Disclaimer: I can’t write objectively about Dance Gavin Dance and this post is all over the place because I’m like a little kid who just ate three meals of candy.

Before I get into the juicy details of last week’s Dance Gavin Dance show, please indulge me while I explain the sordid history of this band and what it has been like to be a fan: I go through a lot of phases, musically, but my love for Dance Gavin Dance has only gotten stronger over the years. From the moment I first heard them in my car, driving home from Cincinnati in the winter of 2008, I was entranced. I had just randomly downloaded a bunch of their stuff based on their band name and the fact that they were listed on PureVolume as post-hardcore and that is MY FAVORITE GENRE. (The amount of times I have struggled to explain what ‘post-hardcore” means to people at work is hilarious; it’s kind of like the new “wtf is emo?” in that it’s almost impossible for me to put into layman’s terms. Wiki it, I guess? Good luck!) Downtown Battle Mountain is right up there on my Stranded on an Island album list.

This was also, sadly, the start of a 7-year relationship-threatening obsession with their original clean vocalist, Jonny Craig. Thankfully, he’s no longer in DGD, which is great because I hate him now and he could have easily destroyed DGD.

Jonny era:

To this day, I have yet to hear another band that sounds even remotely like them and, in my opinion, they have only gotten better with age. The only time my love for them was strained was after they kicked out Jonny for the first time and replaced him with Kurt Travis for two albums. Look, I LOVE Kurt Travis. But during that time, their screamer Jon Mess had also left the band and his role has always been one of my favorite parts of DGD. (In fact, I think I actually fangirl over Jon more than anyone else in the band.) I only saw them live twice during the Kurt Travis-era, and ironically once was a tour where past, present and future DGD vocalists were all on: Jonny Craig was there with Emarosa, Kurt with DGD, and Tilian was there with Tides of Man. (This was in 2009, and it was also the first time I ever saw Of Mice & Men and then fell in love with Of Machines, who are sadly no longer together.) It just didn’t click with me, though I have much more appreciation for the Kurt albums now than I did then.

Kurt era:

The summer of 2010, they brought Jonny back for a new album and a tour and this was supposed to be their swan song; Jon Mess came back too and it was like the biggest music orgasm for me. I got to see Jonny perform with DGD twice after that and it was like a dream come true, and then they announced that they were going to write another new album with Jonny and it seemed like their future was so bright. Except that Jonny is a forever fuck-up and they ended up having to kick him out again, in the middle of a tour. It seemed like this was it for them for sure. Maybe Jon, Will, and Matt would just make their side project, Secret Band, their priority.

But then they announced that Tilian Pearson, formerly of Tides of Man, would be their new singer. I was on the fence. In 2011, I saw Emarosa with Tilian as an interim singer; Jonny, who was trying to be in Emarosa and DGD at the same time that year, was forced off the Emarosa tour and into detox on the same day as the Pittsburgh show. Tilian’s brother’s band at the time was also on that tour, so I guess that’s how Tilian came into play. Tilian did fine…but he wasn’t Jonny. And this is how I felt the first time I saw him with DGD at the Altar Bar. It felt wrong to me. But you guys, when they eventually recorded new music with Tilian, everything fell into place and I made a statement that I never thought I would say: Tilian is my favorite DGD singer. They just sound so cohesive with him, and he has really gotten more comfortable with performing the old stuff too. All of that said, it has been a really rewarding time to be a DGD fan. I’m Team Tilian, and DGD remains one of my favorite bands of all time.

(Henry is probably reading this and thinking, “Trust me, this is the short version.”)

Tilian era:

ANYWAY! I’m so excited because their second album with Tilian just came out in April and they were here in Pittsburgh last Sunday! I had butterflies in my stomach all weekend and kept shouting, “AREN’T YOU SO EXCITED?!?” in Henry’s face. Surprisingly, he doesn’t hate them like you would expect him to. He admitted a few years ago that he kind of liked them and I just knew it. The Robot With Human Hair Pt 2 was his ringtone for me for awhile, for Christ’s sake! He just doesn’t like being the token Old Man at all of their shows, is all.

 

• Henry was annoyed because instead of sitting in the car and waiting for doors to open, he had to stand in line with all of the kids. To be fair, the average age was probably about 24, but I guess when you’re as old as Henry, even that constitutes as a “kid.” There was this one teenage boy in front of us, though. His name was Collin and I know this because his mom pulled up alongside the line in her mom-wagon and started shouting, “Collin! Collin! COLLIN!” until he dejectedly left the line and walked over to her car with his head down. “I can’t wait to do that shit to Chooch,” I laughed. “Yeah, except you’ll be calling from another part of the line,” Henry mumbled. And this is probably true. Unless he starts listening to crappy bands when he’s older.
• I had a tiny container of miniature Altoids, and I tried to get Henry to pretend like they were Grown-Up drugs with me, but he was like, “Don’t be stupid.”
• As soon as we got inside Mr. Small’s, I saw Christopher Kim at the Polyphia merch booth and I got so excited! He recently made waves for leaving Jonny Craig’s current band, Slaves, and has been pretty candid on Twitter about how fucked that band is so of course I love him because Team Anyone But Slaves. I was too shy to say anything to him so I took the creepy way out and tweeted about seeing him and then he favorited it so basically, we met.
• Henry plied me with Angry Orchard in an attempt to get me to stop talking a mile a minute. I WAS SO EXCITED!!!!
• Stolas was the opening band. We saw them last September with Hail the Sun and Icarus the Owl and I loved them immediately. They’re on Will Swan’s label, Blue Swan, and are part of this intricate, technical post-hardcore sub genre that I feel like DGD should take full credit for; they’re the godfathers of this style at this point. I’ve never been a fan of prog-rock in the traditional sense, but when elements of this style is car-crashed with a post-hardcore foundation, it makes me want to start punching faces. Stolas was the perfect way to start this night. My favorite part about them is that some parts of their songs downright sound like incantations. Henry’s review: “No.”
• I like to call Henry “bae” sometimes, ironically of course, just to annoy him. But when I’m really giddy, and I was Really Giddy, I apparently called him my ride or die. “Can I choose ‘or die’?” he mumbled, while continuing to look at whatever uninteresting info his phone was showing him.
• A band I used to love was playing whilePolyphia was setting up and I played Henry’s favorite game with him, which is “Trying to Get Henry to Guess the Band & Making Him Feel Like Shit When He Fails.” Here are the clues I gave him:
  • This album is called The Ugly Organ.
  • Henry hates them.
  • Tim Kasher is their singer.
  • His other band is The Good Life.
  • We saw them at Coachella in 2004.
  • Saddlecreek.
  • “My ego’s like my stomach– it keeps shitting what I feed it.”
    • If you guessed Cursive, then you have one more point than Henry does.
• Hail the Sun is amazing. That’s literally the note I wrote myself in my phone. This was my fourth time seeing them and they just keep getting better. We saw their drummer/singer Donovan outside of the venue when we were in line and even Henry knew who he was because HE CAN’T ESCAPE THIS SCENE. Imagine how boring his life would be if he was with a girl who only listened to the radio. Boring, but probably a lot happier and with less headaches, haha. Henry’s review: “*shrugged* It’s too early in the morning for this. You should have been a news reporter.”
• The crowd was so much better than at the Circa Survive show earlier in the week. I was basically in love with every one there. Maybe those really were Grown-Up Drugs in my Altoids tin….
  • The cider also helped.
• Polyphia, holy shit. This was my first time seeing them and they blew my fucking mind. Like CHON, they’re also 100% instrumental. The crowd went apeshit over them and I think it says a lot about the talent of a band when they can capture the attention of young people without gimmicks or, you know, a vocalist. Henry did not like them, but that means nothing.

And then……..DGD!

Here are the notes I had in my phone:

• THUG CITY
• EVERYTHING IS AMAZING
• PERFECT CROWD
• JONNY WHO
• TILIAN IS THE BEST

Oh no, tangent: What I love the most about DGD fans is that most of them are music geeks in that they understand and appreciate the technicality involved in DGD’s music. These are the kinds of people who want to meet Will Swan after the show to talk about time signatures and ask him about his pedals. This is why I think that DGD is so fucking underrated. They’ve been unfairly marginalized and stuffed into a generic scene pigeonhole, which is why I think that their fan base remains young. Young people keep their minds open when it comes to music. Granted, there were some people at the show around my age, but it made me wonder: why hasn’t their fan base grown with them? Why do people hit a certain age in their 20s and just abandon what they used to love? I hope that doesn’t happen to me, ever.

DON’T PANIC, I’VE GOT A PLAN:

Tilian can sing any of the Jonny-era songs with motherfucking panache.

I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT ELSE TO SAY! This post is all over the place, just like their music, and just like my brain. One of the things that I miss most about Barb not working at The Law Firm anymore is that I wasn’t able to go to work the next day and vomit all of my feelings onto her desk. She was always so good about patiently listening to me jaw off about DGD! I remember telling her a long time ago that I liked this music because it panders to the dysfunction in my head; it’s what my brain would play if you plopped it on a turntable and put the needle down.

“I just love Jon Mess so much!” I shouted to Henry. “Did you know he’s a genius?” I LOVE REMINDING HENRY OF THAT! I have never loved a screamer so much before.

I didn’t stop moving the entire night and my body spent the next two days reminding me of Sunday’s perfection. I think I smiled all day long on Monday. MONDAY! Come at me, work week; I just saw DGD.

I’m so proud of this band for powering through all of the shit and turmoil and managing to create two beautiful works of art with Tilian. It feels so good to be a DGD fan. One of these days, I’m going to finally get that Robot with Human Hair tattoo. He might be holding a sword-speared strawberry.

Henry’s review: “I’ve heard all of these songs. Many times.”

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HAHA SIKE. This is just another post about Warped Tour and not actually the maniacal manifesto/illegible murder confession that I think some people (Henry) have been nervously expecting.

Every time I look at the Warped Tour lineup for 2015, I feel like I might have immaculately conceived. The only downside is that there is no way I’m going to be able to see every single band on my list; there are just too many and some are bound to overlap. #musicfestivalproblems

In all of my obsessive Warped Tour thinking/planning/daydreaming, I uncovered some photos of Chooch that I never posted from his first time at Warped Tour in 2013. They were lost in some random desktop folder, probably Henry’s fault.

 

Christofer Drew is offering 45-minute songwriting classes this summer and Chooch and I have been talking about whether he wants me to sign him up for that or not. It costs extra, and if he’s going to get all starstruck like the last time he met Christofer, then that’s kind of a waste.

Chooch was all pissed off a few weeks ago because he was waiting for the bus that takes him to the after school program, when some middle school girl walked past him, saw that he was wearing a Pierce the Veil shirt, and said, “You probably don’t even listen to Pierce the Veil.” Bitch, he was singing Isles and Glaciers songs when he was still sitting in a CAR SEAT, so shut your dumb face.

If she only knew that he was practically born into this scene! Last night, I was YouTubing live Dance Gavin Dance videos while Chooch was putting together some Minecraft Lego thing, when he said, “Put on something from when Kurt Travis was the singer.” And then we watched an entire A Lot Like Birds show.

Because clearly, Chooch is a poser.

I hope we see that girl at the Sleeping With Sirens show next month. You know, if she was able to get tickets before they sold out in less than 5 days.

I posted a picture of my Warped Tour ticket (it’s the special 3D collectors ticket with Choonimals artwork, duh) on Instagram and WARPED TOUR REGRAMMED ME!

^^^^ Totally the apogee of my Instagram tenure.

TWO MORE MONTHS. TWO MORE MONTHS. TWO MORE MOTHERFUCKING MONTHS!!!

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I came home from work and started going through old pictures to re-edit, because it has been A Week, and playing with photos calms my nerves almost as much as wine. Obviously, I’ve been going through Chooch pictures because it’s his birthday on Saturday and I get so fucking weepy and nostalgic every year around this time. He’s almost old enough to be a latchkey kid! SOON HE WILL BE A TEENAGER AND THAT WILL MEAN I’M OLD TOO.

Haha, no it won’t. Peter Pan Syndrome 4 lyfe.

I don’t know. Enjoy some random photos of my kid.

 

2008 – I WONDER IF BLAKE STILL HAS THAT SHIRT. God, we used to drive Henry nuts with our constant need to listen to DGD in the car. I guess not much has changed, at least on my end.

2012

2006 – Cemeteries have always been his playground.

2011

2012 again.

Bonus: When Henry exhibited lightning-quick reflexes to catch Chooch before he pancaked across the ground, circa 2007.

Ugh, I can’t wait for the weeeeeeeekend.

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Ugh, Chooch is going to be nine on Saturday. How does time go by so fast? I hate it! We’re not doing a big party this year. He wanted to have a small party at the laser tag place for his friends, and then we’re having some people over on Saturday for cake.Nice and simple, which will be a nice reprieve for my bulging nerves.

I don’t know what dumb Henry is getting him, but I bought him a ticket to the Sleeping With Sirens acoustic show in June, because The Summer Set is opening and they’re one of his favorite bands. I’m pretty meh about both bands, but I took one for the team and made sure I was on the SWS website at the exact moment tickets went on sale. It did eventually sell out too, and it’s at one of the smaller venues in Pittsburgh, so I really anticipate a night in a small room with hundreds of screaming teenage girls!

But, it’s worth it. Especially when he found out I bought tickets and then proceeded to scream like one of the aforementioned teenage girls.

(From last summer’s Warped Tour.)

I ordered his birthday cake last night (oh boy, it’s a good one) and wanted to order one for my C-section incision too (9 years of phantom pains!) but I took Henry’s frown as a no.

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Can I just state for the record that I have amazing friends and family (I mean, the family I still associate with!)? When I asked a select few of them if they would come to a memorial dinner for Marcy, and would that be weird, they all said yes and no, in that order.

Lisa reminded me that anyone who knows me also knew Marcy, and it made sense that I would want to celebrate her life with my closest peeps. When I say that she touched a lot of lives, I am not joking. And that’s actually just a nicer way of saying she pierced a lot of flesh, anyway.

I knew right away that this had to happen at Blue Flame. I spent so much of my childhood there with my Pappap, had so many high school hangouts there with Lisa and our crew, and still gravitate toward it to this day when I need some comfort and a dose of familiarity.

But don’t get it twisted—this was no somber event! We laughed so much and told stories about Marcy, and this was really what I needed. I woke up on Saturday excited that I was going to see some of my favorite people later on, and that felt so much better than wallowing around in a quiet house. The bottom line is that I wanted to be around awesome people and celebrate Marcy’s legacy.

I made prayer cards to pass out and brought two framed photos of her to display on the tables. Judy of course knew the waitresses and owners of the Blue Flame, so after she got the obligatory hugs out of the way, she made sure to tell everyone that she was there for a cat’s memorial dinner. Even Wonka came, after the trauma Marcy put him through 15 years ago! (His note in the sympathy card he gave me started with “Though the world is now a safer place…”)

Barb at one point was talking about my favorite subject – me. I love listening to her go on and on about how amazing and incredible and perfect and goddess-like I am, how I should have won the Pulitzer by now and why haven’t I run for President yet and how come MTV hasn’t given me a show where I teach the world to be their best versions of Erin Rachelle Kelly; Lisa’s eyes were practically rolling out the door and across the parking lot.

“I am just fascinated by what goes on in Erin’s head!” Barb gushed, to which Lisa replied, “Let me explain it for you. Erin takes something thisbig and turns it into something THIS BIG,” Lisa frowned, making her fingers spread far away from the imaginary object she was holding. “Except the one thing she actually never exaggerated was her Marcy stories.” And Janna emphatically co-signed that sentiment from across the table.

Speaking of Janna! I got to tell the story about Janna getting in trouble for taking her mom’s car when we went to Nemacolin Castle last December, and Corey, who was sitting at another table, perked up and yelled, “Are you telling them about the silhouette?!” IT NEVER GETS OLD!

Barb and Kara were moderately chuckling at the story, Judy looked confused, and Lisa disappointingly sighed, “Poor Janna.” 

Meanwhile, Janna www mumbling about how it really wasn’t that funny and she wasn’t even “in trouble” with her mom like Corey and I keep insisting. We basically have Janna halfway to Flowers in the Attic. 

Judy told everyone the story about how whenever she would put her shoes on, Marcy would know that meant Judy was about to go outside, so she would race to the door and wait. They sat on the porch together every day last summer when she was here babysitting Chooch.

“I loved her, but I wouldn’t touch her. I never touched her ONCE,” Judy bragged. “She scared me too much.” She told us that one time when they were on the porch, Judy started to get up because she was ready to go in the house, and Marcy started swatting at her legs because she wasn’t ready yet. Marcy was like that.   

 Then I was pissed because Janna ordered stuffed French toast and I wished I had ordered it. Lisa was like, “JANNA DON’T YOU DARE GIVE HER YOUR FOOD!” Lisa is very much against people coddling me. I ended up getting raisin French toast, which is odd because I usually always get grilled cheese. I don’t know what I was thinking.

And then Barb purposely commented on my eyeball purse, which made Chooch whip around in his seat and glower at her.

“Why do you hate your mom’s purse so much, Chooch?” she asked him.

“Because! Every time we’re out, people are always like ‘Oh I love your purse’ and they pass me right up!” Chooch cried.

“Wow. Who does that remind me of?” Lisa deadpanned.

After dinner, everyone minus Barb and Lisa came back to my house for cake, wine, and hockey. Chooch and Harland drove Janna nuts with Minecraft questions, and maybe Wonka too but he was a better sport about it than Janna, who kept sighing angrily and stomping over to the computer to yell, “WHAT CHOOCH I DON’T KNOW!?” And then she had me and Corey laughing like hyenas on top of that, so it’s really a wonder she hangs out over here at all! We seriously talked about The Silhouette 87 times that night, to mixed reactions. Corey has also recently taken to sending me pictures of shadowy raised hands behind curtains, so god only knows what he’s googling to find those!

LEMON CAKE. It was OK. I wanted Henry to make this carrot cake that I found in a raw dessert cookbook online but apparently the ingredients were too “expensive.” OK, lazy ass.

Wonka’s girlfriend Jess said that my house was very stimulating and I was like, “Thank you for noticing!” There really is a lot to look at, which I think drives Henry nuts at times. And then Jess got pulled into a super intense “over-share” with Judy, where Henry overheard Judy mention something about a time she was engaged to some dude that Henry didn’t know about. Henry was like, “Well, I just learned something new about my mom.” Then I made her tell the Brick Alley story because that story rules.

We spent the rest of the evening hanging out, telling stories, looking through photo albums (it’s been a hot minute since Wonka and I used to hang out regularly, so that was a fun jog!), reminding Kara every 30 seconds of how adorable Theo is (and Harland!), and planning our next ridiculous trip to the Palace of Gold. It was just what I needed, even though I inadvertently drank too much wine and spent the early hours of Sunday full of regret. I like to imagine that Marcy was glaring down from wherever she is, pissed that so many people were in her house, but also kind of secretly enjoying it. Because for a cat who hated people, she sure was social.

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Grief is such a fucked up emotion. My first taste of it was when my Pappap died in 1996 and I honestly felt like there was an icy fist squeezing my heart—for months. It was this sickening, cold sensation inside my ribs, a constant reminder of loss. But even though I was grieving, and crying, and puking, and wallowing…I wanted to talk about it. I needed to, really. But my family isn’t like that. No one wanted to talk about it, but luckily I had friends…and the high school social worker.

It always made me wonder how I turned out differently. Talking about it has always been how I process, make sense, cope, and heal. I will talk about the same thing over and over until I’m blue in the face, and maybe it’s annoying for everyone else (i.e. Henry), but it helps me understand and heal so that I can go back to living my life.

On my 21st birthday, I went to visit my grandma. It had been 5 and a half years since my Pappap’s death at that point, and this particular birthday was difficult for me. I sat with my grandma on her bed and tried to talk about it. She shot me down immediately and became visibly upset at my audacity to speak of such verboten subjects. I explained that I really needed to talk about it, though, that his death had really affected me too.

She looked at me and said, “You were just the granddaughter.”

I don’t know what I thought was going to happen. Those people are just absolutely allergic to feelings, and here I am, the emo black sheep.

Am I completely over my Pappap’s death? FUCK NO. Maybe I’m not curled up in the fetal position, sobbing about it every night, but I do have those moments every now and then, on my birthday, on his birthday, at a damn Mike + the Mechanics show. But mostly, I smile when I see pictures of him, or hear songs that remind me of pool parties at his house, or post-church grilled cheese at Blue Flame. I like to talk about him and write about him because it keeps his memory alive. I try to honor him any chance I get, because he was the greatest man I have ever known. There is not a single day that goes by that I don’t think of him.

I have been grieving Marcy in this same fashion. It fucking hurts. I cry a lot when I’m alone, because that’s when her absence feels the heaviest. But…I am also able to tell stories about her at work (Glenn and Todd* are thrilled about this) while SMILING. I’m not 100% ready to let go yet. There are still some things I need to do, like the dinner we’re having with some of our friends tonight in her memory, the actual burial next month (the pet cemetery doesn’t start burying pets until May), and the tattoo that is already being drawn up. And then on Monday, Amber¹ 

 

*(Yesterday, I thrust my phone in Todd’s face and said LOOK AT THIS PICTURE OF MARCY FROM ONE DAY LAST SUMMER WHEN I WAS LOCKED OUT OF THE HOUSE AND SHE DIDN’T CARE. Todd was like, “OK. Wow.” Also, Todd is terrified of cats, so my Marcy stories don’t really do much for him.)

****

Completely befitting of Marcy’s volatile nature, it was thunder storming pretty savagely on Thursday evening when we arrived at Animal Friends. I half-expected to be struck down by lightning, one last act of Marcy-controlled physical infliction.

We were a little bit early, so we spent some time looking at the shelter animals. Mistake, mistake, mistake. I was crying before the vigil even started.

At 7, we gathered in a small room with seven others. Two were the volunteers in charge of the vigil, and one was a Methodist minister who was there to provide the spiritual portion of the evening. There was an older woman who lost her dog, an older couple who lost their dog, and an old lady who lost her rabbit. (And when I say “older,” I mean “older than Henry.”) To start off the vigil, one of the volunteers stood up and read the Rainbow Bridge poem, and I just sat there, box of Kleenex on my lap, openly weeping. It was OK — the older woman who lost her dog was sobbing too so that was comforting. Kind of.

The minister told us a story about her childhood dog, and I briefly considered converting to Methodist and joining her church, because she was pretty awesome. I started to feel better listening to her homily. She talked a lot about grief and how losing a pet hurts just as much as losing a person, and the worst thing that anyone can say to us during this time is, “Get over it” or “It’s just an animal.” She made me feel less crazy.

After the homily, the main volunteer—Jannie—read each story that we were asked to submit ahead of time, and as she read for each pet, the other volunteer lit a candle and presented us with a rose, a copy of the Rainbow Bridge rolled up like a scroll and tied with ribbon. Attached to the ribbon was a paper heart with a seed inside of it, for us to plant in our pet’s honor. I cried so hard listening to the story’s of the other pets being read. Everyone else there wrote about their pet’s death, but I didn’t include that part in Marcy’s story. I just wrote about what she was like, and Jannie interrupted herself when reading it to say, “Geez, she sounds like Grumpy Cat!” It was nice to laugh with everyone. But at the end of the story, Speck was mentioned and Chooch started crying when he heard her name. He is still so upset about her death, three years later, and it breaks my heart. When we came home from putting Marcy to sleep, Chooch took a picture of Speck off the wall and carried it around with him the rest of the day. Totally heartbreaking.

After the vigil, Jannie invited everyone to stick around and share more stories about their pets. “You know who I’m dying to hear from? Riley!”

I kind of thought he was going to pass, but he sat up straight and said thoughtfully, “Well…Marcy only ever scratched me twice, but she didn’t have her claws out so it didn’t hurt. I guess she was just warning me. Um…every time Mommy’s friend Janna came over, Marcy would attack her and then Mommy would laugh and post about it on her blog.” Everyone was laughing, and I thought that was all he was going to say, but then he burst into tears and, a la Chunk being interrogated by the Fratellis, went on to say, “I liked Marcy, but I was the most upset when Speck died. She was my favorite cat.” And you guys, he was crying so hard that he was shuddering in his seat. I felt so terrible and kept squeezing his knee and patting his back, and the volunteers and the minister were so quick to offer wisdom and words of comfort to him.

But it was good for him to cry and important for him to know that it was OK to cry. It was good for all of us to cry together, with strangers who are going through the same thing, rather than keep it all bottled up and act  like nothing happened, like my family always does. I honestly believe that not properly dealing with their father’s death is what made my mom and aunt crazy.

My favorite part though was when I got to show everyone a picture of Marcy. Everyone was like, “Oh wow! Those eyes! What a beauty!” and I was like, “Yeah, that’s how she got you! She lured you in with her looks and then attacked.” That was the funniest thing about her: for as much as she “hated” humans, she was ALWAYS FRONT AND CENTER. Any time I had a party, and I used to have a lot of crazy parties back in the day, she was always present, stalking around the floors or glaring down from tabletops, just waiting for some idiot to stick their hand out. She was fucking smart as shit. Scary smart, really.

Before we left, one of the volunteers said, “I just want to  tell Riley that I think it’s awesome he loves cats. Men who love cats are so rare and special. One day, you’re going to meet a girl, and she’s going to say, ‘Here, meet my cat!’ and when she sees that you’re a cat lover, she’s never going to want to let you go!” Chooch was still quietly crying, but this made him smile (and blush) a little.

I felt OK when we left. A little less heart-achey. Not completely “cured,” but I think that was a really helpful and important part in the process for me. I’m the type of person who needs to DO SOMETHING about it. I can only lay in bed and cry for so long. I need to talk and be with people and laugh and remember. (If Barb was there, she would have for sure quoted the “laughter through tears” line from Steel Magnolias*. I think it’s her favorite thing to quote.) And this night of grieving with strangers helped put some light back into me.

And, I think it helped Chooch even more than any of us imagined.

*(It really does feel good, though.)

 

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Trufax: When all of my friends were head over heels in love with Alanis Morissette in high school, I wasn’t impressed. I remember one day on the way to tennis practice, my friend Christy was like, “You should listen to this, I bet you would like it” and I all, “Nah bro, that’s too white for me.” If it wasn’t being reviewed by Rap Pages or The Source magazines, then I wasn’t interested. I didn’t hate Alanis like I hate Katy Perry, it wasn’t like that at all. She just wasn’t my thang.

(She was Corey’s thang, though. I have live footage of him singing a mangled rendition of “Ironic” when he was 4. And hoo boy, was it interesting!)

But then one day in 1998 (my Golden Year), I was in the car with my mom and she cried, “HAVE YOU HEARD THIS SONG YET?!?!” as Alanis’s most recent track began playing on the radio. I rolled my eyes at first because once my mom hit her 40s, her taste in music became way less respectable. That fucking Lonestar song was her favorite song for at least 7 straight years, tied only with Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide.” Ugh, please don’t let that happen to me.

(As if.)

So I expected this song to be pure, homogenized shit.

But it wasn’t. It was fucking haunting and creepy and it made the hairs on my arms stand erect.

I went out and bought the City of Angels soundtrack specifically for “Uninvited.”

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

Henry and I were just waking up on Easter morning when that goddamn Goo Goo Doll’s song, “Iris,” came on the bedroom radio. I have been waking up in a sour mood lately, the byproduct of a zillion conflicting emotions crashing into each other like blind people in a mosh pit, and because of this, I got very angry at this song.

“I can’t believe that this song is still being played on the radio when it was like, the least best song on the City of Angels soundtrack!” I cried into the side of Henry’s face. “DON’T YOU REMEMBER HOW SICK THAT ALANIS TRACK WAS?

!”

And he sleepily mumbled that no, no he did not remember. So I fumbled for my phone, because that is my favorite thing to do, cull up songs that he apparently has no recollection of. And then I placed in on his pillow, volume maxed out, right next to his ear. It’s his favorite way to fully wake up.

That moment was the first time in probably 15 years that I have heard “Uninvited,” and goddamn if my arm hairs didn’t stand just as erect.

I have obviously fallen down the 1998 rabbit hole and I don’t want to come back. I’ll send post cards. And a Delia*s catalog. And then when I come back, I’m making a Spotify playlist.

Because that year, that whole entire year, was my motherfucking jam.

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Thankfully, being snap-happy runs in my family, so my bro Corey was always taking Polaroids when he was 8. The day after she died, he texted me this photo he took right after I brought her home in 1998. I’m so glad that he did, even though it made me cry, because it also brought back good memories.

I know I told this story before, but IDGAF. I was working at Olan Mills when I was 18, and one day the proof consultant mentioned that her neighbor’s cat had kittens, and there was one left that they were trying to place. My family was NOT into cats. I had barely ever even been around any cats, so the whole time I’m like, “Erin don’t do it—” but it was too late — my hand had already shot in the air, and I had claimed this kitten.

The next day, this tiny, weeks-old fur ball was waiting for me in a box near my work station. You guys, this is no joke: this might have been the first time I ever got heart-eyes. My boss Gladys wanted me to name her Shaniqua or something equally as dumb, but I knew right away that she was going to be Marcy. I was really into alternative rock back then, and Marcy’s Playground was the shit, y’all. It was Marcy or GTFO.

Though I did have a wide array of “a/k/a”s for her, such as: Mitch, MadgeOla, Smidge, Maybe It’s Maybelline, Pretty Rainbow Sparkles, Jock Strap (???), Plumey (because of her big, full tail), YoYo Berry, Girly SueSue, and Shark Attack. But her full, God-given name was Marciples von Schlugenhusen.

I couldn’t believe that she was the last one in the litter. How was she not the first one adopted?! I feel sorry for the people who opted for the other kittens, because they have no idea that they passed over the sassiest, bossiest, most motherfucking regal feline in all of the land. Their loss, my gain.

My rocky relationship with Psycho Mike was ending around this time, and there’s no way I could have known how much I needed her. Marcy was like a 24-hour therapy session, with bright blue eyes, soft fur, and a propensity for stealing my food right off my plate and taking up most of my pillow space. The healing process started as soon as she stormed her way into my life.

Janna and I used to take her for drives around town, because I had always had dogs as pets and thought that this was a normal thing. Turns out, nope. She wasn’t really down with that, so we eventually gave up.

Marcy accumulated an eclectic array of interests and disinterests in her 17 years.

She hated: me, laughter, Janna, children, the other cats, the mailman, the gas man (notably the one who called her “that dog”), bubbles, having her tail touched, being pointed at (she would come at you), being tic-tac’d (I would tap her on the back and then turn and pretend it wasn’t me), having yacht rock dance parties, when I would hold her up to the mirror and cry MOMMY AND MITCH IN THE MIRRORRRRR, God.

She loved: Henry, Satan, Frostys, Cool Ranch Doritos, the taste of blood, the smell of fear, destroying puzzles, game board-blocking, going outside with Henry’s mom, yelling at birds through the window, when I would rub an ice cube on her in the summer and say OOOOH, NICE N’ COO! (OK, maybe not the last part), having a reputation, generally being left alone.

It occurred to me the other day that Marcy was in my life longer than my Pappap was. This utterly blew my mind. If you have never had a pet, maybe this seems absurd, but she had as much impact on me as he did. They were both strong, positive constants in my life; two very different beings from which I felt comfort and familiarity. He was my entire childhood; she was my entire adulthood up to this point. And it’s pretty ironic, because my Pappap hated cats with a passion. No one in my family ever even THOUGHT about getting a cat while he was around. So it’s giving me a little bit of peace to think of them together right now, my Pappap trying hard to pretend that he doesn’t like her. You know, like she did with me. <3

 

 

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Because not only am I cat lady, but a cat lady with waaaaay too much nervous energy in her brain, I used to keep a LiveJournal for Marcy back in the day (one of approximately 12 LiveJournals that I used to ghost write; I was way more insane in my 20s, apparently).

I thought today would be fun to share some tales from her secret life. Because I am mourning, so you all must be sucked into this hole with me. CLEARLY.

(On the real, don’t worry about me. I will mourn and grieve and post pictures and stories about her and then I will be able to accept the fact that she is gone and in peace, and we can all move on with our lives. Just….give me a few decades  weeks.)

Anyway, here are a few entries from the Diary of Marciples von Schlugenhusen.

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December 9th, 2004: Marcy Has a Necklace

I would like to share a photograph with you mortals. I think it will paint a vivid picture of my superiority.

Here, you can see I am modeling exotic bling. How did such fine jewelry come to be in my possession, you ask?

The year was 1923, and Father had presented me with an all expense paid trip to visit Uncle Adolf Hitler while he was imprisoned in Landsberg. I was fresh out of Infernal Boarding School, which was situated in a hidden location in a small Bavarian town. But that’s a tale for another time.

Uncle Adolf was filled with jubilance upon seeing me enter the visiting quarters. We sat at a table and immersed ourselves in deep heated discourse about Jews, Communism, making dolls branded with the swastika just in time for the holidays. Oh how my skin burns when I think of Christmas, but I was always out to make a quick buck back then. I can recollect Uncle Adolf filling my head with ideas and outlines for his book, Mein Kampf. It is a very little known fact that I was his ghostwriter. I am currently in the process of schooling my daughter Wilhemina of all the glorious (some humans may argue that the proper word is ‘glorified,’ but they are ones who were too imbecilic to fully understand the genius of my Uncle) musings procured from that volume.

Before my visit came to an end, Uncle Adolf insisted that I take this jeweled pendant with me, as a keepsake.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have demonic spirits to conjure.

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August 2005: Where Marcy Gets Sea Monkeys

She gave me Sea Monkeys as a means to teach me “responsibility.” Is she kidding? I thought that apprenticing under Pol Pot in 1976 was an exercise in responsibility.

No? Well, then I suppose staring at a container of swimming parasites will do the trick.

Oh, marvelous! Now I’m barraged with memories of my time with Pol. I’ll never forget the day we sat on a tuft of prairie grass, picnicing on a buffet of Cambodia’s finest examples of cuisine, such as Nim Chow and sticky rice with a succulent mango curry, when Pol mused out loud that he was unable to think of a plan to get his genocide agenda underway. Licking the peanut sauce from beneath a nail, I lazily suggested starvation. That Pol, he went wild for my idea!

Anyway. This lady is crazy if she thinks I can be trusted with this, although there’s not really anything there for me to sink my teeth into–do these floating germs even contain blood?

She keeps pressing my face against the container walls and cooing about how happy I am that I have my very own pets, when really I’m smacking my lips and imagining lounging pool-side, slurping down a mouthful of brisk Sea Monkey water through a twisted straw. Mmm, quenching.

But in all reality, I give it one day before that kid Lucky knocks it off the windowsill. Bye bye, Sea Monkeys. I’m not your baby-sitter.

July 2006: Marcy Reminisces About Her Past 

Oh diary, you which hold the annals of my life, how sorry I am to have neglected you. The days are long and exhausting for me lately; the heat unbearable. It brings back laborious memories of traversing the torrid Sahara, en route to Cleopatra’s abode for holiday. My caravan would parlay to see who would have to attack passing nomads in order to acquire purloined provisions. The taxing journey was worth it, for upon arrival, Cleo would snap her cat o’ nine tails at her bow-legged servants, who would in turn scamper off to draw us a bath of warm milk and urine.

How did you think I kept my skin so supple?

Listen to me, rambling on and on about dear Cleo.

I was inspired to pull out some dusty photograph albums and oh how the memories flooded back when I brushed the dust from this photo:

Julius Caesar himself had commissioned one of his own Roman artists to capture our likeness on that balmy, languid afternoon. I remember it so fondly, as it was mere moments after I fed a baby to Cleo’s pet asp, Spot.

But alas, these are but memories, and then I remember that is the 21st century and am treated as nothing more than a mere house cat.

And for the record, that new half human who lives in my house has very meaty thighs in which I long to sink my teeth.

*****September 2006: Marcy Endures a Post-Baptism PartyThat damn child was — dare I say? — baptized on Sunday. Can you imagine? She and all of her disgusting friends gathered around an altar while a vile priest (I spit!) anoints the small human with stinky oil and holy water (oh, I shudder to think!).

I am quite positive that her friend Brian played a hearty part in this affair, being affiliated with Christ-like things and all. To think I used to let him lull me to sleep with the soothing aural candy which would pour out from between his lips. A pox on him, I say.

And then, after gathering holy dust all amongst the fibers of their clothing, she and all of her cohorts came back to my house to “break the bread,” as the sniveling Catholics say. The very flesh beneath my fur seared from the exposure to the leftover church-y particles being circulated throughout the air I breathe.

Oh, Father in Hell, I cried out your name and plead for mercy.

And then came the despicable display of affection bestowed upon the small human. People waiting their turn to lift the hefty sack of flesh into their arms, pretending that they do not care about the bag of shit in which he was swaddled. Why do humans get such joy in having saliva drizzled onto their clothing, straight from the mouth of another human? It is pure repulsion.

But then an odd turn of events occurred: Attention turned onto myself.

“That is the evil cat!” people would exclaim at random.

“Do not pet that cat! She will hurt you!” others would warn their friends.

I took this as my cue to saunter around the room, tail held up with pristine stature. I would stop at the feet of the oblivious and emit melodious purrs from my mouth, willing them to reach down with one of their flesh-padded palms for me to strike.

And strike I did, with unrelenting zest. Soon, the crowd forgot all about the child, and he retreated to his cage for an afternoon nap while I worked the room, scavenging drops of vittles as I went.

All in all, it turned out to be a good day.

*****

 November 2006: Marcy Is Thankful for Things

Currently, I’m enjoying the serene quiet now that the child napping. I really wish she wouldn’t leave the door to his bedroom shut, because I’d love to go in there and prove the folk lore true. Nothing beats baby breath for breakfast.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, yet another holiday that Father and I do not celebrate because the pilgrims were God-fearing assholes. Yet, there are things in this world that I appreciate.

What am I thankful for, you ask, dear diary? I am thankful for pestilence, poverty, and pollution. I am thankful for denigration, dismemberment, and death. I am grateful for W., war, and wholesale murder. Terrorism, thieving, and Tiananmen Square in 1989.

But mostly, I am thankful for the few hours of solitude I’ll get to lavish tomorrow when that bitch takes her wretched son to her grandmother’s house for dinner. I’ll get some privacy to work on my Nazi mural and some leftover turkey to gormandize once they return.

*****

Marcy’s Album Cover

I am a singer.

Yes, it’s true. My producer has likened me to a demonic Kylie Minogue, but I have moves like Beyonce. The only reason I am telling you this, diary readers, is because over the weekend, my likeness was captured in such a sultry pose, with slats of sunlight showering my fur, that I knew in an instant it would be my album cover.

Behold, Von Schlugenhusen’s Fuck My War, Kiss My Hate.

I have the skeletons of a few songs in demo-form, but I am not willing to share those with you, diary readers, for fear of a world-wide Internet leak. I’m still waiting to hear back from Dimmu Borgir and Mortiis, as I propositioned them for cameo appearances, and Charlie Manson promised he’d record something in the spoken-word vein, of which I can mix snippets into interludes. Then it’s off to Norway to record.

*****

October 2007: Marcy Makes a List

1. A piggy bank

2. A safe for my drugs and medallions

3. Stew

4. Winter parka

5. Stepstool

6. Guitar strings

What are: Things I can use that baby for after I slaughter him.

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One day last December, I woke up hungry for Howard Jones, as one often does. As I turned on Spotify with my blood-stained unicorn horn, I casually asked myself, “I wonder if Howard Jones is touring?” HoJo has been on my Concert Bucket List for years and years and years. Like Mike+the Mechanics, he represents a good chunk of my childhood, although the emotions behind it are way  more upbeat and cheerful because I associate him almost solely with ROLLERSKATING. It was kind of weird that these two shows happened to fall back-to-back.

He was playing at the Trinity Cathedral downtown Cleveland, and I was totally relieved when Henry did some sleuthing (a/k/a actually reading the church’s website) and found out that there was on-site parking. One less thing for me to worry about! Except he didn’t tell me that parking was $10, which had to come out of my merch fund, ugh!

Janna and I got there about 15 minutes before doors. The line wasn’t long at all, and honestly a quick scan learned me that Janna and I were the youngest fans there so far. I figured the line would be relatively obnoxious BUT I COULDN’T HAVE BEEN MORE WRONG. This terrible old couple slinked into line right behind us and proceeded to engage in the most banal banter about nursing home food. The wife had a monotone midwestern lilt and I kept mouthing, “I’m going to fucking kill her” to Janna, who looked like she was being pushed to her limits, you guys, which is saying a lot because Janna works with behaviorally-damaged adults. (Is that a real term? I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S OK TO SAY THESE DAYS.)

Once the doors opened and we made inside the lobby, the wife started FREAKING THE FUCK OUT, albeit monotonally, because the event staff kept telling everyone to have their IDs ready.

“I DON’T HAVE MY LICENSE WHAT AM I GOING TO DO ARE THEY GOING TO MAKE ME LEAVE.” <—This, over and over, even though her husband kept saying, “I don’t know.” Have these people never in their 89 years been to a concert before? Good lord. Maybe you should have stayed home and binge-watched “All In the Family,” Edith.

Then Janna was all excited because she saw some girl trip on her way to the bathroom and play it off by acting like she was just breaking into a sprint.

The line moved pretty quickly and soon Janna and I had our drinking wristbands on since we were smart enough to bring our IDs, Edith. A second line formed after we had our tickets scanned, and this one snaked into a room with a makeshift bar and  the most entertaining bartender who was determined to get everyone drunk, even if they didn’t want to get out of line.

Janna got a $9 mixed drink.

Janna’s $9 mixed drink.

I wasn’t going to drink at first, but then I was like “FUCK IT I DON’T HAVE ENOUGH CASH ON ME TO GET A SHIRT NOW ANYWAY” thanks to Henry not telling me about the NOT-FREE parking lot. So I bought a $6 cup of wine and it was just enough to make me not want to fly home and give Henry a Mexican necktie for ruining my life.

Then some dude in charge was walking around telling everyone that the show was going to be filmed and explained that it was going to be held in the Cathedral itself, which was a happy surprise for me because I just assumed it was going to be in some annex-type thing. When the line started moving again and we slowly made our way into the main part of  the Cathedral, my breath got all caught up in my atheistic throat and memories of when I believed in God came fluttering back. It was good. Just nice little tingles of comfort and familiarity and not the skin-searing sensation of spontaneous combustion that you’d expect from me crossing the threshold of God’s House.

Religion aside, I honestly do love churches and cathedrals for their architectural aesthetics and history. Just being there made the hair stand up like little erect penes on my arms.

The first 15 or so rows were reserved, but we managed to snag good seats — well, my seat was good, but Janna was irritated because some tall broad planted herself in front of Janna and then never moved. I think Amazonian may have kind of clapped once, but it might have been an accident. But from my spot, I was able to see Howard and his hot pink blazer the whole time, in your face JANNA!

The girl who tripped on the way to the bathroom ended up being in the first row, so who’s laughing now, I guess.

The only downside of the night was the opener. It was just supposed to be this singer-songwriter, Cobi Mike, but apparently at the last minute the event organizers snagged some local Cleveland Ashanti wannabe — Nefertiti. Guys, you know I love me some R&B, but this wasn’t the night for it. Nefertiti came out looking like Miss America, with Cobi in all denim accompanying her on guitar. It just didn’t make sense from the start. Luckily, she only sang three songs, two of which were covers. The first one she explained was by “a virtual band who present themselves as cartoons.”

But she never said it was Gorillaz.

“Maybe she thinks everyone here is too old to know who they are,” Janna said. I mean, there were A LOT of old people there.

The second song was one of her originals and get this you guys—it was about LOVE. What a strange theme for a song.

The third was the Beatles’ “Blackbird” and I made a flying-bird motion with my hands when it was almost over, because bitch fly the fuck home. She was a real snooze-fest. Henry probably would have loved her.

After she left the stage, Cobi Mike went on to perform 6 songs and I was INTO IT. Janna said she lost interest after the first two songs, probably because he wasn’t doing any Bloodhound Gang covers. Because that seems like something that would make Janna get out of her seat, I don’t know.

Here’s a Cobe Mike song I found on YouTube to give you an idea of his Hot Angel face, I mean…smooth voice:

When he comes to Pittsburgh, I’m going. Just not with JANNA, I guess, since she HATES HIM.

After Cobi’s set, we went to the bathroom but nothing good happened there aside from two old broads having a conversation with each other over top of my stall. On the way back, we got stuck in some bottlenecked corridor while Nefertiti was doing a meet and greet, but I think it was actually just her family who came out to see her. But Jesus Christ, go somewhere else and tell her how proud you are! I eventually just barreled my way through with no excuse mes given because I don’t like her.

And then Janna saw someone she knows and got all hair-in-face covert about it, so I of course had to text Corey about it on the ASAP because we love texting about Janna’s comings and goings. Then Janna showed me the guys who have recently viewed her dating profile and that was enjoyable. Lots of black men in their 50s.

Right before Howard, the Cathedral’s pastor came out in a bitchin’ leather jacket to talk to us about her vision for the church in the 21st century, how this new concert series they’ve been dabbling in has been so successful, but to please remember that this is still God’s House at the end of the day, so please don’t make a mess. Since this wasn’t a Warped Tour crowd, I figured the church was pretty safe.

BUT THEN IT WAS HOWARD JONES TIME!!!! He came out on the wings of celestial synth and if someone had interviewed me right then, it would have been all, “*SQUEAL! SQUEAL! SQUEAL!*” He walked around the crowd a little bit before joining his band on stage and I was just like, “UGH JANNA!!!” because I wanted him to walk just a little bit further to where we were. I would have pushed the broad next to me aside for one quick touch.

The sound was obviously incredible. I can’t imagine a better venue—it was so intimate and the crowd was great. There were tons of old bitches throwing themselves around in fantastical 1980s prom revisitations. I hope I still have fun like that when I’m old. I’ll probably at least still be heckling Janna, and that’s definitely fun!

He played all of his big hits and I was having synthgasms all up in that ecclesiastical piece. Synthpop is one of my all-time favorite genres of music and to hear it live is always such a dream. It makes me feel such happiness all the way to the core — there was no weeping at this show. It was all sing-alongs and bouncing and screaming. When Henry was “courting” me (lol), he played off this fact about me and made me synthpop mixed CDs and bought me compilations from A Different Drum. Henry was such a catch back then! (Fine. I guess he still is.)

My earliest memory of Howard Jones was in 1984. One of the network TV stations had a show called Friday Night Videos, and my dad used to keep a blank VHS tape in the VCR, waiting to hit “record” when songs he liked would come on. Howard Jones’ “New Song” was one of those videos, and if I knew then what I know now, I’d have cried, “This is the fucking jam!”

When I moved out of the house at 18, I slipped that VHS tape of videos, with its shoddy masking tape label, into one of my boxes. Because that tape was my everything as a kid! Sure, it means nothing now in the age of YouTube, but—there are some 80s commercials on it, and about 8 minutes of Days of Our Lives. It’s a fucking time capsule.

It’s funny: my relationship with my step-dad was strained and dysfunctional, but he inadvertently managed to cultivate my musical tastes. I didn’t get that from my mom.

This should be everyone’s anthem. Throw off your mental chains!

Here is his set list, in case you’re reading this and know who Howard Jones is, and if you still don’t, I linked to some of his most popular videos because I’m thorough like that (sometimes):

• Pearl in the Shell
• Like to Get to Know You Well
• Everlasting Love
• Joy
• No One Is To Blame
• The Prisoner
• Life in One Day
• The Human Touch
• What Is Love?
• New Song
• Hide and Seek
• Hold On To Your Heart
• Things Can Only Get Better
• Things Can Only Get Better – techno reprise

Howard’s keyboard stand changed colors and now I desperately want to get one for Chooch. When I showed it to Henry, he smirked and said, “Good luck with that.” WHY DON’T YOU BE A REAL FATHER AND MAKE ONE, THEN?!

On the way out, I noticed that there were empty cups and other various refuse all over the place. What fucking assholes. Even old people can’t be civilized at shows.

 

And thankfully for Henry’s ballsack, Howard’s merch table took credit cards, so I was able to get a shirt after all.

I still get so giddy just thinking about being in a cathedral with Howard Jones! But I still had a 2.5 hour drive home in the dark, fueled by extreme hyperactivity from the day’s events, and hilarity over the fact that the combined effort of Janna and I nearly couldn’t figure out the headlights on the fucking rental car. I was actually driving a few miles without them on, but then we stopped at Sheetz for coffee and Janna stood in front of the car while I twisted the dial every which way.

Once we were on the road again, Janna said, “I’m glad we have headlights now.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, tearing into my Melt leftovers, and then realized that I had forgotten to turn them back on after I got gas. OH, HOW WE LAUGHED. And then I almost cried because I was tired but giddy. We got back to Pittsburgh around 2AM but then I couldn’t fall asleep until 3:30. I woke up at 6:30AM on Sunday, so that did wonders for  my mood disorders. But, worth it!

You guys, I saw Howard Jones! The only way that night could have been any better would be it was at Spinning Wheels and I was ten-years-old again.

 

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Earlier tonight, I was inspired to listen to music that makes me want to die, which is Henry’s absolute favorite activity to watch me participate in! After The Used’s “Blue & Yellow” (which I haven’t been able to listen to in its entirety for years), I switched over to Armor For Sleep.

“Why do you torture yourself?” Henry sighed in a rhetorical fashion, because he knows why. He might  not understand it, but he knows the answer.

“I’d give anything—-” I started to say, but my voice got strangulated by impending tears. “—to see Armor For Sleep again.”

Henry just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

I listened to this album A LOT on my drives to Cincinnati in 2005 and it still holds up so well, ten years later. Such a sorely underrated band. You should listen to them. Would it make any of you 30 Rock fans more interested if I told you that the singer Ben Jorgensen is married to Katrina Bowden?

But seriously, if they would get back together for just one last tour….I’d drive to Cincinnati again for that.

Emo forever.

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HEY GANG. Today have a vintage Erin and Henry post about the first time we went to the flea market together in 2005. This was also back when we hated each other, so read between the lines, I guess is what I’m saying, oh ho ho ho. 

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I’ve only ever been to a flea market once in my life (I’m a reformed Versace-girl, remember). That was in high school, and it was only a quick jaunt for my friend Jon to pick up some cheap cigarettes. I remember wanting to stay longer so I could look for cool things like slap bracelets and ugly lamps, but Jon reminded me that we had more important things to do, like sit and drink coffee at Denny’s for five hours.

So when Henry pressed his luck and threw “flea market” into the Sunday Morning suggestion box, I shrugged and said, “Maybe.” After learning he would buy me trinkets of affection (and shameless bribery), I hurriedly changed my vote to a yea.

I was eager to experience this so-called bargain circus with my frugal, blue-collared boyfriend, who is no doubt quite familiar with spotting a deal. Hopefully he could show me the ropes. At the very least, maybe it would turn into another social experiment, like when one of my ex boyfriends tried to show me how to grocery shop with coupons.

The flea market we attended was set up inside an old movie theater, with the excess spilling out into the back parking lot. Henry wore a proud look of “welcome to my world” on his face, as he steered the car through aisles of limping elderly and spandexed women. I saw fanny packs and torsos sausaged into crop tops everywhere I turned.

Feeling a swell of excitement as he parked between two Nascar bumper stickered cars, I whipped out my lip gloss for a touch-up.

“Are you kidding me? Did you not see the people we drove past? No one cares how you look! It’s a flea market.” But I like to look nice while I’m shopping! He stood next to the car with crossed arms until I dolefully returned the lip gloss to my purse.

We entered the converted theater and Henry seemed to be harboring some hesitation. Maybe he was regretting bringing me?

Once my eyes adjusted, I scoffed and whispered, “Oh my God, this stuff is so dumb! People actually buy this?” causing Henry to grip my elbow and push me along the aisle.

“Stupid. Ugly. Dumb. Whoa…..what’s that?” On a table to my right sprawled a sparking strand of exquisite black baubles suitable for any good Zsa Zsa Gabor impersonator (I should know — I dressed as her once in fifth grade). I held the necklace in my hand and allowed the coolness of the black gems to sink into my palm. This must be a thousand million dollars, I thought to myself in disdain. My eyes furtively sought the table for some sort of price tag, when they landed on a sign that said “All necklaces, $2.”

Be still my heart, I swooned! Pivoting on my heels, I silently implored Henry with wide eyes, necklace clutched to my heart. He rolled his eyes and passed me two dollar bills. When I looked at him in confusion, he said irritably, “Go give it to that old woman behind the table.” I didn’t know! God.

My first flea market purchase! I skipped back toward Henry and gloated in his face. “That’s great, now watch where you’re walking.” He was jealous, that’s all. This is when it occured to me that perhaps my depression could be attributed to lack of accessorizing. So I embarked on a mission for more gaudy adornments.

Twenty seconds later and Henry had lost me. While he continued to walk ahead, I had been drawn over to a table boasting brilliantly colored wooden necklaces. I fawned over them with glazed eyes until Henry made his way back to my side.

“I’m buying these two. Give me money.” When Henry’s hand failed to move toward his pocket, I made like I was going to cause a scene and he hurriedly slapped a twenty in my hand.

I wore the necklace pictured later that day when we went to lunch and each time the waitress would stop at our table, I would flip my hair dramatically over my shoulder and wait for the inevitable shriek of “Oh my god that necklace is so great! Where did you get it!” Alas, she never noticed (Henry maintains that she noticed, alright, but just didn’t care).

Quickly deciding that I was going to empty his pockets if we stayed inside amongst all the “nice” merchandise, he decided to take me out to the parking lot where all the junk was set up. On our way out there, an old woman careened into Henry with a rolled up rug and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry dear heart.” I made a mental note of calling him that for the rest of the day, but it became a fleeting memory once we walked out the doors and were barraged by blaring country music and the dueling aromas of soul food and teriyaki chicken. What a mix.

I shielded my eyes and took in the sea of slipshod tools, bargain cleaning products, and board games with missing pieces. We flipped through stolen DVDs and crates of cracked CD cases; I’ll never see more Rick Astley CDs in all my lifetime if I try.

People bounded from table to table, like locusts, grabbing up armfuls of batteries, watering cans adorned with giant plastic daisies, and Barbie clothes. Underneath small tents, more people pushed and shoved to get a better look at VHS selections, dollar store Christmas decorations and faded Steelers shirts.

I had grown accustomed to paying only $1-$2 for things that caught my eye, so when I’d see price tags demanding a lofty $5 and up, I’d slap my hand across my chest and say things like “Astronomical!” and “Oh, sister, you’re out of your mind!” I fear that I may be forever ruined by the flea market and all of its remarkable deals.

We trudged our way up and down the aisles, Henry stepping on the backs of my flip-flops and me complaining of the pelting sun. In the middle of a train of snide remarks, I interrupted myself with a breathy “Uh-oh.”

“What does that mean, ‘uh-oh’?” Henry asked nervously. “What did you do?”

“Would you look?” I said, as I pointed vigorously to the stand on our left.

“Yeah, it’s all junk. Keep walking.” And he started ambling away, that Henry. I tugged him back over to the table and pointed again.

“I want that.”

“No, I’m not buying it. Come on.”

“But I need it! Please ask that man how much it is!” You know how when you’re a kid and you just have to have a certain toy and your parents know that you’ll never play with it so they don’t want to encourage you? That’s kind of how it is all day, every day with Henry and me.

Henry stood quietly for a few seconds, staring at the object of my desire. “My loins are burning for it, Henry! Please, it’s my dying wish!” I was yanking his arm and lurching up and down like I had to pee. I scrunched up my face and flung my hand across my forehead.

And so he finally cleared his throat and dejectedly asked the elderly black man behind the table how much the brown nudie mug would set him back.

“One dollar.”

ONE DOLLAR. Oh, my heart soared and I beamed and squealed as I watched Henry make the transaction. The man plunked it into a plastic bag and I wrestled it from Henry’s fist. “I swear to god I’ll use it everyday!” I emphatically vowed.

“Yeah? I wouldn’t,” Henry muttered as we continued along the aisles of clutter.

Still riding the waves of euphoria over my nudie mug, a shiny glint caught my eye. Stopping abruptly, I slowly turned my head to see what was causing such a dazzling glow and gasped as I collapsed back into Henry.

“No, oh no. Keep walking,” Henry’s face was awash with a stew of apprehension and horror.

“But it’s the most beautifulest thing in the world!” I breathed. “I want it. I want it! How much do you think it is?” I had to run to catch up to him, as his pace quickened significantly. “Please?!”

“You act like everything is life or death,” Henry spat as he continued to browse tables for stuff that he likes (which is all stupid stuff).

“I really think that I need this, though. I mean, I love my nudie mug, but this would make me even more happy. Don’t you want me to be happy?” That gets him every time. Every time. I knew that once we made our way back around, he would buy it for me.

What is it? Only the most glorious piece of art you’ll ever see, that’s what it is.

I walked with my head down, body rigid and consumed with panic. “What if someone buys it?”

“Um, doubtful,” Henry uttered while tossing me a fed up face.

Mere seconds later, I was entranced by a glazed ceramic figurine that resembled Big Boy, only he sported frightening lime green eyes. Standing at about a foot tall, I envisioned him perched on my fireplace mantle, keeping watch over my guests. The grizzled old guy manning the table caught me staring at it and warbled in a hoarse mountain man voice, “Anything here catch your eye?”

I wanted to clap and say, “Yes, mister! This right here! How much?” but Henry pierced through my soul with slinted eyes, and with flared nostrils he quickly shook his head “no.” As we walked away, I scuffed my feet and tried to make him understand how much I wanted it.

“That stupid thing was wearing golf clothes and it was carrying a golf bag. Why would you want that?”

“I love golf!” I was offended that he did not know this. When he denied my golfing affectations, I reminded him that I have Phil Mickelson listed as a LiveJournal interest.

“Yeah, but that’s not because you think he’s a good golfer. It’s because you’re weird.” He was still mouthing off about me being a golf fan-poseur, when I saw the most beautiful, gigantic metal bangle bracelet.

I thrust my fist through it and modeled it for all to see. The Asian woman behind the table cooed. “Yes, that’s lovely! Three dollah.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe…I can’t decide.” I scrutinized the heavy bracelet and admired how it mirrored the sun’s blinding rays. I continued to deliberate, peppering the moment with uncertainties such as “Maybe I’ll be back” and “Do I really need such an extravagant piece of jewelry adorning my wrist?” until she said, “OK fine, two dollah!”

As I walked away with my new chintzy bangle, I shielded my eyes from its blazing shine and elbowed Henry in the side. “Did you see what I did back there? Knocking her down to a cheaper price? That’s called bartering, Henry. I learned how to do that in Morocco.” Because I loooove reminding Henry that I had already traveled half the world by the time I was 13 while he was busy coloring his collar blue.

“Didn’t you hear what she said? You could have got three for $5, so wipe the smirk off your face–you were still taken.”

And then there we were, back to the table that housed the diamond in the rough. “Look at it,” I purred. “If that’s not the most beautiful—”

“Do you honestly want it?” I imagine Henry thought I was joking until he saw that my eyes were tearing up. And so he asked the seller how much it was going for and suddenly, I felt a rush of blood to my head, and the sound of crashing drums filled my ears. I braced myself for the ugly truth, willing to wager that my masterpiece was going to be too steep for Henry’s meager salary. I could hear Henry talking, but it sounded long and drawn out, like a record playing on slow speed.

I’ll tell you what, I thought my eyes deceived me, like an oasis in the desert illusion, when I saw him hand over two dollar bills. TWO DOLLARS FOR THIS PIECE OF EYE CANDY.

 

 

 

It’s like three feet long!

“I can’t believe someone bought this the first time,” Henry said disgustedly as he thrust the beauty into my greedy hands. I stared at it in awe. What a dangerous item to be placed into the care of someone as sacrilegious as myself. My mind began to whirl as I imagined all the things I could do with it. Chase Marcy around the house; slice Henry’s wrists and splatter his blood over it; use it as a TV dinner tray.

There was a brief window of fear as I wondered if the picture was so cheap because it was haunted. Like, I don’t know, maybe by the Holy Ghost? I made a mental note of hanging the picture below my devil clock; let him keep an eye out, you know?

Generally, I make Henry carry all the bags when we go shopping, but yesterday, I stingily hoarded them all for myself. Feeling my last supper picture slap against my thigh as I walked caused me great delight.

I’m hoping to shop at the flea market all the time now.

“Hey big spender, do you think it would be alright if I bought myself a hot dog?”

You know what, Henry, go and have that hot dog; I think that’ll be just fine.

[Note from the future: I was reminded me of this when I saw a similar piece to the Last Supper at Flower Child last weekend. It was the same size and made from the same material, except that instead of Jesus & Co., it was fruit and FORTY DOLLARS.]

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It was all the way back in October when I was getting ready for work and heard on the radio that Mike + the Mechanics were touring America for the first time in 25 years, and Pittsburgh was one of the stops. I freaked the fuck out and texted Henry immediately because I needed to see this.

When I was a kid, my Pappap used to drive me to school (which is probably where my fear of public transportation stems from—I never rode the bus to school!) and he went through a pretty heavy Mike + the Mechanics phase after they released The Living Years. He kept the cassette in his truck and every time the title track would play, he would thrum his fingers along the steering wheel and get real quiet. He told me once that this song made him think of his father, but because I was At That Age, I never actually bothered to ask him questions about their relationship: if it was bad, if there were things he regretted saying or not saying to him, did he miss him. So in a way, this song has always had the same effect on me, as well. And after my Pappap died in 1996, I would sometimes listen to this on purpose, just to make myself even more miserable. Because why not.

I had to go to this show, because I just couldn’t stop thinking that maybe my Pappap would be there. Dumb? Don’t care.

In addition to this, there are the other face-value factors, such as MIKE RUTHERFORD. I loved (and still love) Genesis when I was a kid, and while I got to see Phil Collins, I never had the opportunity to see Genesis. So even though M+M have two new singers who replace Paul Carrack and the deceased Paul Young, being under the same roof as Mike Rutherford was worth it to me. And the other factor is that it’s just a great fucking band with some huge hits that defined my childhood.

Every time I would hear the commercial for the show on the radio, I would tear up. And all last week, I was sick to my stomach with excitement and also anxiety, because I knew it was going to be a rough one, emotionally.

Henry and I had time to stop for dinner beforehand, and because it’s all about me, we went to the Tin Roof, a vegetarian restaurant a few blocks away from the Carnegie Music hall. The food was OK, but I’m so spoiled by Zenith that it takes a lot to impress me when it comes to vegetarian cuisine. I had carrot ginger risotto, which was slightly burnt and served on a roasted portabello mushroom; I feel like Gordon Ramsay would have called the cook a donkey over that one, but I still ate it and it was fine. Henry basically ordered the thing on the menu that had the most cheese because god forbid, No Meat.

I had some wine to calm my nerves. It didn’t work.

Thrilled to be on a date with me!

We arrived shortly before the opener went on, and I was happy to see that Henry got us the same seats we had for Goblin last year. I love balconies! And then we looked on in amusement as more and more people trickled in and Henry realized he was one of the Younger Ones for once. And if that was true, then I was practically infantile by comparison.

I love the vibe at Older People shows. You know I love my scene kid shows, but sometimes it’s nice to experience other things, too! I was about to say that older people are much more respectful and appreciative at concerts, but then I remembered the old hags I was standing behind at Afghan Whigs at Riot Fest, who never shut their fucking Botoxed faces. So we’ll just go ahead and say, “Mostly.”

Daryl Stuermer, also formerly of Genesis, opened the show at 7:30. He played some covers as well as his own solo stuff, but what I liked best was when he would talk in between songs. Especially when he told the story of when his friend urged him to audition for Genesis in 1977, and then Mike Rutherford sent him a cassette of demos.

“You seem like the type of crowd who would be familiar with cassettes,” Daryl joked and I laughed just a tad too hard, because Henry hates that.

Then when Daryl announced he was from Milwaukee, I adopted that weird growling-voice I do sometimes and said in Henry’s ear, “So was Jeffrey Dahmer.” Henry just shrugged me away from him. 

My favorite parts of Daryl’s set was when the man in front of me would pump his fist and cry out, “YES!” and then follow-up with a quieter “Yes.” Also, I enjoyed his cover of “Shock the Monkey.”

It was sometime around this point where I fell into my standard, “What if someone starts shooting?” paranoid thoughts, and then I started laughing out loud at how absurd it would be to start a story with, “That one time I got shot at a Mike+the Mechanics show.”

After Daryl peaced out, Henry and I went to the makeshift bar and I got more wine. Henry got beer or something, I guess.

And then it was time.

Everyone went nuts when they came out, and while I do love to see an old folk go apeshit, my heart was beating so rapidly that I didn’t have it in me to mock any of them for Henry. I know he felt sorely remiss. All I kept on thinking was, “OMG THIS IS HAPPENING YOU GUYS!” because “you guys” are always in my thoughts. Whoever the fuck you are.

The new singers? PHENOMENAL. I was so worried they were going to stink up the classics, but nope. Nope, nope, nope. Tim Howar was my favorite of the two: he reminded me of a young Phil Collins, ironically, vocally and appearance-wise. I fucking swear to god he kept looking up and smiling at me too, and not at the old lady in front of me, so don’t get it twisted, lady. Immediately, I was like, “OMG HENRY I HAVE A CRUSH ON HIM” and Henry was like, “He’s wearing a scarf, so…”

So I was OK, smiling and clapping a lot through the first two songs, just generally being happy to be there, when “Silent Running” happened. Earlier that day, I told Glenn, “I am going to cry so hard when they play Silent Running” because I just love that song so much and my god, the childhood memories. However, I was mostly joking. I figured I would probably tear up like I do at most shows, but what happened that night was so much more than “tearing up.” Before I even knew what was happening, tears were straight SQUIRTING out of my eyes, my face involuntarily scrunched up, and my bottom lip was quivering so badly that I was afraid I would never get it to stop.

I had gone from “Yay this is fun” to “UGLYCRY” before the vocals even kicked in. I went from “OMG TIM LOOK AT MEEEEEE!” to “OMG TIM STOP LOOKING OVER HERE, I’M A MONSTER. A WET-FACED MONSTER!!” It was seriously concerning. I mean, I’m crying right now just typing this.

And then Tim performed the Genesis track “I Can’t Dance” and if I closed my eyes, it really felt like Phil Collins was there. It was SO GOOD that I actually stopped crying for a little bit.

This bimbo in front of me was wildin’ out all night and at first I was all about it, but then After the Tears, I was so pissed off and wanted to punch her in the back of the head because I was miserable and EVERYONE AROUND ME NEEDED TO BE MISERABLE TOO. (Seriously though — she was fine. I was just being a crybaby. Literally.)

And they played “Taken In”! That was one of the many highlights I was witnessed through tear-blurred eyes. It had been a really long time since I heard that one.

But then the inevitable happened: They played “The Living Years” and I couldn’t stop it. I tried. So hard. But I began to absolutely sob and I was actually too distressed and absorbed in my own pitiful cocoon of grief to be even a little bit embarrassed about it. My whole face was spasming and soaking wet with tears, so I can only imagine what a lovely sight I was STOP LOOKING, TIM. I mean, I cry pretty much every day because I’m Erin Rachelle Kelly, but I can’t remember the last time I expelled such pent-up sadness. It was a good old-fashioned bereavement.

Every word of that song slammed against my heart like a mallet and I just felt pain. Everywhere. Like arthritis all over my body. I put my face into Henry’s chest and wailed, “This was a mistake.” Almost 20 years and it’s still like this this gaping wound that time just fucking refuses to heal. And though it was painful, it was worth it in the end. Like honoring a part of my childhood, one of the best parts of my childhood. I think my Pappap would have been happy to know I was there.

“Weren’t they incredible?” I sighed to Henry in that weird, on the verge of hiccuping voice you get when you cry like a little bitch for too long. And my Henbot 4000 blip-bleeped that “they were ok.” And then I cried about it some more in the car, because when you open the floodgates….Shows like this really make realize how much I’m carrying with me.   “You look really tired,” Janna said when Henry and I came home to relieve her of her Chooch-sitting duties. I guess that’s what an hour-long power-weep will do to you.
*********
Coincidentally, the next day Janna and I were en route to Cleveland, and because road trips are the best times to reminisce, we were talking about the stupid shit that’s happened over the course of our friendship, including the time I almost killed an FBI agent and the time I got pulled over at 3AM for going through a flashing red light in a pretty bad area of Pittsburgh and then your basic traffic violation hilarity ensued (a story for another day).

“We were listening to Mike + the Mechanics that night, you know,” Janna pointed out, and I have no idea why I can’t remember that, other than it was probably when I was going through one of my many mental crises.

*********

It felt like losing my Pappap all over again.

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For Throwback Thursday, I was revisiting old LiveJournal stories when I came across this one from 2004 that sincerely illustrates my relationship with Henry. We are exactly the same! I don’t know if I should be happy that, after 14 years, he still pays enough attention to what I’m doing to feel the need to scold me; or embarrassed that I honestly haven’t matured one tiny smidge. 

The only difference is now that we have a kid, he’s doing twice the scolding. 

Anyway, while I go back to complaining to Henry about my latest workout injuries, please enjoy Our Day at the Homewood Cemetery. 

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

March 28th, 2004

Today at the cemetery, Henry utilized each and every phrase in his repertoire of scolding verbiage.

“Stop it!”

“Shhh!”

“Put that down!”

“You’re a fucking weirdo.”

“People go to jail for that!”

“Leave the cat alone.”

“Get down from there!”

And let’s not forget the obligatory “Grow up.” I need a new walking partner. Any takers? 

We were in one of the mausoleums and there was this one hallway that was completely dark. I was terror-stricken and started running. That constituted a “settle down” from Papa H. We couldn’t get out the one door to leave and naturally, since I’m prone to panicking, I completely forgot that there was another exit. My heart was beating so fast, and Henry started making references to “Phantasm.” (Although he originally kept saying “Hellraiser” until I corrected him. Because I’m the best.) Anyhow, we made it out safely and I informed Henry that I had chills. He was all, “That’s because it was cold in there.” He’s such a parade shitter.

The cat that I saw, though, I think was a ghost. I chased it all over the place, in spite of Henry’s warnings of rabies. 

There was a guy and girl that were cleaning off this one section of graves, and I was trying to contain my laughter, which resulted in my snorting. Henry hissed, “Some people come here for a reason, you know.” He’s such a hater.

The best is the look that he gets on his face when I randomly let loose an ear piercing shriek. Tormenting him is the best part of our relationship.

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Otherwise known as: BARB’S LAST DAY, UGH^TM.

I actually dreaded coming into work yesterday, and not just because it was Monday. I know it might seem melodramatic, all the tribute posts last week and me being a general crybaby about change, but the shock of Barb’s resignation has really impacted a lot of us here. I can honestly say that if not for Barb, I’m not sure I would have lasted this long at The Law Firm. I had always been pretty firmly against working downtown and when I was called in for an interview here five years ago, I almost didn’t go.

Seriously. I literally ran back into the house and flung myself on the bed, in full-fledged pout mode. But Henry was like, “YOU NEED TO GET A JOB BECAUSE WE ARE POOR. GO TO THIS FUCKING INTERVIEW OR YOU CAN FORGET ABOUT WARPED TOUR THIS SUMMER!” Ugh, I was so mad about it! And then I set off an alarm trying to get into the department and everyone was staring at me—it was NOT a good start.

But then some lady came around the corner and was all, “Oh are you here for the interview?” (probably what was said, I would imagine; I’m taking liberties here) and then she took me into conference room 10B (which doesn’t even exist anymore) and introduced herself as BARB AND THAT IS THE FIRST TIME I MET BARB YOU GUYS.

So, Barb and Sue interviewed me together that day and it was the first time in years that I actually felt comfortable in an interview, which I mentioned to Barb many months later and she said, “That’s funny because I remember thinking you seemed so nervous!” That’s just my normal demeanor though. I think she knows that now.

Hilariously, I remember being asked what I was doing during the day since I was currently out of work, and I told them I was an “artist.” LOLforever.

Working with Barb was awesome from day one. It didn’t even feel like I was coming to work! And every Monday, I always felt excited to come in and tell her about all the stupid things that happened over the weekend. And holy shit, we would laugh until our faces hurt over the stupidest things.

We were separated in 2012, when I joined a different part of the department (The Dark Side) and was moved to another part of the floor (basically The Saddest Hallway Ever). It was awful. Barb would always try and drop hints to management about how I should be moved back, but we knew deep down that having us split up was a dream for the bosses — we were constantly being reprimanded for talking too much, being too loud, having too much fun, being human. For the next two years, I was so sad and felt like I was rotting away in that glorified office I was stashed in.

Last June, I moved back over to the Good Side of the department, but I was still in another quadrant. And then, halfway through Barb’s Last Day, it was announced that a bunch of us are being moved around–I’M GOING BACK TO MY OLD DESK! ON BARB’S SIDE OF THE FLOOR!

And now she won’t be there. :(

What kind of dumb luck is that?!

She was in Wendy’s office yesterday right before it was time for me to leave, so I opened the door and said, “I just wanted to say—-” and then my words got all  truncated, like “goodbye” was the new “Beetlejuice.” I had to turn around and walk away because I started crying. Then I came back and tried again, and this time I had to stand and face a corner in order to get the stupid words to come out. Then in the span of .05 seconds, I accidentally shut off the lights and poked myself in the eye (an injury which is still plaguing me today, as I type this while wearing only one contact).

JUST AWFUL.*

Ugh.

*Barb leaving. But, also my eye injury. Awful.

***********

Earlier in the day, I presented Barb with her going-away present. I worked on it all weekend and laughed and cried through the whole thing. It’s a painted collection of various Law Firm memories and jokes and she pretty much acted like it was the goddamn Mona Lisa because, duh: it was from ME!

“And I have the only one! No one else has this!” she cried, and I thanked god that Glenn wasn’t within earshot, because I’m sure his kneejerk retort would have been, “And no one else WANTS one.” Although, he did surprise me that morning when I arrived at work with the painting wrapped up protectively in a garbage bag, because I had gone through a mental Rolodex of possible wise cracks he would potential monotone, like, “Pretty convenient that they make actual bags for your ‘art'” or “Oh great, bringing more garbage to work.” But he didn’t! Instead he was like, “That is nice.”

 

Most of these are explained in last week’s quasi-eulogies for Barb. I think I touched upon Last Mail in this post from last year, but this is the biggie, the one that the whole department gets. Last Mail is a beautiful enigma and I love her. Barb used to be her #1 on our floor, but then Barb made the fatal mistake of canceling lunch plans with her in 2013, and Last Mail iced her out. And you know who stepped in as New #1? THIS GIRL. I told Jeannie and Barb once recently that I imagine Last Mail talks about me at her family dinners, and refers to me as “That little angel.”

Here’s her employee ID photo (this is also how I make my Glenns, and they don’t get much bigger, sorry!):

The guy on the left is this secretary that sends in a lot of audits, which Barb then would have to scan and email back to him, and through this, they cultivated some bizarre fake-friendship, so I had to include him:

The other guy is (not) clearly Bill Paxton, whose face is frustratingly stupid to paint and I was so angry all weekend. Fuck you, Bill Paxton. I might be joining Barb’s team on this one.

And then other odds and ends to show Barb that not only do I retain the things she tells me, I WILL ALWAYS FIND WAYS TO THROW IT BACK IN HER FACE.

*******

Today, her name was still on the pane of glass in front of her desk, so I decided that I was just going to pretend like she’s on vacation. But by the afternoon, someone came down and scraped off her name. I CAN’T STAND IT.

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