My feelings toward SWS have really run the gamut over the years. When I first heard If I’m James Dean, You’re Audrey Hepburn back in 2010, I was all a-smit with Kellin Quinn. Granted, he looked like a little scene fetus, but that didn’t change the fact that this was going to be The Song that Henry and I fake-danced together at our imaginary never-wedding. I even considered having it choreographed. I used to walk the high school track by my house after work some times and I would listen to that song on repeat, with complete and utter disregard to the rest of the album.

But then I saw them live and was like, “Oh.” At first I thought it was just because it was Warped Tour. Sometimes bands just sound better inside grimy venues at night, than on some tiny stage in a parking lot, you know?

But then I saw them several more times, in a variety of settings.

He cannot sing live, you guys. I don’t know what it is. Acoustic, he’s not too bad. But with a full band, up on a stage, it’s like, “No, go home.”

However, I was shocked this time around because he didn’t sound as terrible as he normally does! But then Henry pointed out it was because they turned up everything else. And then I was like, “Oh. That makes sense. Never mind.”

Ew, agreeing with Henry makes me feel itchy.

But this is not to say that the rest of the band sucks! They are actually pretty wonderful have always saved the show every time I’ve seen them. They’ve definitely jumped on the fast track to fame, so their shows are pretty spectacular on the ol’ eyeballs nowadays. It’s all kind of lights and videos and streamers — you know, things to distract you from the vocal flaws!

OK FINE, I totally wear Kellin’s clothing line and keep a picture of him on desk.

The one huge highlight for me was seeing Nick Martin, who assumed the role as their guitarist after Jesse Lawson left in 2013. I LOVE NICK MARTIN SO MUCH! Back in the day, I used to play one of his old Underminded songs over and over in the car and sigh dreamily to Henry, “Isn’t he the best screamer ever?” Of course Henry answered with a frown.

I met Nick in 2009 when he was on Craig Owens’ solo tour. He is such a fucking great guy. He was also in Isles and Glaciers and then Craig Owens post-Chiodos “I’LL JUST START MY OWN BAND!” band D.R.U.G.S. But then Craig went back with Chiodos and basically left the rest of D.R.U.G.S. hanging. So it’s nice to see that Nick got himself a gig with a successful band, playing for bigger than crowds that he was with D.R.U.G.S.

They played “…James Dean” and I was trying to get Henry into it but he had the “Not enough beer in the world” expression on his face.

Streamer Chicken.

IV. Pierce the Veil

I don’t even know what to say about Pierce the Veil that I haven’t already. They have been firmly planted inside my heart for the last eight years and they inspire me so much. I can honestly say that I have never been to a bad PTV show (except maybe the one in Buffalo but that wasn’t their fault) and it’s pretty expected at this point that I am going to be emotionally ravaged for the next few weeks after. So I’m going to be really blunt and say that I don’t think I can write much about it, other than to say it was an amazing night that made me want to paint and write and potentially send an email that maybe I shouldn’t.

They played “Caraphernalia” and I almost chewed off my lip because THAT SONG. So much meaning. What’s so good about picking up the pieces, indeed.

JAIME!!!!!!! Henry was pissed that he missed this because he was off buying me a shirt, LOLforever.

“One of these days, that will be me up there, having my face sung to by Vic Fuentes,” Henry dreams.

Kellin Quinn came out to close out the show by singing “King For a Day” with PTV, which was expected. And good. I’m so happy to see Pierce the Veil playing for so many people now, but I selfishly long for the days when I was standing right in front of the speakers at a skate park in Buffalo with only about 100 kids behind me.

LOOK AT WHAT A LITTLE BABE HE WAS IN 2008!

Really, what I miss the most is hearing the old stuff. One of the last times I saw them, they played “Yeah Boy” but it seems like it’s so rare. I would kill to hear some stuff from “A Flair for the Dramatic” because to me, that is their best. I was whining about it to Terri (thank god for Terri!) and she said maybe they’ll do a 10th anniversary tour for it like so many other bands have been doing lately. I would fucking die if that happened.

***

After the show, we were briskly walking through the frigid night to the trolley station, when Henry said, “Tony cut his hair, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know!” I cried, because sorry, bro, I’m there for the music not the looks.

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. He cut his hair, definitely.”

Oh OK, Henry. For someone who doesn’t care about this shit, he sure has a thing for the post-hardcore coif scene. If Craig Owens from Chiodos even uses the tiniest spritz of Sun-In, Henry is all over that shit.

“Craig’s hair is lighter,” he’s been known to scream in the middle of shows.

So now I’m convinced that Henry dreams about being some kind of Scene Barber, snipping Vic Fuentes’s split ends, pomading Andy Biersack’s pompadour, freshening Jonny Craig’s fade and “accidentally” nicking his jugular. OMG we can call him Scene-y Todd!

Apologies for the shitty ‘shopping on this but I did this quickly on my lunch break at work and had to use PAINT. Ugh!

This song inspired so many paintings and stories in stupid 2008. I still have moments where I crave those days so hard, but mostly I ignore because what’s done is done, it is what it is, what happens in 2008 stays in 2008. Pick an obnoxious idiomatic expression and call it a day.

Today, however, the cravings were practically waiting for me at the foot of the bed when I woke up. And I will feed them, because I’m a moron. Time to bring back my emo side-sweep and brood in a corner with a canvas.

Happy Valentine’s Day, I guess.

It all started with an innocent trip to Eat n Park after work last week. I worked late shift that night, so it was already well past 8 by the time Henry, Chooch and I got there. I couldn’t help but notice that the room we were seated in was full of older couples on dates. I could tell it was a date, and not just a casual “I don’t feel like cooking, let’s go out to eat” because every older person seemed smitten with their older person companion. In fact, one of the older person couples even sat on the same side of the booth and shared a plate from the salad bar. Every so often, male older person would lean over and kiss female older person on her temple. It was all at once endearing and nauseating, and I struggled to take a picture of them, eventually managing a slick under-the-table shot.

Another older couple arrived right before we left, and thank god because otherwise I might have died not knowing the precise way the female older person orders her side of broccoli (a double serving, extra-steamed so the florets are on the threshold of disintegration).

I couldn’t stop giggling about this, all these old people hitting the town (well, Dormont anyway) after hours on a Thursday night.

“It’s like a Boz Scaggs concert just let out!” I texted to some friends, along with the pictures. The responses varied from “I don’t know who that is” to “Is that some old singer, I guess?” to “*radio silence*”.

Was my inner old person showing? Or WAS I JUST IMAGINING THAT BOZ SCAGGS EXISTS? I could hear myself saying his name. Boz Scaggs. Boz Scaggs. Bozzzzzz SCAGGsssss. It was sounding more and more foreign until eventually it just sounded like a frog ribbitting under water.

I tried to defend myself, plead my case by insisting that “if you’ve ever been in a grocery store, you’ve probably heard a Boz Scaggs tune at least once in your life” while willing myself to conjure up in my mind my mom’s Boz Scaggs record that I know I used to play in the basement of my parent’s house, didn’t I? DIDN’T I?! JOJO?!

I mean come on: “Lido Shuffle”? “Lowdown”? “LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO ME”!??!?! That was a staple on all of my soft rock mix tapes when I was in high school! BOZ SCAGGS IS REAL.

And then my music-loving friend Terri rescued me from my self-doubt, because she too, has a space in her heart for his smooth yacht rock tracks. Then after Janna and I went to see Birdman on Friday, I made her listen to Boz Scaggs songs on my phone until she finally exclaimed, “Oh, OK! Yeah, that guy. He’s real.” And then she wouldn’t stop singing “Lido Shuffle” which made Chooch irritable.

***

Sunday morning, I awoke to “Lowdown” playing on my bedroom radio. No joke, there it was, wafting out of the dusty speakers like it was no big deal, just another Boz Scaggs Top 40 hit to stuff a Taylor Swift and Bruno Mars sandwich. I’ve been listening to a variety-type station in my room lately because of my penchant for nostalgic earworms and soft rock’s natural ability to ease me into a sweet slumber, even if it means having to tolerate the occasional current pop hit. How else do you guys think I get to hear Laura Branigan’s “Gloria” approximately twice a week? (Seriously, that station LOVES to play that song for some reason.)

Anyway, I excitedly texted Janna and Terri that “Lowdown”  was on. And laying there in bed, taking in the jazzy trumpets and silky background vocals, I started to draw some comparisons to Steely Dan, another band I loved so much when I was growing up thanks to my step-dad, and even got to see them once about 15 years ago and it was amazing. (I had to choose between them and Yes! It was a hard choice.) So I spent a good chunk of my afternoon listening to Steely Dan, and then Emerson Lake and Palmer, and I really started to feel like I needed to grow a beard, put on a white leisure suit, and steal away into the night in my Chevy Van.

Somewhere during this time, Terri texted me and said that “Lido Shuffle” was on in the grocery store she was in! I started freaking out about this, and Henry was like, “Calm down. It’s not that exciting.” BUT IT FELT LIKE I WAS PSYCHICALLY WILLING BOZ SCAGGS TO SURFACE!

And then, this is the weirdest part, that evening Henry and I put on Breaking Bad. We’re way behind and only on season two so DON’T TELL ME ANYTHING. But in this particular episode, Walt is having breakfast with his family, and he starts talking about music with his son, and is appalled that his son has never heard of Steely Dan. I started laughing, since I had been revisiting Steely Dan earlier that day. Henry was like, “Whatever, not that big of a deal.” OK, just watch this:

 MY HEAD NEARLY SHORT-CIRCUITED. I literally jumped off the couch and was shouting, “REALLY? REALLY?!” and Henry mumbled, “OK that’s kind of weird.”

Anyway, this is all a really long-winded way to tell you that after looking through Boz Scaggs albums all weekend, my new Glenn Defacing Project involves Glennifying RECORD ALBUMS!

IT’S ALMOST LIKE BOZ SCAGGS POSED FOR THIS PICTURE PURPOSELY KNOWING THAT GLENN’S HEAD WOULD ONE DAY SO PERFECTLY REPLACE HIS OWN!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have the day off work, which I am now going to fill with more dreamy yacht rock until later tonight when Pierce the Veil blows my heart out of my chest. Don’t judge.

Friday, June 6, 2008

Morning

Today I was looking for Chooch’s juice cup and thought perhaps he left it on the window sill. When I pulled back the curtains, something small and grayish in color hit the floor with a plop. I screamed and jumped back. A few seconds later, I saw it jump underneath the TV stand. I called Henry immediately and reported to him that we had in the house what I assumed was a toad. “It’s definitely something that makes a plopping sound when it hits the ground, so whatever that is, that’s what’s in the house.” Happy birthday, Henry!

Chooch stood by the TV for awhile, lining up some of his cars on the shelf. Looking at his bare legs and feet, I figured it was probably not the best idea for him to be standing so close to our house guest (whom I lost sight of). What if it wasn’t a toad at all? I entertained the idea of a brand new species hulking around back there in the corner, perhaps something with tentacles, venom, and red pubic hair. I pulled Chooch away from the TV and made him play somewhere safer, like near the basement steps, and continued flirting with that thought.

I kept my feet tucked underneath me on the couch for the rest of the morning.

Afternoon

Henry came home from work and pulled the TV back. “It’s a mouse, you retard.” Then he left to get sticky traps, because I was adamant about not killing it.

Evening

People at work have informed me that those sticky traps kill mice. “Sometimes a mouse will chew its own foot off to escape from those traps,” my boss said. I texted Henry: ABORT, ABORT. Henry says mouse removal is officially my responsibility.

“Tell me you’re not this worked up over a MOUSE,” Eleanore said disgustedly. I ate a good almond cookie.

Saturday, June 7, 2008

Morning

Diary, it is 1:00 in the morning and the mouse is perched above the screen on the front window! He’s really cute; I’m talking to him and feeding him shredded cheese. I don’t know what his name is yet so I’m just calling him “Hey little buddy.”  It reminds me of when I was in elementary school and I taught a Praying Mantis how to count change. Henry said he’s a field mouse. “Like Secret of NIMH?” I asked. “Yeah, like Secret of NIMH,” he said, sounding a bit impatient. We’ve been watching it intently for fifteen minutes now. It just scratched himself and then stepped on the cheese I sprinkled. Every time Henry gets too close, the mouse tenses up and makes like he’s going to run — I’d get tense too if I saw a big bearded douchebag approaching me  — but when I approach, he is calm and we make casual eye contact.

I’m thinking of the cozy house I’m going to build for him, with a little chimney and fresh daisies in a tiny vase, but then Henry just tried to catch him with an empty iced tea canister, causing the mouse to attempt suicide by leaping to the floor. Look Diary, that mouse is cute and cuddly, sure, FROM AFAR. But I guarantee if that thing starts scampering around my feet, it’s going to get booted into the wall. Losing sight of it, I tug on Henry’s shirt and hug him from behind and I bet he wishes I was wearing a strap-on. Henry is mad now because he “could have had it” but he couldn’t bend down with me grabbing at him like that. He was all, “GO STAND OVER THERE,” and if he had it his way, “there” would be at the bottom of the ocean with a few cinder blocks and a chain.

The mouse ran back behind the TV.

Evening

Hey, I haven’t seen that mouse in awhile. I can only hope it’s off making hundreds of babies somewhere in my house.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

Evening

A few minutes ago, I was treating my brain to some quality reality TV programming, as you do, when I heard a strangulated growl coming from the dining room. I looked up and saw Nicotina (aka Speck, Breakfast Nook, Pickles) with my little buddy IN HER MOUTH. At this point, I don’t know the mouse’s status (breathing, not breathing), but my rescue mode is activated and I start screaming bloody murder for Nicotina to release the damn mouse. Henry and Chooch are upstairs and probably think the house is on fire or there’s a hatchet lodged in my head with the way I’m flipping out. I yelled up to Henry what was going down and heard him mumble, “Jesus Christ.”

Cornering Nicotina on the back porch, I grabbed her just before Marcy came stalking through the kitchen to get a piece of the action. Marcy does NOT need to be involved in this. She scares me. Nicotina looked highly confused, her eyes said, “Is this not what I’m supposed to do?” I held my breath and snatched her, mouse and all, and keeping her at arm’s length, I ran with her to the front door. Before I had a chance to pull the door open, she spat the mouse out onto the couch and he scurried behind the pillows.

Henry and Chooch are downstairs at this point, and Chooch started crying; probably because he didn’t understand why Mommy was raving  with bugged-out eyes like a woman scorned. I ordered Henry to help and he reluctantly grabbed a diaper and held it open like a catcher’s mitt, muttering under his breath about how he should have just killed the fucker on Friday. I put aside my desire to donkey kick him and focus on making it through the night with no casualties. The mouse ran off the couch and fell into one of Chooch’s toy bins. “PICK IT UP AND TAKE IT OUTSIDE! WE STILL HAVE A CHANCE!” I screamed. Henry threw the bin on the front porch and said, “YOU go out there and YOU dump it out.”

So I did. And the mouse ran to freedom. Nicotina wouldn’t look at me for the rest of the night.

I was so amped up after that, that I couldn’t sit down. Fuck, Diary, I wish you could have seen it; it’s the most amazing feeling to save a life. I highly recommend it. I kept wanting to talk about it with Henry, but he was thoroughly unimpressed. “Normal people would have killed it, but not you.

You have to turn it into a Thing.” He won’t admit that I deserve to be knighted. I called Christina and she said the whole time I was telling her about it, she kept envisioning me as Dog the Bounty Hunter.

I think I want to do this for a living, this saving mice thing. I want to be on Animal Planet.

Monday, June 9, 2008

Evening

I’ve been telling everyone about my rescue success, about how valiant I am. Kim and Collin said something about me needing therapy, but I know they’re really just trying to downplay their awe.

I showed Kim the picture of Frederick (that’s the mouse) and she admitted he was really fucking cute.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008 TODAY

Morning

Chooch just pointed to the floor in the living room and innocently asked, “Whassat?” A dead mouse, that’s what. Shit, isn’t this chapter closed yet? I’m trying not to panic, trying not to wonder if it’s Frederick. Maybe he came back for more shredded cheese. All I know is that he wasn’t there five minutes ago when I walked across the room to the couch. I asked Chooch who put it there and he said Speck. That bitch.

I called Henry and yelled SOMETHING TERRIBLE JUST HAPPENED.

He told me to throw it outside, then hurried up and made sure I knew not to touch it with bare hands. So I wrapped it gingerly in a paper towel and placed it on the front porch.

Afternoon

THE MOUSE IS GONE. A FUCKING BIRD TOOK IT. I called Henry and, in quick-speak, relay to him the latest development. “….and so I had it on the porch so that you could bury it when you come home—” Henry interrupted me with genuine laughter. “–and now it’s GONE.” Henry gave me a talk about nature.

Evening

Bob told me there are probably a hundred more mice in my house.

I don’t want to do this for a living anymore.

————–

Today’s blog entry is brought to you by the numbers 2008 and the letters OLD, because I fear that if I try to write something new today, it will be in CAPSLOCK and possibly just the words “FUCK” and “DIE” typed in tandem with my twitching eyelids because HOW IS EVERYTHING SO ANNOYING TODAY? I got even less sleep than usual last night and now I am trapped inside my own self-created rage-vaccuum. G’day. 

In collecting old photos of my Pappap’s house, I found several that reminded me of how much music has always been a part of my life, and why so much of it naturally reminds me of that house.

I got my first damn cassette player from my grandparents for my third (fourth?) birthday. A year or two later, I upgraded to a Fisher Price tape recorder—it was taupe in color like all electronics were in the early 80s and came with a microphone, which I would hold up to TV speakers in my Pappap’s den, in order to record shit from Friday Night Videos. Rockwell’s “Somebody’s Watching Me” was on my very first mixtape. That song came on in the car a few weeks ago and I tried to get Chooch stoked on it but he only thought it was just ok.

The above picture was taken on the porch of my Pappap’s house, and anytime I hear the song “Under the Boardwalk,” my mind automatically beams me back to that porch, sitting at the glass table, playing Monopoly and listening to the Bruce Willis version of that song over and over while my grandma babysat me and my brother Ryan in the late 80s. AND THAT WAS MY FUCKING JAM.

Here we have my grandma holding me in the kitchen, and you can just barely see a stereo system on a shelf to the left.

This is how I grew to love Phil Collins, Kenny Rogers, and Gino Vanelli and also grilled cheese sandwiches. SOFT ROCK 4 LYFE. NO SHAME.

(I made my Pappap order me the Time Life “Body Talk” CD collection, and literally every song reminds me of either sitting in that kitchen or my favorite childhood restaurant–the Blue Flame.)

This is my aunt Susie and me in the clown room. Inside the desk behind us was a record player, and this is how I heard Frank Zappa for the first time ever.

There was always music playing in that house back then. And today, there is always music playing in my house. Sometimes different music is playing in multiple rooms at once (soft rock radio in the bedroom, Spotify on the computer downstairs, music videos on TV); this drives Henry nuts. Especially if we’re watching something on TV and then I scream something unintelligible and clamber up the steps because some cherished song is playing on the bedroom radio and I want to pretend like this is a serendipitous moment, like I can’t just queue it up on my phone, and so I’ll flip down on the bed and listen to “In the Air Tonight” or “Eye in the Sky” like I haven’t heard it in 20 years, while Henry is downstairs mumbling, “How did you even HEAR that from down here?”

And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some soft rock to Spotify.

Where Henry wines and dines me at Bob Evans and Olive Garden on our “vacation” two hours away from home. Part 1 is here.

Tuesday, August 3rd, 2004 (8:36am)

Haha, Henry walked to CVS to get me a new compact (he broke the cover off of my current one so I couldn’t bring it) and he came back with the wrong color. So he dejectedly turned around and headed back out into the jungle that is Cleveland. Are you crying for him yet?

We didn’t go to the bar last night because I looked exceptionally fat and ugly. Instead, we spent the evening with Carnie Wilson and her husband Rob, and then the Golden Girls stopped by.

It’s going to be 87 degrees and humid today. I can hardly wait. It’s going to be especially comfortable in the car.

Our big plans are to go on a boat tour at 12:00, but the paper said thunderstorms for today. It looks so nice out there now though.

Uh oh, Henry J. is back. Let’s see how he fared.

Haha, he bought the wrong shade again and now he’s sitting in the chair pouting. This is after he stomped around the room on a rampage, stuffing clothes into our bags. God, he’s a hothead.

Some religious show is on the WB and the host said, “Happy Happy Jesus day to everyone!” and now a choir is singing. I feel so enlightened by God’s love, like I kind of want to herd sheep.

(9:33am)
We checked out and are on our way to find somewhere to eat outside of Cleveland and Henry called me “fucking generic.”

Downtown Cleveland has no traffic at all. Henry said it’s “on the verge of being depressed.” It’s nice when he puts his economics degree to use.

Henry’s raging because he got a tree branch stuck under the car and he was going to try and dislodge it at a red light but a mini Cooper almost ran him over. God, he’s in such a pissy mood today. His name for today will be Crappy Pants.

(10:40am)
Crappy Pants started to lighten up for a bit but then he freaked out in the parking lot of Bob Evans [ed.note: It’s nice that Henry took me to a Bob Evans while on “vacation”] because I asked him to bring in the camera bag. You never know when you’re going to need the camera.

I simply cannot wait to indulge in my fruit and yogurt plate. I don’t want to eat too much before my highly-anticipated boat tour! Which BETTER NOT BE CANCELLED.

(11:57am)
Holy shit, we just made it onto the Goodtimes III boat. I had to suffer through yet another Crappy Pants hissy fit because the lot he wanted to park in was full. We had to drive around in a tireless effort for somewhere else to park, and unknowingly got caught up in the American Idol audition shuffle. It’s being held at the Browns stadium.

Oh god, we just had to watch a lesson in lifeguard vest fastening. I really hope we don’t need to use one.

Christ, there’s this grandma on our boat with two girls. She held up the ticket line with her asinine inquiries of senior discounts. Then she told the ticket guy, “I really am sixty, I swear!” God, I wanted to gag. Then she held up the ticket taker by asking him where she could get a drink. HOW ABOUT IN THE RIVER. She’s dumb and I hate her.

Henry J. is all, “Look, there’s the captain. That’s where he steers when he’s pulling out.” (LOL pulling out.) I thought he was in the AIRFORCE not the Navy? God, being in THE SERVICE sure turned little Henry J into a well-rounded man of knowledge. I’m lucky to call him my boyfriend.

(12:18pm)
So far, this is really boring. We’re listening to some stupid guy on a recording tell us about industrial crap. We’re on the Cuyahoga River, going past the Flats, whatever that means. Henry J’s so hardcore that he moved up a seat to take pictures. I didn’t want to sit with him anyway.

Oh Christ, he’s talking while he films. Just what everyone longs for: commentary by Henry J. Way to make it boring.

(1:05pm)
Thankfully, the boring river segment of the tour is over (the only thing I learned is Cleveland has weird bridges and mediocre graffiti). Now we’re finally going into Lake Erie, my bitches.

Oh God, Henry J’s trying to be funny again. He’s so funny he should be on “Blue Collar TV.”

I asked, “Why is the boat rocking?” Now, I wanted to hear an exciting answer like, “Because Godzilla and HR Pufnstuf are battling at the bottom of the lake” but instead Henry J says, “Well, it’s because the waves are going one way and then the wind is coming in from over that side…..” and I stopped listening.

I wonder if Henry J ever did whippets when he was younger. It would explain a lot. I should ask him. I lost him to the upper deck it seems. What the fuck is he taking pictures of? Oh shit — me. I’m hunching over to shield my ugly face but there’s no camouflaging my chub. Ew, I think he’s taking pictures of other peoples kids now. How perverse.

(1:50pm)
Oh God. We’re floating past this little business airport and a plane landed. Henry J was watching it with his mouth slightly agape and I swear I’m not kidding — a tear in his eye. I SAW IT! He gets so nostalgic when he sees airplanes. Oh, memories of his days in THE SERVICE.

[Ed.Note: This must have been the tour boat version of childbirth, because I somehow forgot how excruciating the tour was and insisted that we do it again the summer of 2013, where one of the bridges broke, resulting in us getting stuck on the river for something like 4 hours and Chooch and Henry tried to disown me.]

(2:30pm)
Amazingly, we’re en route to E. 99. [Ed.Note: I was obsessed with Bone Thugs-n-Harmony and had been trying to go to Cleveland since I was in high school specifically to see the intersection of E.99 and St. Clair, because it was on the cover of one of their albums (E.99 Eternal) and they had rapped about it. It was like a yo-girl’s version of Graceland, OK?] I’m sure Crappy Pants was hoping I’d forget. I admitted to him that I was afraid his bandanna would get us into trouble. His response was, “No, what’s going to get us into trouble is the white girl with the video camera.”

I sure hope I get to see Bone! Maybe they’re home, creepin’ on ah comeup, you know?

(2:33pm)
Leave it to Henry J to take a truly blessed and sacred moment and shit his runny diarrhea all over it. Instead of being grateful to aid me in my lifelong aspiration of seeing E.99 Street and St. Clair, he instead decided to lose his temper and berate me for making him drive into the ghetto and then turn around twice to ensure a proper photographical opportunity. You would think that the awestruck smile on my sweaty face would warm his heart one thousand times over. Wrong. NOTHING can warm that frigid rock of ice in his chest, except maybe some hardcore porn and a bucket of chicken.

Driving through these ghettos makes me reminisce to the point in my life when I was knee deep in this shit. I’m lucky to be alive right now, but you wouldn’t understand. Running from the popo in the middle of the night, your glock in your waistband and crackrocks stashed in your asshole. These are times I look back on in fond reflection but would never want to repeat.

In other words: I used to listen to a lot of gangsta rap.

Holy shit — Henry J just pulled over on the curb to consult his map. I can’t help but feel he could have picked a better area for that. He “thinks [he] knows where we’re going now.”

(4:27pm)
This entire afternoon has been spent in a dire search for cheap lodging. We just drove past a Clarion. but Crappy Pants said, “No, it looks too nice in front. We need something that looks like it’s falling down.” God, I can’t wait until that man marries me.

(6:24pm)
We’ve embarked on a journey for dinner. I’m sure I’ll pick this book back up at 8:00 to write of our progress and we will STILL be driving.

So, I was taking a shower (after we checked into our palatial Super 8 suite) and I somehow got conditioner up my nose and subsequently sneezed FOURTEEN TIMES in a row. It was orgasmic.

Then, with a towel securely wrapped around my wet head, I began my search for the ice machine. I walked all the way to the end of the hall, but there was NOTHING. Just a barren stairwell. Luckily, two Mexican boys just happened to emerge from their rooms and were quite efficient with their offers to help me in my quest. I walked down the remaining length of the hall with the older of the two while he informed me apologetically of his poor English skills. He even squeezed my shoulder at one point and I blushed.

He led me down the opposite stairwell and said, “There. In there.” He pointed to a door at the bottom of the steps and I immediately thought it was a trap. that I was getting raped and turned into a milkmaid.

It ended up being OK though. He opened the door for me and gestured excitedly toward the ice machine. I thanked him by slipping my tongue down his throat and we bid each other adieu. [Ed.Note: I read this out loud to Henry and said, “Wait…did this really happen?” and he mumbled, “Who knows with you.”]

(8:30pm)

We’re at Olive Garden. A brief rundown on what has transpired in the past two hours: Henry J drove us to Coventry. It’s like our Southside and home to the famous Grog Shop. Anyhow, our visit was not in the itinerary and this was a bit overwhelming for me, as I had not planned on walking since my foot is broken (it is, but Henry J doesn’t believe me). Then, Henry was mad at me because I didn’t want to visit any of the eateries that Coventry had to offer. He EXPLODED. It was tres embarrassing. He was all, “We’re going home!” Ooh, big words for a little man. Then he had the audacity to put the weight of this Hell Trip on ME!

We got back to the hotel at which point I’m subjected to more of Henry’s theatrics. “I’m going out by myself to find a bar!” I was like, “Good luck with that” and then he spazzed out because I didn’t cling to his ankles, begging him to stay. He blurted out, “Then you don’t love me!” through a stream of big gay tears. Meanwhile, he only walked next to our hotel to Olive Garden to get a menu for me.

Boy is he a sucker.

Now I’m enjoying a peach sangria and flagrant flirtations from our waiter. And Henry is trying to put two hours worth of tears behind him.

Oh goody, I just ate a stuffed mushroom with secret crabmeat. There’s nine years of vegetarianism down the drain.

Samuel. Our waiter’s name is Samuel.

I can’t stand the white asscake seated across from us with his friend. He’s attempting to design business cards for the friend (Shawn, to those who know him) and he’s being so obnoxious about it. Then he told some lame ass joke about Jeb Bush and unfair elections and it wasn’t even a joke!  When their meal was served, the waiter asked if he wanted any cheese on his pasta and he said, ” Yeah, a lot.” And he was hitting on the Asian hostess by telling her he adopts kids of other nationalities. He was like, “I have a black and I’m looking for an Asian” and the black woman in the next booth whipped her head back to look at him. He was a WEIRDO. He was talking about Jews, Ukranians, and Russians later, too.

(9:50pm)

OK so we finally got to eat after 3 hours of Hell, most of it from Erin. Needless to say dinner was interesting. I must admit the most annoying man I have ever the pleasure of sitting near was there. I think he mentioned every ethnicity there is in his conversation. For once, we had a good waiter. except for the mushroom episode, everything else was good. I feel bad she ate the little clam, I hope she doesn’t DIE! Well, I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings. I’m sure it will be another “Happy Happy Jesus Day” because I can sure use another one. I’m not sure my heart (old heart) can take it. So it’s off to watch the Amazing Race and explain all of the confusing things to her.

(10:48pm)

“Amazing Race” is pretty fascinating.

Anyway, I need to write about all the food that Crappy Pants shoved into his fat face: Three and a half breadsticks, a huge salad, the entire stuffed mushroom plate (after I found out about the crab), and three gigantic meat ravioli. ROAR.

OH! There’s some midget on Amazing Race and she just said, “Another one of my dreams came true!” because she got to see the pyramids and Henry said, “Another of her dreams is to have normal-sized legs.” I hope he goes to Hell. Midgets are people too.

I asked Crappy Pants what his favorite memory of me is, and he slapped me on the side of my head and said, “That.”

Asshole.

——————————–

Oh yes. There is a companion video. It’s called “How Are They Still Together?” P.S. The part where I call Henry “uneducated”? Don’t go crying rivers of pity for him just yet. That was my tip of the hat in reference to the time he and I had a political argument and he told me I was uneducated. I responded by breaking his glasses.

How happy are you  that I don’t vlog?

My nostalgia over this past week rubbed off on Corey and he started rummaging around our childhood home (our mom still lives there; he waited for her to leave so she wouldn’t freak out because God forbid her kids might be curious about their family heritage). He texted some of these old photos to me the other night and they really made me smile so much.

A rare photo of my mom and me seemingly having a nice time together. This was either in Wildwood or at Kennywood, I’m not sure.

I don’t want to give the wrong impression: things weren’t really that terrible between the two of us back then. But she was always really weird about having her picture taken—way weirder than I am even, but this is certainly where I get my camera phobia. Most pictures of my mom, she looks like she’s frightened or she is trying to hide behind her thick flaxen hair curtain.

I always thought it was such a shame, because my mom was so pretty back then.

It’s scary how drastically unhappiness can change a person’s appearance.

Some of the greatest memories of my life took place on Sylvania Drive. (Also some of the scary flashbacks involving my birth dad, but gotta focus on the good or the bad will just eat away at you, right?). This photo is my friend Christy and me sitting on the back of my stepdad’s truck with my brother Ryan. When Ryan was born, I was the biggest brat about it. I didn’t want to not be an only child anymore, but mostly I didn’t want to share my Pappap! I was still in my I HATE RYAN phase when this photo was taken but don’t worry—we ended up being pretty cool with each other after awhile. (Even though I was accused of pushing him down the attic steps when we moved into our new house in Jefferson Hills, and to this day, I promise you that’s a lie. Unless I was having a rage blackout. Then it’s entirely possible.)

The first girl in this picture was a younger girl who lived across the street and Christy and I would always try to hide from her because she was so annoying and I feel like her mom used to yell at us a lot. Her last name was Mellon but Christy convinced me it was Watermelon.

And then this picture. The holy grail! I had never before in my life seen this, and Corey said Val (a/k/a our mom) had it stuffed in a drawer with a bunch of papers.

The man in the hat is my Pappap, and the woman behind him and to the left is my grandma. I think this was taken in the Bahamas, because I know they used to go there a lot when my mom was a kid. (I feel like there’s a story about Susie bringing home a boy from there when she was a teenager, so now I think Corey and I need to hound her for details.)

This picture is so surreal to me, like a still from some old French film. My Pappap looks so badass. I need a copy of this photo in the worst way, but that seems like an impossible task at this point in the family relations game. UNLESS COREY CAN “BORROW” IT LONG ENOUGH FOR ME TO GET A GOOD SCAN.

I don’t know who the other people are, but I bet my mom and her sisters do and I really wish we could all get together sometime and look at pictures together and you know, keep our family history alive. There is so much I don’t know and, as a compulsive memory chronicler (or, you know, HOARDER), it makes me absolutely twitchy.

I had a much better story that I was going to write about today but CHOOCH is monopolizing the computer (he’s getting interviewed on some game he’s playing? I have no idea what he’s talking about) and I didn’t feel like doing any actual word-fashioning via my iPhone. Such blogging woes.

Coming tomorrow: more scintillating snippets of the Cleveland 2004 trip via my paper travel journal. TRY TO TONE DOWN THE ENTHUSIASM.

Right before Christmas, Henry had a bunch of my old 8mm tapes transferred to DVDs. It was pretty much the greatest/worst thing he could have done, because I am a sucker for nostalgia. And once it baits me, I’m tough to reel back in. He picked ten tapes at random, because he had a Groupon. One of those tapes happened to be the oldest one in the box, and it started with one of the Christmases from when I was in middle school. So, maybe 1991? 1992? Henry was dying because even with my back to the camera, my body language was a neon sign for This Girl is Pouting. “Oh good lord, were you kids spoiled,” he muttered while I smiled sweetly at the memories of these past Christmases. But then the video switched from my family’s house to my grandparent’s house, and for the first time in 15 years, I heard my Pappap’s voice and tears simultaneously sprung forth. Just seeing my parents, Susie and her then-husband Mark, my grandparents and my great-grandma sitting around the table, while Sharon supervised us kids opening more presents, and hearing everyone laugh at whatever hilarious joke my Pappap had made….it started out like a kick to the gut, but then, surprisingly, I was able to watch it without tears in my eyes, while making fun of my pre-teen self. For years and years, I clung to the past in a really unhealthy way, wishing that my Pappap hadn’t died (OK, I obviously still wish that; that hasn’t changed) and that our family hadn’t broken apart like Pangea, that we still all got together for holidays and I hadn’t been basically banned from my grandparent’s house.

So we’re watching these videos and Chooch is getting super pissed.

“I bet your Pappap gave you like, a lot of money for your birthday, didn’t he?” he asked angrily.

“Not really,” I answered casually. “But, we were usually in Europe for my birthday….”

“Oh my god, I hate you,” Chooch cried. “Like, really hate you.”

I’m not going to lie. While there was certainly dysfunction under my own roof, and my relationship with my grandma was strained at best, my Pappap did everything in his power to make sure that I had a charmed childhood. And I love him so much for that. He’s the reason why I try to give Chooch interesting/weird/cool experiences. I might not have a lot of money, and I certainly can’t take him to Europe every year for his birthday, but I will still do whatever I can to give him good memories.  My Pappap kept me from turning into a spoiled brat (OK, I have my snobby moments even as a poor person) by being a kind, humble man.

This was taken one of the last times I was over there, in 2010.

*****

Once my grandma’s health began to decline about 10 years ago, so did the house. It was just her and my aunt Sharon living there, in this house that could comfortably shelter multiple families, and they just couldn’t keep up. Occasionally, they would call Henry over to make minor repairs, but there were larger issues that weren’t being addressed, landscaping that had been overlooked for years, a pool that hadn’t been maintained since the late 90s. You get the picture. Just like our family, it was falling apart.

When my grandma died in 2011, we thought for sure the house was going to be taken. My mom and Sharon have been in a world of financial struggle for more than a decade, and I couldn’t imagine how they were going to afford to keep the house. But Sharon continued living there, alone, and it just seemed like they kept dodging bullet after bullet that the bank was firing at them. And even though I am so removed from them and the situation these days, I was secretly glad that they were somehow stealing more time. Because this house was all we had left of my grandparents and the memories of The Good Days. The BBQs and pool parties and sleepovers and Christmases on the porch where there was usually one person mad at another person, but it was still so much better than this, how it is now, this nothingness, where we’re no longer a family but basically just a bunch of strangers with chunks of matching DNA.

*****

Two days ago, I was at work when Corey texted me a Realtor.com listing.

Sharon finally did it. She put the house on the market.

I could taste the bile rising as I scrolled through the pictures of peeling wallpaper and dust-coated glass tables. I sat at my desk, willing myself not to cry. I will never be able to put into words how much this house means to me, how all of the best memories of my childhood were born under that roof, in that pool, among the woods in the backyard. It was my happy place. It was where I sought refuge in my teen years when my dad and I hated each other. It was where I would stop on my way home from school to sit at the kitchen counter and help my grandma with her puzzle while the Guiding Light theme song bleated out of the small kitchen television set. It was where my friends and I would hang out in high school, watching the hockey game and horror movies on that huge wraparound couch in the game room. Sometimes I think, if my memories of that house are this beautiful, it must be like looking at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel for my mom and aunts.

I know. It’s a house. It’s just a house. No one died.

But…the memories. The nostalgia. The scents and the feels and the sights of that crazy velvet wallpaper and the gaudy opulence of the clown room — it’s not just a time capsule of my childhood, but also a veritable set design for the strange aesthetics of the 60s and 70s, like if you could walk into the word “Groovy” and pop a squat. Their interior decorator (yes, they had one; his name was Herbie) definitely went for Liberace Lite.

When I show people pictures of the house now, they’re like, “Are you fucking kidding?” But this was normal to me. This was real life. This was what I grew up in. I thought every house had hidden rooms under the steps where Pappaps kept a collection of Cameos brought back from the War, a house-wide intercom system, a master bathroom with Roman-esque pillars, a basement with three separate game rooms: one with a bar, one with a pool table and arcade games, one with a poker table and furniture made from barrels.

Corey said that he spoke with Sharon that day and that she seemed OK, like she had finally come back down  to earth and understood that this is what she needs to do, that it’s time. And even though it hurts so bad, like an entire limb is being taken from me, I know it’s the right thing, too. And I hope that once Sharon is out of there, she can finally let go and start living life again. Maybe this is what she needs to do to finally start healing. Because she hasn’t been the Sharon I used to know, not since that traumatic night in 1996.

******

Corey and I are trying to gently convince Sharon to let us come over for one last time. We just want to look around, run our fingers over the curios and crystals, take some pictures. I just want to breathe it in one last time before some asshole buys it and completely remodels it.

A few years ago, I posted the only pictures here I could find, taken from 2007-2008. It’s mind-blowing to me how a house that was once so open and inviting (it was surprisingly warm and cozy in there, like a sanctuary) turned into a bolted-up, secretive fortress. I haven’t been inside there since 2010, and that was for about 30 minutes before Sharon was shooing me out.

This painting was supposed to be mine. This was all I wanted, plus all the old photo albums. I don’t care about the money. I would rather continue living in pseudo-squalor than taking their handouts.

Chooch in the Clown Room, standing near a sharp-edged glass table, wooo parenting!

Master bathroom, one of my favorite rooms as a kid.

Someday I hope to have a house to cover in strange wallpaper.

Sharon wasn’t home one day so my grandma let us take pictures of Chooch in the gameroom. Sharon is real weird about me being in the house, like she expects me to start pocketing the Lalique and Lladro. (Not gonna lie, I wouldn’t mind giving all of those clowns a new home.)

His shoes were on the wrong feet—parental duties on lock.

My friend Evan always liked to play chess at this table back when we were in high school.

My grandma let Corey and I have a photoshoot in there one day until Sharon caught wind and made us feel so tense and nervous that we eventually just left.

Someday, before the house is gone, I want to break in and take more pictures and just get one good, long look at what seemed so normal to me as a kid. I spent some of the best days of my life at that house, watching “Golden Girls”, “Empty Nest” and “Hunter” during Saturday night sleepovers, eating grilled cheese, and playing PacMan in the game room while “She Bop” blared out of the jukebox. Until I convince Sharon to let me in, I’m going to tear through every last photo album I have for more pictures. I feel absolutely panicked about this.

Spending so much of my youth in that house stimulated my imagination and cultivated my eclectic tastes.  I owe so much of who I am today to that strange, magical place on Gillcrest. It was my refuge.

************

I came home from work the Day the House Was Put on the Market and was looking through an old tin of mixtapes, in hopes of finding the one I had just written about the other day. It’s been a good 10 years since I had rooted around through this tin, and  the first thing I saw when I removed the lid was this picture of my grandparents from 1991 and my heart split in two:

Sometimes I believe in signs, and this was one of those times. I feel like this was their way of saying it’s OK. That we don’t have to keep that house in the family to keep their memory alive.

On the way home from Chooch’s piano lesson on Saturday, some Queen song came on the radio (it was probably “Another One Bites the Dust,” but I can’t remember exactly right now).

Chooch is oddly interested in Queen. Not in a “LET’S BUY THEIR WHOLE DISCOGRAPHY!

” sense. But, he does like to ask questions about them. Once, I played him the “Radio Gaga” video, because I was OBSESSED with that song when I was around his age (there’s even a video of me dancing to with curlers in my hair years later—I think jerk Lisa filmed it in my mom’s family room when I wasn’t paying attention) and he was fascinated.

This time, he started asking us questions about Queen’s popularity and seemed kind of surprised when Henry and I told him that they had lots of big radio hits. We started naming some of them and I had a quick audio flashback of senior year of high school. I had never been a super big Queen fan, so I never really sunk into their deep cuts. But then I started dating Psycho Mike, and the one good quality about Psycho Mike among the layers of shitty attitude, rage disorders, and fiery jealousy was that he really loved music. None of my prior boyfriends really seemed to give a shit about music, let alone that all-important relationship token: The Mixtape. I would make them for people all the time: friends, penpals, unworthy boyfriends—but it wasn’t until I started dating Mike that I ever got one back from a boy.

And it was fucking legit.

It was through Mike that I learned about Billy Bragg (whom I finally got to see live at Riot Fest last September!), Neutral Milk Hotel, Syd Barrett, and Radiohead (Mike was going to see them back when they were opening for bands at tiny Pittsburgh clubs like Metropol), some of which were included on the mixtape he made for me during the winter of 1997. I spent so many nights laying on the beanbag in my bedroom, lit only by a ridiculous collection of neon water sculptures and Christmas lights bouncing off of my foiled wallpaper…it was just a few nudie posters short of being a home-version of Spencer’s, a headshop without the bongs and nose-pinching stench of patchouli. And this is how Mike’s mixtape was best experienced: half-devoured by a giant bag of beans, awash in psychedelic lights, absolutely nothing distracting from the words and music seeping into the system like some supreme cocktail of opiates.

During our Queen conversation on Saturday, I pulled up “You Don’t Fool Me” on my phone and, before it started playing, I explained that it was my favorite Queen song of all time.

“It was on this mixtape that Psycho Mike made me,” I mumbled.

I hadn’t listened to this song in at least 15 years, and as soon as I heard those opening notes, I was back in my old bedroom again, and I felt so calm and peaceful, even with Chooch’s mouth chattering away in the backseat of the car. Over the weekend, I listened to some more songs that I remembered from that tape, “Marooned” by Pink Floyd, “Bad As They Seem” by Hayden, even Pachelbel’s “Canon” was on there. Side B ended with a 10-second recording of one of our phone calls, unbeknownst to me at the time; I thought was incredibly adorable and romantic back then, me sounding all sleepy and him teasing me with a deranged lilt to his voice.

Listening to these songs made me feel warm, safe, comfortable: none of the things Psycho Mike ever made me feel.

Guys. When “we” were cleaning the house last month, I found one of my old vacation journals; specifically, there is a written account of when Henry and I went to Cleveland in 2004 to see the Cure (and also E.99 & St.Clair, an intersection made famous by the BEST RAP GROUP EVER: Bone Thugs-n-Harmony)  and I decided that I am going to transcribe it because somehow I was able to charm Henry into writing a few times and also because I have no idea how we are still together because I was way bitchier and he was way less tolerant. So here is part one.

———————————————————

Monday, August 2, 2004

(10:06am)

I’m sitting in the parking lot of PNC Bank while Henry is inside, dutifully cashing in $243 worth of rolled change. Otherwise, this trip would not be possible.

Originally, we were supposed to go to Chicago (how my heart bleeds for that City of Wind), but Henry threw a hissy fit yesterday about how it’s not worth a ten hour trip for me to find happiness. Oh OK.

(10:34am)

We’re on McKnight Road. My stomach feels acidic. I briefed Henry on my situation, explaining that vomiting is a possible conclusion. He said, “You’ll be OK” and continued reading his map. He’s such a big shot driver that he’s using a BOB EVANS map, no less.

We stopped at the Sky Bank in Northway Mall so I could continue sucking my savings account dry (Henry makes me do it). There was this big crane there because they’re working on the mall’s roof. Three ladies were standing in the middle of the road, gawking at it, and Henry had to drive around them. We parked and got to walk past them, so I said loudly, “WOW I’VE NEVER SEEN A CRANE BEFORE!” Henry said, “No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

I should note that a lot of times I re-word Henry’s quotes to either make it funnier or add some sense to it. Normally he only speaks gibberish and them I’m left to my own devices, trying in vain to translate. It’s a tedious job.

(11:06am)

We stopped at Sheetz in Wexford. Henry proclaimed that it was the same Sheetz he calls me from everyday during work, and that he’d make love to it if he could. It was touching until my first sip of their cheap, watered-down coffee. That, my friend’s, is poor man’s coffee.

I told Henry that I’m hungry and he’s turning it into a game. “Oh, I know! Let’s only eat at uncommercialized [sic] restaurants!” Meanwhile, we’re driving through a veritable oasis of eating establishments that don’t follow his moronic guidelines. What’s worse is that he’s singing along to A Perfect Circle and this coffee is completely unsatisfying! I can’t believe saving a few bucks is more important to him than satiating my hunger! I’m a growing girl! My anemia can grow worse any second now! But no, I have to sit here and wait until we enter a trailer park community and pray there’s a diner nearby. He’ll be sorry. Son of a bitch.

(11:50am)

We’re at Brown’s Country Kitchen in Portersville, being serenaded by Enrique Iglesias and sitting in a hard wooden booth. Henry likes it. He said he likes hard things pressing up against his ass.

Hopefully, sometime today we’ll make it out of Pennsylvania.

Holy Christ, he just ate coleslaw off the table. Do you know how many people masturbate while sacrificing livestock to the demon lord and then put their unwashed. seminated hands all over the table? Nasty.

It occurs to me that Henry didn’t want to go to Chicago because he doesn’t want to be too far away from his mommy.

There’s this really ugly boy that just came in. He has red hair. I started laughing and when I turned around to get a better look, I snorted. Henry said, “Don’t start. We’re still really close to home.” Ooh, a threat, and so early in the trip. But come on, this boy is repulsive!

(12:37pm)

The Bastard Redhead left the restaurant just as we got in the car. I excitedly readied the camera and had just gotten it to focus when Henry decided I’d had enough fun and pulled out of the parking lot! That picture could have been spectacular. It could have been all I’ve ever wanted. But HENRY fucked it up and he didn’t even apologize. He said he DOESN’T CARE and that it was “just a picture.” How will I remember that fucker now? The memory is so fleeting. This trip is officially ruined.

And our waitress was lazy. I don’t care t hat she was old.

(2:12pm)

We’re currently in the business district of Jefferson, OH. It’s  truly the working man’s town. I can see Henry living here. He looks like a lot of the men I see milling about: dirty, toothless, and tattooed.

(3:47pm)

I’m going to die in this goddamn un-air-conditioned car. I swear, I’m sweating to death and my skin feels like it’s burning. I’ve asked him countless times to please stop somewhere so we can get out of this sweatbox, yet he’s STILL driving along aimlessly.

We went to Geneva-on-the-Lake, which was a joke and drove for like 45 minutes after seeing a sign that said “Lake Erie Circle Tour.” Henry insists that the tour is really just the road that we’re on, but I know it’s not true and that he must have missed a turn somewhere.

God, I just want to go home.

(4:45pm)

Typical. Henry J is being all mushy now. “Oh, I am so sorry. I love you more than you’ll ever know and I just want to kill myself knowing that I’ve upset you.” I haven’t forgiven him, but we’re in Cleveland now. I can’t wait to find E.99 and St. Clair. Maybe Bone Thugs-n-Harmony will be there.

So we drove past the Marriott (on St. Clair) and the hotel looked like it was being evacuated. There were sheriffs that stopped traffic for all these kids to cross the street. The ATF and these news crews were there. The American Idol auditions are being held here on Wednesday, but something else is going on and I need to know. So I’m sending Henry back around.

Right now, the “E.” streets are in the low numbers. I said, “Wow, E.99 must be really far down there” and Henry J. said, “In the good part of town, I”m sure.” He’s SO FUNNY. He should go on “Last Comic Standing” and make us all proud.

I had a major realization that Henry J. confirmed: Cleveland hates people from Pittsburgh. Henry J. said, “So I”m from Harrisburg and you’re from Pittsburgh.” See? He’s so piss-your-pants funny.

Wow, Henry J. is actually inside a Holiday Inn inquiring about room availability. We never stay in real hotels. He left me in the car with the windows down because he hopes someone steals me.

(6:15pm) 

We scored a room at the Holiday Inn. Right now, we’re sitting in Willard Park. We’re walking around because if we take the car, we risk losing our free parking spot and then we’ll have to pay $15 to park in the hotel’s garage. That’s a crime!

So Henry J. confirmed that all the commotion was for the International Childrens Games. I said it’s stupid and Henry J. snapped, “No, it’s not! It’s for kids of different nationalities to meet so they won’t grow up like you, hating the world!” Oh snap.

(7:00pm)

We’re at the Winking Lizard Tavern after walking FOREVER because Henry J. is directionally WRONG. And lucky for us, Laura Ashley is sitting across from us.

And Henry J. is drinking a Coors Lite! Oh no, folks—an evening of drunken debauchery is surely in store for us! Or domestic violence. But really, isn’t it all the same?

(7:25pm)

I’m so happy! Not only did I have the best veggie burger (and it was HOMEMADE) I just saw CNBC that Kerry/Edwards are leading Bush/Cheney 49% to 42%! Of course, Henry Dubya Robbins is being a naysayer. “It’s not because of the convention <eye roll while gnawing on toothpicks>!”

(8:00pm)

We’re sitting near the lake now and Henry J. is wasting pictures. On our walk here, we encountered a homeless man who smelled so bad that people were crossing the street (I have a bad sense of smell though), a fat dude with an eye patch trying to give away a newspaper, a crazy guy rocking back and forth in front of the Catholic Diocese (he looked at me and said, “Heeeeeeeeheeeeee”) and a possible American Idol hopeful singing to a black homeless man.

I LOVE CLEVELAND! I want to move here and work for Alternative Press.

Oh, did I mention that Henry’s using a tan leather Puma “gym bag” that’s a “souvenir of the 70s”? It’s really a bowling bag from when he was in a league, OMG. They’d bowl and then go to the disco. Ooooh, disco delight!

(9:00pm)

Well, it’s my turn to tell the truth about the trip so far. I think this trip is a record to see how fast she could piss me off. I think it happened around 2pm. Almost came home. But as usual, she begged to stay. So the first 6 hours of the trip were not the best. So we are staying in the Holiday Inn, small room for a big price. But anything for my “sweetie.” Dinner was OK. Got lucky finding it, but seeing as how I’m the master of directions, I had no problem finding it. After dinner we walked down to the pier (so to speak). Got to see two lesbians kissing (Erin got excited). So now we’re gonna head down to the hotel bar and throw down some juice. Hopefully next time I write I’ll have more fun things to write about.

Wow. It took him nearly 15 minutes to write that. What an incredibly stimulating read.

On our walk back to the hotel, Henry J. told me a story about the last time he drank at a hotel bar. Apparently, he had such a wild time that he was too hungover to wake up for the maid the next morning. Oh my god, how exciting is that. And oh my god, it was when he was in THE SERVICE!! That was truly a story I’ll treasure always.

Yeah, so I want to hang out in the hotel bar and you know, meet some people, go home with a hot tourist, the usual.

————————————————-

OMG MORE NEXT SUNDAY CAN YOU STAND THE WAIT.

There were numerous reasons why I HAD to go to Philly to see Circa Survive:

• They just released a new album
• This was the first tour they were doing in support of that album, and it wasn’t coming to Pittsburgh
• The guys in Circa Survive are from Philly (or nearby), so this would a hometown show and everyone knows hometown shows are the best shows
• It’s Circa fucking Survive
• I would get to go with Terri and  Christian!

So I did that thing that I do when I really want something, which is tell Henry that it’s all I want for “x holiday.” This time, Christmas was the next holiday coming up, which is good because Christmas works better than Flag Day. So I was like, “OH PLEASE, PRETTY PLEASE, HENRY CLAUS, I’LL DO ANYTHING!” I think he liked the idea that all he had to do was get me to Philly, and not have to go to the show.

Plus, we all got to hang out beforehand and the next morning, so it just made sense for us to all go and make a weekend of it. At least, that’s how I tried to sell my case. “We can have group hangs! Then you and Chooch can dick around town doing fuck all while I go to the show with Christian and Terri!” I cried excitedly, and Henry didn’t really say anything, which is better than when he gets all huffy and starts yelling at me about money. Not that that happens a lot.

The show was at Union Transfer, and it was a fantastic venue even before the show started. The line to get in was super quick, the staff was friendly, and there were numerous ciders to choose from at the bar. This is really all I ask for. Terri and I each got some cider and hung out at a table near the window,  and I know this is cheesy, but we text pretty much every day so it was super nice to actually talk like real people. Eventually, we could hear the opening notes of Pianos Become the Teeth so we ditched the bar and made our way to the stage. Christian was already in there with one of his friends, but I needed to be closer for Pianos so we were like, “Peace out” and wormed our way through the crowd.

Meanwhile, Henry and Chooch were going to hit up some diner down the street from the hotel and then go get ice cream.

Pianos Become the Teeth is a hard band for me to describe, for some reason. I had a moderate affinity for them for awhile, but when I saw United Nations last summer, my appreciation for them grew (two of them are in United Nations: the drummer and bassist) and I knew I had to see Pianos live sooner rather than later. Luckily, they were at Riot Fest and their short set in the rain on one of the smallest stages in Humboldt Park turned out to be one of the highlights for me, which probably doesn’t mean much since that entire weekend was one big, obese highlight.

Their music is akin to post-rock, think Mogwai. But with anguished vocals that aren’t quite a scream so you can’t call this screamo, but more like a cry: a gravel-throated anguished cry over top of beautiful music that ebbs and flows with intensity.

Henry dislikes them because he’s a moron.

But OK, OK, this isn’t a music blog. So I’ll just say that when they played “Repine,” my eyeballs burned with tears. Jesus, that song.

Next up was Title Fight, which was exciting because the first time I ever saw them was the first time I met Terri and Christian at the AP Show in Cleveland almost exactly three years ago! We were all there as guests of our mutual friend Jason from Alternative Press, and spent the whole day together, record shopping, grilled cheese eating, and AP back issue rummaging. Jason had to do some obligatory networking during the after party that night and was so afraid to leave us alone together, for fear of one of us instigating a fistfight (we are hockey fan rivals—Pens vs. Flyers). I had a feeling that night that we were going to stay in touch and likely become good friends. You can just sometimes tell these things! It didn’t feel awkward hanging out with them and we had a lot to talk about, too.

Title Fight is one of those bands that I am a casual fan of, but seeing them live is a whole new ballgame. Terri has definitely gotten me way more into this genre, and I’m so thankful for that because I need all the help I can get to keep me away from stupid Jonny Craig and his stupid music. Ugh.

And then finally, it was time for Circa Survive. This time, Terri and I secured a prime spot near the side of the stage and, with the exception of the couple behind us who talked the whole time (GO STAND IN THE BACK IF ALL YOU’RE GOING TO DO IS TALK), it was a nearly flawless show, crowd-wise. Although Terri had some weird experience with some guy’s butt that I might try and talk her into guest-posting about.

Over the weekend, I went back in my blog and read about other Circa Survive shows I’ve gone to and really….what more can I say other than they are really something special. Even Henry, who doesn’t necessarily like their music, has admitted that they are entertaining. I’ve seen them in several different cities now: Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Chicago, Cincinnati….but I have to say that this Philly show was hands down the best Circa show I’ve seen to date. There was so much energy in the room that it was impossible to stand still, especially during “Child of the Desert,” when Anthony ordered everyone to stand as still as they could, holding all their wiggles in. “I’ll let you know when it’s time to let the wiggles out,” he promised. And when that time came, I grabbed Terri’s arm and we started jumping around like idiots because WHO CARES, WE’RE AT A CIRCA SHOW!? No offense to Henry, but it was like, next level amazingness. You have to understand that I don’t often go to shows with other people who love it as much as me! With Terri, it was like, “Fuck yes, let’s sing, high five our neighbors, and let our fucking wiggles out!”

THANK YOU, ANTHONY GREEN.

They played The Difference Between Medicine and Poison is the Dose, which ends with Anthony yelling, “Did you ever wish you were somebody else?!” After which, Anthony said to the crowd, “I used to wish I was somebody else. You know who I wished I was? James Brown! James motherfucking Brown!” and we all screamed of course because, James Brown. But the girl I hated behind me yelled to her boyfriend, “WHO’S JAMES BROWN?”

Kids!

Later, I would find out that while we were having religious experiences at Union Transfer, Henry and Chooch ended up just going to McDonald’s (Chooch’s choice) and Chooch spilled his drink in the car (“Daddy was pissed off,” Chooch wants me to  tell you) and then they went back to the hotel because the ice cream place apparently sells Christmas trees in December instead of frozen treats. So essentially, a pretty typical Henry and Chooch evening.

I’ve said this before, but there is something about Anthony Green that reminds me of Chooch. I honestly think that if Chooch was the frontman of a band, he’d have that same cult-like charisma and charm, and I was really excited when, after the show, Christian said that he was thinking the same thing. And again, I just know that Chooch is going to grow up and become something stupid just to spite me. Something stupid like a doctor. Ugh!

I bought this sick limited edition show poster (only 100 were made for this show!!) and treated it like a fucking Faberge egg until I finally got it home the next night. Still waiting for dumb Henry to frame it.

After we left the venue, I chimed in from the backseat to point out how happy I was to leave a show and have friends with me to completely analyze and dissect the night. I love Henry and I appreciated that he accompanies me to pretty much every single show I want to go to, but he doesn’t give a shit. And I wouldn’t want him to change. It’s our thing: I’m all hyper and wistful at once, and he’s just….”deep sigh.” It was just really fun and game-changing to be at this one, of all shows, with two people who are just as passionate about Circa Survive and music in general. It was such a great night and you know I don’t ever take these experiences for granted, but this one really made me extra appreciative.

Before taking me back to the hotel, Christian drove around the city for a little bit while we talked excitedly about the show and how on point all three bands were, and Terri pointed out noteworthy things and we saw a sick fight that briefly spilled out into the street. And, and, and! Even two weeks later, my mind is churning with minutiae that I don’t want to let go of.  I’ve watched YouTube videos of this show countless times since that night and Henry is like, “HOW MANY TIMES CAN YOU WATCH THESE.”

*****

Chooch was wide awake when I got back to the hotel after midnight, watching trashy TV and filling out MadLibs, but Henry was mostly asleep.  I shook him violently and, in my teenager vocal cadence, rapidly recounted all of the highlights for him and then shoved my phone in his face so he could see my Instagram videos.

“I know what Anthony looks like,” he mumbled, rolling over in bed and going back to sleep.

Ugh, shows like these make me feel better than a day at the spa.

We listened to Circa Survive for a good portion of the drive back to Pittsburgh the next day, and I cried a little while revisiting old memories and talking for the thousandth time about the first time we saw them at the Grog Shop over the summer of 2005, mostly because I like to tell that story. Henry of course knows that story well because he was there with me, so he just sighed a lot.

From: First Feet Productions

*If you’ve stumbled across this blog and aren’t familiar with Circa Survive, please please please do yourself a favor and check them out. They’re really something special.*

Today is my “oldest” friend Christy’s birthday! (She loves being referred to as my oldest friend.) Honestly though, we’ve been friends since we were, what—4? 5? At some point, she transitioned from best friend to sister. She practically lived at my house and was honestly nearly as crushed when my pappap died as I was, and without her standing next to me through it all, I’m not sure I would have been able to make it through the funeral home viewings. Barb loves to quote the line “Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion” from Steel Magnolias, and there is one distinct moment in my life that I always immediately think of, and that is sitting with Christy at the kitchen counter in my pappap’s house after he died, picking through various fruit baskets, and being so slap-happy that my grandma finally was like, “OK, you two need to leave!”

I moved in second grade and the worst thing about it was that I was convinced I would never see Christy again. (We didn’t go to the same school, even when we were neighbors.) But luckily, the parentals were pretty amazing at carting our asses back and forth. I remember this one summer afternoon, swimming at my pappap’s house and being so surprised when he showed up with Christy in tow that I nearly cried of happiness.

We were junior bridesmaids in two weddings together: my aunt Susie’s and then my godfather Chris’s right after, because his fiancee thought we were so adorable in Susie’s wedding that she wanted us for hers too. I mean, duh. It’s weird to me that we never got anymore gigs together after that second one. I have a vague recollection of being in my grandma’s car after one of our fitting session and Christy and I were riotously singing “Pop Goes the Weasel” (the rap, not the nursery rhyme thing) over and over again that my grandma basically lost her mind.

l to r: Laurent, Christy, me, Corey, Ryan, and our dad’s godson Shawn a/k/a Bobo. This photo was taken at the “mountain trailer” my dad would occasionally drag us to. It was essentially one step up from camping and I hated it.

Poor Christy was the subject of love poems written by Laurent, our French foreign exchange student in 1992. We spent an entire summer (one of the ones that had an Olympics going on) heckling Bobo for having a crush on gymnast Shannon Miller when literally all he ever made was one offhand remark about her skill level. She’d go to the mall with me to stalk Scott Dambaugh in 8th grade and she tried really hard to save me from getting involved with Psycho Mike senior year. (Of course I didn’t listen.) She was my only friend who tried to talk me out of dropping out of high school and when I still did it anyway, she sent me information about various GED programs in the mail. I always felt like she was one of the few people who never judged me, because she is just an all-around awesome, supportive person and I feel #soblessed that we are still friends after all these years (ugh, decades!).

Which is a good thing, considering she is technically married to both of my brothers! She honeymooned with Ryan on the hammock in our backyard. He brought her snacks from the house and called her his “babe.”

And she’s Chooch’s godmother! He’s even shared chocolate “mouse” with her, and he HATES sharing desserts. (Or, “mousse” for those who like to properly pronounce desserts.)

I will forever associate her with TV Guides, Jaromir Jagr, and the MTV vjay Kennedy. From meeting each other on the greatest cul-de-sac in the world and publicly puking at a production of Annie, to cracking up in the middle of Saturday night mass and all of the Blue Flame burgers and secret Andre Agassi fanfic in between, if my life was a book, she’d be a main character in more than half of it. Happy birthday, my dear friend Christy “McGooGoo” a/k/a Crystal Lite. I hope we’re still wishing each other happy birthday when we’re old and gray, possibly through the power of holographic telegrams. Today, I will call a boy and hang up in your honor! (It will probably just be Henry, but still.)

Today as I was getting ready for work, I had a craving for Howard Jones so I put on his YouTube channel. I loved this man so much as a kid growing up in the 80s and he has been on my concert bucket list forever. I decided to check his upcoming tour dates and he’s coming to Cleveland in March! Usually, I find out about these things way after they happen, like when I’m scrolling through Instagram and I see one of my friends posting pictures of a Howard Jones show in Cleveland last year, so I’m taking this as a sign that I have to go. Plus, it’s on a Saturday, which makes the 2 hour drive there from Pittsburgh so much easier.

Howard must really like Cleveland if he was just there and is coming back less than a year later and it’s one of only 4 US cities listed on his tour. Thank god Cleveland is practically my neighbor.

I was about to call Henry 87 times in a row and then text him “911!!!! 187!!!!” but then Janna said she would go with me so Henry is like THANK GOD! I’m going to be in a good mood today, so everyone can thank Howard Jones, Cleveland, and Janna.

(Mike + the Mechanics is playing here in March too and if Henry doesn’t buy me tickets for Christmas, he is fucking dead to me.)

Who’s on YOUR concert bucket list? Tell me!

Throwback to that time in 2006 when I tortured Chooch with clowns at my grandma’s house on his first Christmas. MEMORIES! (Also: DROOL! He was teething pretty badly.)

Corey texted me this photo that he found at our mom’s a few weeks ago. I’m not sure what holiday this is, but let’s pretend it’s Thanksgiving….2002? I can’t remember my hair being that short but I guess it was. Or maybe that was the year I Britney Spears’d my scalp and took to wearing a wig.

Anyway, this picture made me laugh because my face looks like a melting ham and Henry appears to be auditioning for a spot on a romance novel cover. And then there’s my grandma. ;(

***
The only thing I remember from bartending school, aside from the fact that my partner’s name was Milt, was that Thanksgiving Eve is supposedly the busiest night for bars in our country. I only attempted to go to a bar once on Thanksgiving Eve and started to have a panic attack before I was even able to shove my way through all the assholes crowding around the door.

Needless to say, I’m at home right now watching the Penguins game. I finished my Cure wall and I guess we’re going to start re-hanging our pictures after the game is over. Major party time.

Haha, just kidding. Henry will be doing that himself while Chooch and I play Call of Duty—I AM GETTING REALLY GOOD AT IT!! I still need someone to start the game for me though because the menu is so confusing.

So…happy Wednesday night!