I had this large piece of canvas just hanging around and I needed something to occupy myself so I started painting random people that I am/have been obsessed with at some point in my life. Just, off the top of my head, I picked celebs and it was oddly comforting. If I don’t have something to do, I’ll sit around and think about things and no one needs me thinking about things, believe me. Pittsburgh will inherent a pollution problem.

It took about a week, but I finished it last night! Henry is super stoked to have to see it every day for the rest of his life, but he’s going to be even more stoked when he has to go out and find the perfect gaudy frame for it.

Shortly after Chooch was born, Henry and I stumbled across Season 2 of So You Think You Can Dance and it was one of those things where we were fucking exhausted, Chooch was nursing so much that I was basically a couch-prisoner, and all we wanted was mindless entertainment. So we left it on. And then became obsessed. I never knew watching people dance could make me cry so much! So I picked Nigel Lythgoe, one of the original judges, to be the first person on the painting.

If you’ve been my friend since at least 2008, you know my love for gymnastics guru Bela Karolyi runs deep.

One of the best things about the advent of digital cable was The Game Show Network. All of those new channels to flip through and my friends and I never changed it from GSN. Especially if Match Game was on! I looooved Match Game and all of it’s amazing 1970s fashion and complete disregard for political correctness. My favorite panelist was Brett Somers and to this day, I covet those bug-eyed frames she wore with such panache. Fuck, she was fantastic.

My mom took me to see Hot to Trot starring Bobcat Goldthwait in the 1980s and ever since, I think of him every time I lose my shit with giddiness because my punch-drunk laugh sounds remarkably just like his retarded bray-like way of speaking.

Tammy Fay Bakker because she was such a train wreck. I was so obsessed with her for awhile that Henry made me a LiveJournal icon with her popping up from behind a hill. I don’t know, it’s just what I wanted, OK?

I was obsessed with “Romancing the Stone” when I was a kid, because why not. What a great kids movie, right? I watched this movie a lot because I thought Michael Douglas was so goddamn hot. Billy Ocean’s “When the Going Gets Tough” will never fail to make me think of this movie and how much I miss the 80s. AND THEN MICHAEL DOUGLAS, DANNY DEVITO AND KATHLEEN TURNER WERE IN THE VIDEO!

After I picked Billy to be one of the people on my painting, I decided to listen to him on Spotify for some inspiration, and was instantly reminded of the time in middle school when my friend Christy and I were at the mall and I decided to buy his greatest hits from the record store Waves on the third floor. But for some reason, I was embarrassed about this, I guess that was before I quit caring what people thought about my musical choices. So as I was paying, I loudly and theatrically shouted to Christy, who was only standing a foot away from me, “I SURE HOPE OUR FRIEND SUSIE LIKES THIS CD.”

I still have that CD too, and I regret nothing.

I’m sorry, Beyonce fans, but Barbara Streisand is the greatest female singer in the world. Sit the fuck down, Kanye. I have loved her ever since I was a kid, ESPECIALLY HER GUILTY ALBUM WITH THE BEE GEES OMG. But yeah, Barbara Streisand is the fucking shit and I will white knight her until I die.

Jeffrey Dahmer was my first foray into the dark underbelly of humanity. I remember watching the news coverage in real time and just thinking, “Holy shit, this is real life?” I’ve been super intrigued by serial killers ever since—obviously not in an adoration sense, but you know what I mean. I thought it would be apropos to include at least one serial killer on this painting since Henry and I spend so much time making our serial killer greeting cards and Jeffrey was actually the one that spawned those. The Christmas card with his mug on it was the first one I ever made.

So, there’s a quick little summary of what I was thinking when I painted this. I’m pretty excited that it’s done and I have eight random slices of my own personal pop culture preserved forever!

If I was forced to submit one quintessential quote to sum up my childhood, it would be “wolfman’s got nards.”

I was in elementary school the first time I saw The Monster Squad. Probably third or fourth grade? It was on HBO and my little brother Ryan and I were like, “…

the fuck is this!?” It instantly became a Kelly Family Classic and I was so proud of myself when I caught it from almost the beginning one time and recorded it over top of my dad’s recording of Platoon. (Haha.)

I still have that VHS tape somewhere in a box in the attic. It’s labeled Monster Squad, etc. on a piece of masking tape and I watched the shit out of it all the way into my 20s until a few years ago, when I excitedly bought the DVD for Chooch. He liked it just fine, I guess, but didn’t latch on to it like he did with The Lost Boys. I was disappointed, but at least I finally got to watch it from the very beginning and without the 5 seconds of Platoon/brief static/slo-mo transition into the first scene of Monster Squad that I had grown accustomed to throughout my childhood. This flick was right up there with The Lost Boys, Goonies, Pee Wee’s Big Adventure and Midnight Madness, as far as my childhood goes. We even named our pet rabbit Rudy after one of the boys!

It is a fucking timeless classic.

The other day, Kristy (one of the only people I know who shares my adoration for this movie!) texted me and said that the theater in the Waterfront, which I usually avoid like the plague, was going to be showing Monster Squad on Wednesday and I was like WE WILL BE THERE. Chooch was like, “What movie? I don’t know. I guess” and was totally blah about it because he IS SO TIRED AFTER HIS LONG, HARD DAY AT SCHOOL, YOU GUYS. SO VERY TIRED.

I was hoping my brother Ryan could go, because what better way to relive our childhood together than by shouting Monster Squad quotes at the big screen, but he sadly had to work.

When we arrived at the theater Wednesday night and Kristy’s daughter Sarah had a Slushee in her hands.

Let me tell you a short story: The night before this, we had met Chris and Monica at Antney’s for an ice cream date, and after rejecting his strawberry ice cream and then half-heartedly eating a consolation chocolate peanut butter cone, Chooch wanted a Slushee. Of course we were like, “Fuck you, spoiled brat. You just had two kinds of ice cream when you really shouldn’t have had ANY” so he proceeded to sit there and literally interrupt HIMSELF with whines about wanting a Slushee. He was so tired and irritable, that we should have just left him in the car. (I mean, with the window down! Cracked, at least.) That little fucker bitched about his lack of Slushee the whole way home. “My throat is so dry and you won’t even stop at a GAS STATION to get me a Slushee. What kind of parents ARE YOU?! I know I was a mistake!” He had basically written his emancipation speech before we even pulled into the driveway, and then he proceeded to go straight to bed. So, good riddance.

Flash forward to the next night and now he practically has a Slushee doing a striptease in his face, so I was like, “OMG I WILL BUY YOU A FUCKING SLUSHEE HOLD ON.” Turned out to be the best decision ever, because he nursed that bitch through the whole movie, like he was sucking it straight from a unicorn’s teat.

Slushee Date.

I was happy to see that there was a relatively decent tour-out for this viewing. I didn’t realize until I was an adult how underrated and unknown The Monster Squad actually is. Henry had never heard of it until he fell into my dark vortex (my life or vagina?) so I mocked him endlessly until I realized that he was actually part of the majority on this one. Unfortunately, he opted out of watching it on the big screen because Lowe’s was calling his name. Good riddance.

Before the movie started, some dude with a microphone talked about all of the upcoming classics that they’re going to be showing, and when he mentioned the Robin Williams tribute night, Kristy whispered, “Don’t cry” and I was like HOW DID YOU KNOW!? Because I was totally crying, just at the mere thought of a Robin Williams tribute night. Sigh.

And then the guy finally shut up and Monster Squad started and so did my tears. Again! I hate how emotional I am. I blame Chooch. I never fully recovered from pregnancy.

You guys, this movie holds up so well. It was just as funny and exciting as it was when I was a kid, because now that I’m an adult I understand more of it, haha.

And for Chooch, who hadn’t watched this since he was probably 3 or 4, it was like seeing it for the first time. He was cracking up really hard, and EVERYONE clapped during the pivotal “Wolfman’s got nards!” scene (that quote is right above the signature line on my checks!). IT WAS SO EXCITING!! I LOVE THIS MOVIE SO MUCH!!

“Dracula just doesn’t give a shit,” Chooch yelled at one point. Unsurprisingly, his favorite part of the movie was all of the swearing. Especially since it’s mostly kids doing the swearing.

And then near the end, there is one part that has always ALWAYS always made me cry, and I glanced over and saw that Chooch was straight sobbing during the same part. We’re so emotionally fucked.

The next day, I was on an actual Monster Squad high. And all last night, Chooch would say things like, “Remember when Dracula was like give me the amulet you bitch?” And “Remember when Shawn was like hey asshole, you looked?” It reminded me so much of when Ryan and I were kids and would leave each other notes full of quotes from the bad movies we loved. I think I need to plan a Kelly Family Classic movie night soon.

Kristy, THANK YOU for the heads up on this! I would have been so sad if I missed it!

To that time Tammy Faye Bakker had nose-sex with a hot clown.

Yesterday, I was thinking about the awful time Henry and I were in my ex-friend Keri’s wedding. This was back in 2003 and we had been together for two years at this point, but fought like we had been married for 22. Sometimes I feel like we really, actually hated each other and I wonder what made us stay together.

Anyway, I texted my brother Corey because he was at that wedding too and I figured he would have some embarrassing pictures that I could post here. As usual, above and beyond, Corey!

All I really remember of this night was getting trashed (Keri’s step-dad passed me a bottle of blackberry Schnapps under the table, in addition to whatever other liquor I was knocking back) and being forced to AWKWARDLY dance with Henry. And I mean AWKWARDLY. It was like the two of us had NEVER TOUCHED before. So uncomfortable and embarrassing and the wedding photographer ate that shit up. “Erin, over here!” he’d call out gleefully, and I’d fall for that shit every last time.

Anyway, Corey also found this picture of Henry and me hating each other, Christmas 2002. (Very similar to the other random holiday picture I posted on my birthday.)

I don’t think anyone thought we were going to last back then. I know I sure didn’t.

These pictures made me think a lot about what I like to refer to as The Dark Pit. Henry and I started out as a secret. For me, secrets are FUN. Exotic. Scandalous. OK, fine, we WERE a scandal. Let’s just call a spade a spade. But as soon as we weren’t anymore, it was like, “Fuck, now we have to get to know each other? Now we have to be a regular couple?” And there were other extenuating circumstances that really snuffed out our flame, you guys. It was kind of sucky for awhile there. But, something made us stick it out.

I remember going to Coachella with him in 2004 and fighting so much that I actually had rage blackouts. There is very little that I remember from that long Californian weekend, and if you know me and my ridiculously vault-like memory, you know that’s a big statement. It’s amazing one of us didn’t bury the other in the desert that weekend.

It’s kind of mind-boggling that Chooch was planned, when I think about it. Because our relationship was fucking rocky and schizophrenic. I was also a lot crazier then. But I actually sat down with Henry during the summer of 2005 and said, “I want to have a baby. Do it.” And even after Chooch was born, things were still…blah. I recently read something that I wrote on LiveJournal in 2006 about how I wasn’t sure if I even knew what love was. I don’t think Henry and I loved each other. Not really. And there were so many times I almost left, and he almost left, but laziness got the best of both of us and we stayed. We dealt. I got a job working nights so we barely saw each other.

It shouldn’t have gotten better. But somehow it did. I don’t remember EVER looking at him the way I do now. (Adoringly! And with way less disgust and contempt than ever before!) Maybe I needed to grow up, I don’t know. Maybe it was because I hated MYSELF so much back then. But suddenly, something changed and the last 5 or 6 years have been completely different from the first 6 or 7.

OK, fine. I can actually pinpoint it exactly: it was Game Night 2007 and we were playing Catchphrase. All Henry said was, “Um….female singer…” and I cried, “CARLY SIMON!” And it was motherfucking CARLY SIMON. You know who can pull that mind-reading shit off?! Soul mates. That’s who. We even dreamed of cabbage at the same time once.

OK, maybe that’s not exactly what made our relationship take a turn for the better, but it was definitely when I began to realize he’s my BFF. I guess I never saw him that way before. We communicate way better than we used to and we have way more fun now. Which is crazy considering how OLD Henry is.

You guys, I asked him last night how annoying he thinks I am, and he said 99% of the time, I DO NOT ANNOY HIM. You know what that means?! HE HAS FINALLY LEARNED TO LOVE MY QUIRKS AND PECCADILLOES. It takes a special person to be able to handle me, and he does it with patience and panache. I mean, anyone who could put up with the whole Erin/Christina saga is a fucking saint.

Or…maybe this is just a really sweet way of saying that he has finally earned his Masters degree in Blocking Out Erin.

This whole post could just be a super adorable way of me admitting defeat, but I guess I kind of like that motherfucker now. Enough that Chooch is always groaning, “Ugh, stop kissing!” Maybe not getting married was the trick.

(LOL J/K. I STILL WANT MY FUCKING WEDDING.)

(Now Henry is going to read this and think I cheated on him.)

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Bonus! Here’s Janna, Lisa and me at the aforementioned wedding in 2003:

ETA: Henry just read this and leaned over to presumably say something nice to me so I freaked out and punched him in the crotch.

Today I decided to check in with Past Erin and post what I was doing five years ago near this day, because that is GOOD BLOGGING, y’all. And not at all lazy. So, here is a story about this one time, when my friend Alisha and I went to Target. (We’re not friends anymore, and now that I think about it, it’s no wonder why.)

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This was originally posted in 2008 and now it’s back and revised. Because I said so. And also, because I was bored.

It might seem weird since I’m a vegetarian and all, but what I was most looking forward to in Frankenmuth was eating at one of their famous Bavarian chicken joints. There are two to choose from: Bavarian Inn and Zehnder’s, and they supposedly HATE each other. My friend Michelle told me that the two families basically built Frankenmuth so no matter which place we picked, it would be a big deal.

I mean, if you’re like me and give a shit about these things.

Zehnder’s and the Bavarian Inn really are right across from the street from each other, but there were no picketers or chicken dinner sabotage that I could see. No one was egging each other’s windows or passing out derogatory flyers. But since Roadside America mentions their rivalry, I know it must be true. I just wish it was more blatant and spectator sporty.

I personally wanted to eat at Bavarian Inn, because it just had more of a Black Forest aesthetic to me, but Bill kept piping up with the merits of Zehnder’s, which just looked like some dumb colonial slab and not at all lederhosen-y. Turns out Bill might have eaten there once sometime in his liftetime and I think he forgot to tell us the part about how a Zehnder’s busboy saved him from choking on their world famous chicken dinner so now he feel indebted to them.

But then Jessi mentioned that she has eaten at the Bavarian Inn before and liked it, so PRAISE JESSI, we settled on the Bavarian Inn because girls rule! There was no blantant anti-Zehnder’s propaganda inside the doors of the BavInn (my new, sweet pet name for it), but I should have at least wrote “for loose bowels, call Zehnder’s” in one of the bathroom stalls. Ah, hindsight.

Fuck you, Zehnder’s.

I want shutters like that on my imaginary never-house. 

I anticipated a long wait, since this  seemed like the type of place that was like the Disneyworld of Old Country Buffets* for elderly tourists, but we had a table within 15 minutes!  And even had a scantily-clad Bavarian beefcake entertaining us with an accordion. (I mean, he was showing a lot of thigh and calf, but not a lot of below-knee, because that was covered with a modest swath of wool.)

*BavInn isn’t even a buffet so I have no idea why I wrote that, other than the fact that it’s 150 degrees in my house.

I told Chooch that this place was going to be like the Hooter’s of Frankenmuth, with Bavarian boobs spilling out of corseted beer garden dresses. Partially because I was trying to get him stoked on eating there (he’s at that age, guys; boobs are everything), and also because that’s what it looked like in my hopes and dreams. Turns out the waitresses’ costumes were way more modest than the accordion player and his scandalous leg-skin.

There was no cleavage to be had. Not even of the accidental variety.

Back to being a vegetarian: I was pleasantly surprised that the Bavarian Inn had an entire vegetarian menu! Bill said he only asked for it because he overheard someone in front of him asking for it. It wouldn’t have even crossed my mind to ask because places like that usually don’t cater to my kind and I was fully prepared to just get some side dishes but instead I got to have vegan chili and BY GEORGE it was fucking great. It had quinoa and perfect little cubes of sweet potatoes and was just a true delight my tongue even though I can’t imagine a real Bavarian eating that on their lunch break at the cuckoo clock factory.

It didn’t matter, because I still ordered a side of SPAETZEL. You guys, spaetzel. That is my ultimate comfort food because my Pappap, whose family was from Austria, made a huge pot of these buttery Alpine dumplings every Christmas and they were just spectacular. After he died, my mom tried to carry the torch but they just never tasted quite right. And then I asked Henry to make them one year for Thanksgiving but his came out really small and pathetic because he doesn’t have any of the good European regions in his genes, I guess. I  mean, I still ate them of course because anything coated in that much butter is still going to taste rad. But I just haven’t had any as good as my Pappap’s, not since 1995.

And these noodleturds were by no means bad! Bavarian Inn has their shit together but these were just seasoned in a way that deviated from my Pappap’s spaetzel perfection. I still ate the ever-loving fuck out of them though. Why wouldn’t I?

Can we talk about our amazing waitress Kristi for a minute? Chooch spilled his lemonade all over the table so she swooped in and moved us to a clean table right next to us, all without making Chooch feel like a heel for being a normal 8-year-old who spills things in restaurants. And she brought us copious amounts of this delicious sweet bread (bread that’s sweet, not sweetbreads) which we enjoyed with ridiculously magical homemade strawberry jam. And our lunches were delayed so Kristi also brought us out bowls of German potato salad, coleslaw and something else that I forget now, but it was all perfect and made me want to book a Globus tour ASAP.

Chooch was really anxious to sayeth Prayers from the Psalms before he ateth his chickeneth. (Everyone at the table got chicken, because duh—Bavarian Inn is world famous for that shit. Maybe one day they’ll be renown for their faux-chicken too. Now I wish I had ordered the fake chicken patty on pretzel bun. Oh well, there’s always next summer when we go back and stay at the Bavarian Inn, because yes, they have a huge resort-y hotel too. WITH WATERSLIDES.)

My second favorite part of the experience (hello: Spaetzel #1) was when I mused out loud about the comfort of the waitresses’ dresses and then a few minutes later, upon Kristi’s return to our table with more iced tea for Henry, Bill asked her what might have been the creepiest thing she had been asked by a man all day:

“Excuse me, but is your dress comfortable?” he asked casually, like he works for Cotton and it’s his job to determine a woman’s comfort as research for the next commercial featuring some random blond actress who can also kind of sing alright.

The Fabric of Our Lives: Dirndl Edition.

“You know,” she said after thinking about it for a few seconds, “it really isn’t too bad. It’s the nylons that drive me nuts, though. I can never wait to get home and peel them off, you know?” And Bill nodded knowingly.

PSHHHHH. You wish, Zehnder’s. In your dreams.

This is the back of the glorious Bavarian Inn. Surely there’s a nook or cranny somewhere in which I can live undetected.

You know I must have been stuffed full of spaetzel when I declined dessert, and they obviously had streudel, you guys. Motherfuck, do I love streudel. My grandma’s side of the family always made some sick streudel.

Streudel and spaetzel. These will be served at my pretend wedding. By Bavarian beer maidens, all named Gretchen.

Jesus, is it any wonder I’m a slut for Bavarian things? My childhood memories practically reek of edelweiss.

OMG one of my favorite parts of our road trip was when we got to drive through the boarded-up hole where Henry used to live while he was in the SERVICE OMG CAN YOU STAND IT.

I wondered out loud if perhaps Henry had grown children running around Bunker Hill, but he assured me that was impossible, which means that Henry didn’t have sex for like THREE YEARS from 1984-1987.

I was in elementary school then, roller skating and being awesome.

Henry is sitting next to me right now, against his will, and I’m asking him for information to include with these pictures since he has refused to write anything on his own because he hates thinking of the years of his life that didn’t include me.

Obviously.

He was an aircraft CREW CHIEF. Whatever that means.

Here is a street that Henry may have walked on! He probably at least drove on it in his GREEN GRAND PRIX. (He just corrected me and said it was blue but last night he told me it was green. Now he’s saying he had both. God, brag much?) He doesn’t recall Brown’s Game Room being there when he lived there in the EIGHTIES. I asked him if there were any whore houses there and he got really impatient and said, “Not in BUNKER HILL. Those were in KOKOMO.” Oh. Sorry.

Henry never want to Indiana Beach while he lived there because he didn’t know it existed. He did, however, go to the fair. Once. He can’t remember if he rode anything, but he knows for certain he didn’t kiss any girls there because kissing leads to SEX and he wasn’t having that in Bunker Hill. That would have ruined his reputation as the Base Eunuch.

This is the neighborhood where Henry’s trailer was but he claims the trailer isn’t there anymore, but he wouldn’t drive back to where it used to be so I couldn’t get any pictures of the empty pit that remains. He wouldn’t even get out of the car while I was taking these pictures. (Admittedly, there wasn’t much there to photograph and I didn’t want anyone to come running out of their home, spitting Skoal at me, so I was pretty quick to wrap this up.)

Also, Henry has no pictures of his trailer, because he wasn’t in the habit of taking pictures of his non-descript living quarters. He had a variety of roommates, including Les, Tim (WHO HE IS FRIENDS WITH ON FACEBOOK! I’m going to message him soon), and John. He thinks John only lived there for a little while but he doesn’t remember because it’s hard to remember things that happened in the 80s, you guys. He claims that they never brought home any local women and this is just so weird to me. They had lots of porn on VHS though. He mumbled “no” when I asked him if they all watched it together, which means that he wanted them to all watch it together but they were like, “Ew get out of here, Eunuch.”

HENRY HAS BEEN TO THIS BAR!!! Apparently, he mostly drank at the bar on BASE. What a snob. He told me that he used to drink LONG ISLAND ICED TEAS at the bar on base. You guys, Henry used to drink LONG ISLAND ICED TEAS. Now I know what I’m serving at his 50th birthday party next year, complete with cocktail parasols and fruit on swords. And obviously they will be served in mason jars with paper straws, as an homage to Henry’s Pinterest addiction.

Henry made me get in the car after this for fear of the homeowners mistaking me for someone casing their house.

Henry used to cook his own food when he lived there and he just said, “I don’t understand why this is such a big deal to you, I cook my own food now, too.” Oh yeah. But for some reason, I keep imagining him in velour lounge pants and a wife-beater, stirring succotash on top of a hot plate. He just told me he cooked Thanksgiving dinner once!! For like 4 or 5 people, he doesn’t remember!

(I AM SO GIDDY AS I WRITE THIS! The notion of Henry having a life prior to me is hilarious and mythical to me all at once. I need to know all of it.)

I was excited to talk about this picture but Henry yelled, “THAT IS A WHOLE DIFFERENT THING. THAT IS NOT EVEN BUNKER HILL. THAT IS TEXAS.” He didn’t do cool things like this in Indiana. Probably because he didn’t know how.

This was when Henry first saw the thing and then realized it wasn’t the thing anymore. (You know, that base thing.) It’s a prison now! He said he doesn’t have many feelings about this since it was so long ago. There was a reunion last year that he didn’t attend. He said it was because all of the people who went were people who were there for like a million years and not an early-discharge pussy like himself. I asked him if he had one of those dishonorable discharges and he got really irritated so that means yes. Probably because he was a Eunuch. And back then, that was probably worse than being gay.

He’s laughing right now but it’s not the “I’m having a good time!” kind of laugh, but more of a “Can I please go to bed now because my sanity is starting to come out of my nose” kind of scary laugh.

People always say they’re sorry when I tell them Paul is dead. That’s nice, thank you, but I wasn’t ever really sorry about it. I was just about to turn three when it happened, so I barely knew him. And based on everything my mom and her side of the family told me, it was better that way.

He was an addict.

He was abusive.

He was a monster.

He was my dad.

One day, my step-dad had grown exhausted of all the “YOU’RE NOT MY REAL DAD!”s I would verbally smack him with, so he made me sit with him in his truck while he told me the things my “real dad” did to my mom, things with steel-tipped boots that would require her to have pictures taken of her face at the police station. I should feel “lucky” he had died so that he wouldn’t have abused me, too.

I spent a lot of time as a teenager wondering if my mom regretted me, if every time she looked at me I reminded her of the traumatic years she spent married to some guy she was terrified of. I wondered if she wished he had died before I “happened.” When I was diagnosed as bi-polar with explosive anger disorder, my mom spat, “You got this from your DAD.” The way she looked at me that day is an image I will take to my grave, like I was a monster that simultaneously disgusted and horrified her.

I have four pictures of Paul. It’s surprising they even still exist, considering how my family doesn’t like me to have anything. Looking at these now doesn’t exactly trigger any memories for me, but for some reason, “Eye in the Sky” by Alan Parsons Project brings back a vague recollection of being in a restaurant with him. There were also these visions I’d have that I always felt were flashbacks. It was the same scene over and over, from a third person’s point of view, looking up at the steps in the house I grew up in.

It’s night time, and suddenly my mom appears at the top of the steps, holding me as a baby, and she’s running from Paul.

The subject of Paul was pretty taboo in my household, but one day when I was in middle school, I had the balls to tell my mom about this flashback.

She laughed bitterly.

“Things like that happened all the time when your dad was alive, so it’s probably real,” she said, telling me about a time when he chased us out of the house and then followed my mom as she drove us to his mother’s house, where he proceeded to hurl a glass pitcher at us in the kitchen.

“It missed your head by this much,” my mom said, her thumb and forefinger almost touching.

Paul died in 1982 because he was drunk driving and crashed into a tree in South Park. He was in a coma. I don’t know for how long, or if my mom pulled the plug. I just know that it wasn’t a dinner table conversation. The few times the topic was broached, it was always quickly silenced with a sympathetic “You’re better off for it.”

My childhood didn’t necessarily feel affected by his death. My mom married my step-dad when I was 4 and to me, that was the real start of my life.

My step-dad even legally adopted me when I was in fourth grade, at which point I officially began to call him “Daddy.” Sure, we didn’t have the greatest relationship at times, but it was alright.

Better than if Paul had survived, everyone would remind me.

However, the only real father figure I ever had in my life was my Pappap. He was honestly my hero and the only person who loved me unconditionally. He always made me feel like I wasn’t the product of my mom’s horrific marriage, but maybe I was—GASP!—the silver lining. I don’t remember him ever saying a bad thing about Paul to me, and I feel like if it weren’t for him, I would have grown up with a(n even bigger) chip on my shoulder, that maybe I would have let Paul’s death define me.

My Pappap gave me normalcy in an otherwise emotionless vacuum. I couldn’t get that kind of stability from my mom and I was never close enough with my current dad to go to him if I needed to talk.

So, I guess you can thank (or hate) them for my constant need to put out all of my thoughts and feelings for public consumption.

****

My mom was pretty damaged from her time with Paul. I couldn’t see that then, obviously, but the pieces started falling into place as I got older. It was like she had emotionally shut down after that, and she was never really present in her marriage with my new dad. I mean, they had two kids together, but looking back on it, I can’t recall a time when I caught them laughing together or talking to each other about things that didn’t involve work, finances or what to do with their crazy ass daughter who was skipping school and doing all of the drugs.

(I wasn’t actually doing drugs but they were convinced. Also, that I was trying to commit suicide every time I shut my bedroom door.)

They ended up divorcing years later, but he is still the only man that I have called Dad. His name is on my birth certificate, after all.

****

My mom sprung the news on me right before I turned 20. It was summer and I was living in my second apartment when she came over to tell me that I have an older brother from one of Paul’s previous relationships. His name is Shawn and she wanted me to meet him immediately rather than risk me “accidentally meeting him in a bar and going home with him” someday.

That might have been one of the grossest things she had ever said to me. She’s always been so great at making awkward situations even more uncomfortable.

So I met Shawn. He apparently always knew I existed and had been in touch with my mom for quite awhile. He told me that he would sometimes go to her office just to talk, which blew my mind because I couldn’t imagine ever going to my mom “just to talk.”

Shawn didn’t really have much to say about Paul, but he went on and on about how wonderful that side of the family is, how Paul’s mom Lois practically raised him, and how sweet our aunt Charmaine is. I had this whole family that I had been kept from and I was starting to get pissed.

****

After Paul died, my mom extracted herself from his family. She told me once that it was because they were all Jehovah’s Witnesses and she just didn’t want to deal with that. I can remember shopping with her at Hills, sometime in the mid-80s, and having her practically toss me into a rack of clothes because she saw people she knew and she didn’t want them to see us. Once we were safe in the car a few minutes later, she told me that it was my aunt and grandma we were hiding from.

This was normal to me: hiding from relatives in department stores, running up to the attic window to see who was ringing the doorbell, answering the phone for my mom because it might be Donna Thomas calling with PTA bullshit.

No wonder I get such anxiety when the pizza guy knocks on my fucking door.

****

I grew up thinking my family consisted of my mom, my current dad and my two younger brothers, Ryan and Corey. I had two sets of grandparents: one on my mom’s side and one on my dad’s side. That was my normal. That was all I needed.

But now I had this older brother, and he really wanted me to meet our Grandma Lois. Shawn and I didn’t talk or see each other all that often, but when we did, the subject always came up. He gave me her number, but I didn’t call. I was so weirded out by all of this, because while this was going on, my mom was also reuniting with her daughter she had put up for adoption pre-Paul.

I started to have a major identity crisis.

But finally, after about a year of persuading, I went to meet my Grandma Lois and Aunt Charmaine. I can tell you that it was 2001 and I was wearing an autographed Nickelback shirt because I was clearly going through a really awful (yet thankfully SHORT) phase. It was just an all-around really bad time for me, you guys.

Lois and Charmaine pulled out photo albums and spoke glowingly of Paul. “You look so much like him!” they kept saying, and well, I wouldn’t know because my four photos of him weren’t exactly professional head shots.

I learned that he was funny and smart but just never applied himself. That he loved my mom but they were volatile. That they were actually separated when the accident happened, but that things had been getting better. That my mom was an absolute basket case in the hospital after the accident.

They told me that when he met my mom, he wanted to marry her so much that he would say things like, “I’d marry you in Alaska in a snow storm if you wanted.”

But….drugs and alcohol, you guys.

This was the first time I wasn’t barraged with anti-superlatives about him. I started to see a different version of Paul after that. He was someone’s son. Someone’s nephew. Someone’s friend. People loved him in spite of his addiction.

And, for the first time, I saw the accident as a tragedy and not just a Thing that had Happened. I began to feel angry that everyone had told me my whole life how I should feel about it. How I was better off. How did they know? I came down with a case of the Dreaded What Ifs.

What if he had gotten clean?

What if he and my mom just weren’t meant to be with each other but it turned out he was a fucking fantastic father?

What if my family was exaggerating?

I left Charmaine’s house and went straight to Jefferson Memorial, where I sat next to Paul’s grave and cried about him for the first time in 21 years.

At one of my old jobs, I worked 4pm to midnight and listened to music there constantly. Sometimes, because of the nature of my job, I would get into a zone and even though the music was always playing, I wasn’t necessarily hearing it. But I will never forget this one night in 2008 when this particular Further Seems Forever song came on, and even though I had heard it a million times, I REALLY HEARD it that night and started crying immediately. (I cry a lot, I guess.)

I heard it for the first time in years last week at work and honestly felt like I had been bitch-slapped by feelings. I love it but I hate it!

I know it’s blasphemous to speak/type such words, but this was my favorite Further Seems Forever line-up. Yes, I liked Jason Gleason better than Chris Carrabba, OMG. Anyway, this is a really pretty song, with no screaming or Jonny Craig, so perhaps you might like it. LISTEN TO IT, WON’T YOU?

This Flashback Friday is from one of my favorite times at Lakemont Park with Henry, Chooch, Alisha and my brother Corey, from September of 2009. The only thing missing from this post is the huge temper tantrum I threw after we left when Henry said the magic words: “Where do you want to eat?” Fuck, that sets me off. I might be back later with some bullet points if I can continue this daunting task of keeping my head up at my desk.

Anyway, enjoooooy.

You know that game, Roller Coaster Tycoon? The game where you build your own theme park and it’s supposed to be totally fantastical? Imagine you’re me, playing that game and getting frustrated after ten minutes, leaving half the park unpaved with rides (the cheapest ones because you’re on a budget) plunked down intermittently with little to no planning and at some point you notice that there’s a giant, gaping vacant lot between the bluegrass band playing on a shoddy stage and the cinder block arcade that smells like b.o. and cabbage and what better way to get people to form a human-worm than by dropping down a Monster Truck and offering rides, and then you start to get out of control and before you know it, you’ve built a stand shilling $7 gyros and a pavilion pawning Christian-inspired wreaths. And please make sure half of your rides aren’t running.

Now imagine this is a real life park and you know exactly what Lakemont Park in Altoona, PA is like.

And for some reason, we decided to go back. Well, the $5 admission might be a good reason.

Blake opted out this year, maybe because last year he was the equivalent of tossing Dennis Rodman into a camp of albino midgets. In Pittsburgh, he mostly doesn’t stand out. But in Altoona? A town where the inhabitants still bust out their Desert Storm sweatshirts? A town like that, someone like Blake gets more than his fair share of stares. So Alisha filled in for him, and Corey, who goes to school somewhat nearby at Pitt-Johnstown, met us out there. When he called me upon arrival at the park, I helpfully told him that I was wearing a pink hoodie.

“Because your brother hasn’t met you before?” Alisha asked snidely.

Alisha wouldn’t ride the old cars with me, choosing instead to wait for her own car. Now that I think about it, this might have been the only time all day where I wasn’t called “stupid” on a ride. Perhaps riding alone has its perks.

Oh, the Toboggan! How I missed thee. Alisha actually rode with me on this one. She bit her tongue when the car got to the top of the tunnel and I didn’t find out until later, but that didn’t make me laugh any less.

I had a crush on pretty much every boy working there, except for the yokel who was manning the Scrambler, who had Alisha and me get on first, causing us to nearly squash the shit out of my three-year-old. My right bicep was on fire afterward from all the bracing I did. And then you would think he would stick around after unlatching our car to ensure Chooch’s feet safely met the ground but NO. He walked away, leaving me to hold Chooch’s hand as he jumped off the ride, bending my arm in a way that only Gumby should be familiar with. I couldn’t hold on to his hand any longer, so he ended up FALLING OFF THE RIDE AND LANDING ON HIS BACK UNDER THE CAR.

Mother of the Motherfucking Year, right here.

Thankfully he didn’t get hurt, but I know it must have been jolting for him. He stood up and brushed himself off while I was all, “OMGOMGOMG” and Henry was standing on the other side of the fence, watching this whole spectacle, rolling his eyes at my incompetence. It was an awesome moment for the scrapbook.

He apparently wasn’t too traumatized by my Spears-ism, because he rode it again later with Corey.

Corey out-mothered me by assuring that Chooch’s feet were firmly planted on the gravel before letting go.

Leap the Dips is the oldest working roller coaster in the country or solar system or some shit. I forced Chooch to ride it, because even though he was dragging his feet, I knew he’d be ok and I really want to infuse him with coaster-lust as soon as possible so that I’ll have a ready-made riding partner at some point. I mean, this coaster is so ridiculously tame, there aren’t even any seat belts. It goes, like, 5mph. Chooch was still insisting that he didn’t want to ride it as Henry got him situated in the backseat, but I whittled away at his masculinity like any good parent would do in a situation like this, pointing out all the little GIRLS who had ridden it before him and come off enthusing and expounding the merits of this coaster granddaddy, and before he knew it, we were at the top of the hill and coasting languidly over shallow dips. I stole a few glances behind me and Chooch’s face was in a paralytic state of shock, but by the time the ride was over, he was all “Woo hoo, that was awesome.”

Chooch pulled it off with more aplomb than Corey, at least.

This photo was taken moments after Corey confessed that he made up the “life changing moment” speech he had to give in his public speaking class. Apparently, we had an Uncle John who never married and therefore treated us as his own children, so when he ended up dying of brain cancer, Corey took it tremendously hard and still wears the deathbed cross that good old unkie bestowed upon him shortly before giving up the ghost. This was the moment I realized that for sure, with no doubt, Corey is my brother.

I’m trying to get Henry to funnelcake-house our living room. It’s not going very well, but I have some secret weapons I’ve yet to unleash. And by that I mean hedge clippers and a taser.

We spent some time in the stinky, humid locker room of an arcade for some reason.

I tried to give that son of a bitchin’ lion a high-five afterward and he completely snubbed me.

People kept staring me down, giving me blatant once-overs. And I didn’t even have pink hair yet. That’s Lakemont for you.

Alisha, Corey and I rode the Monster with a mother who insisted on bringing aboard her 2-year-old daughter. I was frightened for her. And for my safety because I’ll be damned I’m getting clocked in the head by a toddler upchucked by a ride whose height restrictions she wouldn’t meet at any other respectable amusement park. Right as the ride started, Corey hollered, “Remind me to tell you something funny about September 11th!”, a statement which is #8 in the “How To Silence a Crowd” handbook. He also belted out “Vagina!” at one point and at first I was like, “Dude, there’s a small child on this ride with us!” but a quick once-over of her mother gave me gruesome sepia-toned visions of belligerent battles with a drunk husband/boyfriend over top a dinner table set with greasy buckets of fried chicken and cans of Pabst and a bathroom laden with hyperdermic needles so at that point I felt free to verbally masturbate with every cuss-combo I could think of as Alisha made our little monster tentacle pendulate so fast that I couldn’t breathe through the laughter, forcing her to yell, “You’re stupid” for the 678th time that day.

Remember last year when Blake and I rode a metal monstrosity called the Skydiver because it looked like a harmless yet fun take on a ferris wheel? And I vowed to never ride it again? And I said shit like this about it?

See this ride? This is a fucking ride built by the cooperative genius of Hitler, Satan and Mr. Burns and camouflaged behind the cute and fuzzy appearance of a ferris wheel. LOOK CLOSELY. LOOK AT THOSE CARS, JUST DANGLING THERE HARRY CAREY. LOOK AT HOW SOME OF THEM ARE UPSIDE DOWN AND POINTED TOWARD THE HARD, GRITTY SURFACE OF THE EARTH.

Of course, Blake and I simultaneously salivated at the sight of a metal contraption that could potentially send us spiraling to a grisly demise, after which I would hope our mangled, mashed, and possibly vivisected corpses would be studied laboriously and recreated for the next “Final Destination.”

No one was in line when we approached, but a trio of teenaged girls stood near by, ogling its height with craned necks. We assumed that the ramp they were standing near was the entrance, but it turned out to be the exit so we were sent away by the two greasy beer-bellied attendants. As we passed the girls on our way to the real entrance, one of them said, “Oops, we made them think this is the entrance by standing here,” and I called out, “I know! Now we look dumb!”

NO, WE LOOKED DUMB FOR WILLINGLY PUTTING OUR LIVES INTO THE FATE OF THIS FUCKING RIDE THAT THEY CALL THE SKYDIVER. First, the padded bar was slammed down onto legs and applied so much pressure that I went numb below the knees. It created a beautiful illusion of amputation, so much that I began complaining of phantom limb pain before the ride even started.

Did I mention we were the only ones riding it?

We hadn’t even made a full revolution before my body was wedged against the side of the cage, leaving a very fashionable waffle print against the side of my face, and I’m not sure but I think my bowels were capsizing. Our cage was spinning and revolving and flipping in so many different directions, and combined with revolutions of the actual wheel itself, I had no fucking idea what direction we were facing. Except when our cage was pointing straight down to the ground, giving us the delightful sensation of plummeting toward Hell.

I knew we were at the bottom when I would catch blurred glimpses of the neon green shirts of the attendants, so I would scream – NAY, bellow – “PLEASE LET US OFF THIS FUCKING RIDE. OMG FUCK YOU PLZ.” I began wondering if it would count if I quickly typed up a Living Will on my Blackberry. I think Blake was crying. Every time it would fling us upside down, my arms would shoot out to brace myself, even though the lap bar was ensuring that nary a penny could escape.

Just then, the spinning began to slow, gears cranked and ground, and eventually we slowed to a stop near the attendants. My hand flung to my heart and I started to thank them, but my words slurred AS THE RIDE EMBARKED ON A BRAND NEW CYCLE, BACKWARD.

My body gave up fighting and resumed its former position, smashed against the grated window of our torture cell. I began clenching, to prevent any accidental pants-poopage. “Please God, don’t let me poop my pants in front of Blake. He’ll tell all of MySpace” I prayed to the giant pink plastic heart pendant that became my makeshift Skydiver rosary. That’s what fifteen-year-olds do, you know. Send out bulletins, outing adults who poop their pants. That’s what’s I’d do too, if the opportunity ever presented itself.

The first round was obnoxious, but tolerable, like watching an anal fisting. You grimace, you laugh at the enlarged asshole, you cry a little.

But then the Skydiver decided it had to go backward too, and that was about as unnecessary and gratuitous as the part where the girl shits on a glass table.

And that is how the Skydiver is quite like a Japanese porn.

Well, because I’ve clearly been fucked with the Downs dildo somewhere along the cobblestone road to the whorehouse, I rode it again this time. TWICE. IN A ROW. There’s no single riders, probably because without that extra slab of flesh in the cage with you, you’re more likely to oscillate the cage right off its hinges and soar into orbit. Or crash in a heap of mangled metal and annhilated anatomy.

The first time, I rode with Alisha. After ensuring our ovaries were sufficiently dessicated under the pressure of a large padded saftey bar, the real life before picture of a Proactive Ad slammed our cage shut and sent us off into oblivion where flashbacks of last year’s crucifixion inside a life-sized cheese grater came crashing back to me like a meteor into earth. There’s one point of this ride where it stops. Just fucking STOPS while you’re at its pinnacle, vignettes of Christmas past zooming by your eyes like a crudely drawn flip-book, and once you get around the dizzying sensation of being a trillion feet from cement you realize that you’re suspended in some sort of doggy-style position thanks to the padded bar that’s keeping your lower half melded into the seat, and then you can’t help but think that Elizabeth Bathory surely had something similar to this in her dungeon to give her prisoners a good, proper anal skewering.

And then you start thinking of horror porn and what? Doesn’t everyone think fondly of porn when they’re on the edge of the cliff, ready to plummet to death?

While it was an intense ride, it wasn’t as physically painful as I had remembered it to be last year, so I felt confident getting back on the saddle immediately with Corey. But this time, the ride operator smashed down the bar in such a way that it gripped a bunch of skin on my upper thigh and pinched it tight. I tried to scream at him to get it off me but I’m sure all he heard was “Hey waaaaaaiiiiiiii————-” as our cage whirred away from the station. And every revolution heard me shouting, “You fucccccccckkkkker!!!” and “PLEASE STOPPPPPPPP!” and “I’M PREGGGGGGGGGGnant!!!!!”

The physical pain of Round 2 was so overwhelming that I was unable to notice anything else going on. Bolts could have been popping out. A unicorn could have flown past and crop-dusted me with rainbow piss. All I knew was that the skin on my legs was accordianed underneath that FUCKING bar and my 6-foot-giant brother was slamming into my left side and I could have gone all Hellraiser and melted through the grated side of that cage and I’ll tell you what, that would have been a welcomed relief.

They need to renovate that bitchin’ ride, make it more comfortable. Maybe throw in some purple velvet seat cushions and instead of that bar, they might want to dig up some mermaids to kneel on the floor and hold the riders’ legs with massaging hands. And I’m talking about the good kind of massaging hands.

I swear to god, for real this time, I’m done with that ride. But like any good abusive relationship, I’ll probably take it back next year, when it bats those beautiful blinking carnival lights at me.

My first time at Lakemont Park can be found here.

More photos here.

In 2009, I wrote a blog post that I had no idea would become the most-viewed thing I had written. It was called “Jonny Craig is a Piece of Shit.” Back then, I thought I was the only one who had shitty experiences with him in person. But it is consistently viewed to this day, do you know why? Because “why is Jonny Craig an asshole?” is a popular search term. Occasionally, someone will leave a comment on that post, too. Most of those comments are from ex-fans who want to share their own horror stories with me, but there are also the scathing ones from rabid supporters, telling me I’m pathetic, that he doesn’t owe me anything as a fan, and that I’m clearly butt-hurt.

Look. I’ve only been butt-hurt once in my entire life, and that was when I lost my footing on a pile of pumpkins at Trax Farm and wound up sitting on a stem. True fucking story for all of you pumpkin porn fanatics out there.

Anyway, the catalyst of that post was meeting him for the second time during the Dance Gavin Dance/Emarosa Squash the Beef tour. He was standing behind me at the bar in Mr. Small’s and literally all I wanted to do was tell him how much I enjoyed Emarosa and what an impact their music had on me emotionally, how it stimulated my creativity (back then, I had based some of my paintings off their lyrics), and how interwoven it had become with my life. I wasn’t trying to sit on his lap (let’s face it, I’m too fat, much ugly for him anyway) or make him sign shit. I wasn’t trying to pull him away from his alcohol for a photo session. I just wanted to say nice things to him for < 30 seconds, God forbid. It took every ounce of courage I could muster just to even say hello to him, after years of allowing his voice to be the personification of my dysfunctional friendship with my ex-BFF Christina.

But he just stood there and stared at me, making it clear that I was boring the shit out of him, so I mumbled, “Enjoy your stay in Pittsburgh” and walked away with my head down. It was humiliating and I know that he was making fun of me as soon as I walked away.

Because that’s what douchebags do.

When you put so much stock in a person like that, raising them up on some shaky pedestal, creating images of them in your mind, and then the reality of their personality shatters everything you had built up, it’s devastating. Maybe that sounds pathetic, but music has always been how I have coped with things. It enhances all of the good times and softens the bad. So now when the singer of a band that had made me feel so good has single-handedly made me feel AWFUL, well, it was a little emotionally traumatic.

It’s amazing how we deify these underserving people in the name of fandom.

He sounded like shit that night too. Drunk, stumbling, forgetting lyrics. It was my friend Alisha’s first time seeing Emarosa and her succinct review was: “They’re terrible!”

No, Jonny Craig is terrible.

I vowed to be done with him after that, and I was doing well until Emarosa released their next album in 2010 and I couldn’t resist. I still hated him. But I felt if I could separate my personal feelings for him from the music, I would be fine. Besides, wasn’t that what all of my detractors were telling me to do in certain harsh terms on my blog?

The problem is that as soon as I hear his dumb voice, I melt. It has nothing to do with him. I forget what a douchebag he is and all I can remember is how good it feels to be that into music. And it somehow kept me psychically connected to Christina, even when we were no longer speaking. It always goes back to that anyway.

Meanwhile, Henry was totally annoyed. He doesn’t get the whole “OMG JONNY CRAIG SINGS LIKE AN ANGEL!” argument, and it drove him nuts how I would turn into a 30-year-old fan girl at the mere mention of his stupid name. You know how I have pretty much based this entire blog on hassling Henry, right? I mean, unless this is your first time reading it. So if he hates Jonny Craig, then I am going to FUCKING BE OBSESSED with Jonny Craig.

My obsession can be broken down like this:

5% immaturity // 10% mental illness // 10% sincere love of his voice // 75% desire to drive Henry into an early grave.

(I triple-checked to make sure that added up, btw.)

And let’s face it: I thrive on being obnoxious.

I ran with it. Jonny Craig became my shtick. I made a Jonny Craig Christmas tree topper. I had my friend Maya make me a Jonny Craig doll. I hung up pictures of him around my office at work (if you go to the Law Firm and start questioning people on my floor who Jonny Craig is and they don’t know, then obviously I must never talk to that person, ever). This whole time, it was helping me cope with issues that Christina had left me with. I know, some people would just get therapy. But I’ll just sit over here and hug my Jonny Craig doll. Because projection is normal. Right?

The MacBook scam happened. The detox. The rehab. I was prepared for this to be the end of the Jonny Craig story, but then he started dating a girl who seemed to really change him, or at least, she was trying. And the crazy part was that she didn’t seem like a basic groupie. She seemed pretty intelligent, which one might argue about since she got involved with JC in the first place, but love is blind, you guys. I’m with Henry, aren’t I? Of course, I had to keep up my Crazy Jonny Craig Fangirl Persona and act like a nutcase when they got engaged (I think I might have even referred to her as Jonny’s penis-cozy in one of my faux-fits, what the fuck is wrong with me), but really–I hoped that she would save him.

Because as much of a loose cannon as he is, he really is a bright spot in a scene overflowing with generic, formulaic background noise.

All of these things I was willing to overlook because the music meant that much to me. I was so excited when Henry reluctantly agreed to drive five hours to Allentown last weekend so that I could see Jonny’s new band, Slaves. But then when I was going through his twitter feed to get screen shots of the nasty things he was saying about Emarosa (I wanted to have those as visual aids for my Emarosa blog post; can you stand how thorough I am?), I ended up seeing some terrible things.

Really awful things.

Jonny and his fiancée are currently going through a messy breakup, and he had a tweet that said if he saw her being raped, he wouldn’t stop to help.

He had another tweet saying that he never beat her when they were together but now he wishes he had. He deleted the original tweet but his retweet of this smart girl’s response still existed on Twitter:

This asshole seriously needs to have someone monitoring his social media accounts. Like, I don’t know, maybe his MOTHER?

“Really fucking nice guy, Erin,” Henry spat when I showed him.

(Even worse is that these asinine girls were tweeting things like, “Jonny Craig could have his hands around my neck and I would still love him.” Which of course he was retweeting because these are the things that make King Shit’s ego swell. Keep encouraging him, girls. Make your mamas proud.)

At this point, it was too late. We had already bought the tickets. Rented the car. Booked the hotel room. Whether we went to this show in Allentown or not, I had already inadvertently supported a misogynistic douchepig and it made me sick to my stomach. So sick that I had a mild panic attack standing outside of the venue that night and we almost didn’t go in. Henry had to take me back to the car so I could calm down.

Look, I don’t know his ex-fiancée, but as a woman, I can’t stand for shit like that and I will automatically have her back. This is the reason men run the fucking world, because they say shit like this and no one does anything. They’ll have tons of men cheering them on in between disgusting chugs of beer, wiping Hooters wing sauce off their lips with their unwashed football jerseys of rapist athletes.

There could be actual video footage of Jonny Craig beating a woman, and he will still have fans. I mean, Chris Brown still gets played on the radio, doesn’t he?

“I just feel like if I see him, I’m going to fucking punch him!” I kept saying over and over. I was so disgusted. I kind of wished that I had worn my Emarosa t-shirt, like I had joked about last week. I brought it with me and at the last minute, Henry agreed it was a bad idea because it wouldn’t be Jonny who noticed, it would be his legion of scantily-clad side broad hopefuls and I wasn’t trying to get clawed at by their nasty acrylics. Talk about a petri dish of I Don’t Wanna Know.

We went inside. I scowled at all of the meatheads in their Jonny Craig is My Homeboy shirts. I cringed at all the girls wearing barely nothing, knowing exactly why they left 89% of their clothes at home. I suddenly felt so protective of all these little girls.

Slaves took the stage and as expected, the crowd went nuts for Jonny. But for the first time ever, I felt nothing. I just stood there with my arms crossed, refusing to clap, refusing to do a single thing Jonny demanded. And then he dedicated the last song to his ex, Amanda. “Til death do us part, bitch!” he spat and everyone was like “Yay!” because that’s cool, right?

I looked at Henry and my eyes started to well up. I felt like such a traitor to women everywhere just by being there.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I said to Henry afterward. “I can’t keep supporting this asshole.” And I think that was the happiest I have ever seen Henry in the thirteen years we’ve been together.

Meanwhile, King Shit was standing a few feet away from us, going through the motions of showing his fans what a “changed person” he is by posing for pictures with them. Two moms (like, I know I’m a mom, but these were MOMS wearing mom jeans with their mom purses slung across their mom boobs) ran over to him, took his picture, and then ran back giggling to show their respective daughters, who didn’t look more than 15-years-old. The daughters predictably squealed and were dragged back over to him by their moms.

“I guess these old broads don’t know he loves demoralizing under-aged scene girls,” I yelled to Henry. Oh, it was sickening to watch. And then afterward, I saw someone’s picture with him on Instagram and the caption said something about how Jonny was rushing everyone along because there was “quite a horde” of fans waiting. I didn’t know “roughly fifteen people” constituted a “horde,” but OK.

I’m not going to lie: I’ve always looked at fans of Ronnie Radke and wondered, “How could these kids love a guy who is such an asshole?” And duh, hello. Look at me. Blindly supporting a dreg of society since 2008.

More than anything, I feel like I owe it to my 8-year-old son to wash my hands of this guy. What kind of an example would I be setting for him if not? He already knows the guy is a drug addict (but the piss test! it was clean! blah blah!) and just a flat out mean person, but I definitely don’t want him to think that it’s OK to make those kinds of violent comments about women, publicly no less, and still have girls falling over you. “Hey, this guy acts like a douchebag and my mom loves him, so…..”

So maybe, if you’re a Jonny Craig avenger reading this, some girl with low self-esteem anxiously awaiting your chance with him, some bro who thinks it’s cool to treat people like dirt, then you might think this is a lame reason to throw in the towel. And that’s fine. Because one person writing a blog post like this is not in any way going to hurt his career, don’t worry JC afficionados. But I have too much respect for myself and at the end of the day, it’s all about girl power. I won’t stand for comments glorifying domestic violence, whether they were empty threats or not—-doesn’t matter. This guy clearly needs help, and I wish his new bandmembers luck with all of the future statements they’re going to need to release, swearing that their singer “has changed” and “is clean.” Seriously, good luck with that, and I hope he doesn’t destroy your careers.

I think I’m going to tell my kid, when in doubt, to ask himself “What would Jonny Craig do?” And then do the opposite.

The spring and summer of 2008 was one of the best times of my life. I had a job, so Henry and I weren’t fighting about money (basically the only thing we ever fight about). Chooch was an adorable 2-year-old with a penchant for blurting out “Asshole!” in public. Christina and I were at the pinnacle of our BBFdom, and she was visiting a lot from Cincinnati so hijinks were prevalent.

This was also around the time that she and I began our unhealthy obsession with all things Jonny Craig. We first fell in love with his angelic pipes when he was in Dance Gavin Dance, but then they kicked him out so we were sad. Fortunately, that spring we started hearing things about a new band who had snagged him while he was in band limbo. They were called Emarosa and even though they have previously put out an album with another singer, Christina and I had never heard of them. But they were about to become our new favorite band.

When “Relativity” was released that July, it suddenly seemed like DGD kicking out Jonny was the best idea ever. Emarosa had stolen our hearts and our creepy Jonny Craig infatuation grew exponentially. When music becomes so entwined with your life, it’s euphoric. It becomes more than just music.

It becomes a soundtrack.

Christina and I ended up meeting him in Buffalo later that year and it was emotionally traumatic for me. He was completely disinterested in anything I had to say but took an immediate liking to her. Drug users unite, I guess. That night ended with me sitting in the car of Xtreme Wheels, crying to Henry on the phone about how Jonny Craig ruined my life and I was going to just drive the 5 hours home in a snow storm because I couldn’t stand to be around Christina over night.

I ended up calming down after Christina bought me pie at a Greek diner, but our friendship went downhill that fall and never found its footing again. We were no longer speaking at all when Emarosa released their next album in 2010. I listened to it on repeat that whole summer, like a leper jumping into a silo of salt. It was my way of coping, because my friends were sick of hearing about Christina.

They probably still are, honestly, even though I try to stick a cork in it.

Because trust me, there’s not a day that goes by.

The winter of 2011, Henry and I were on our way to see Emarosa at the Rex Theater. They were co-headlining with “new” Chiodos (i.e. the short-lived Brandon Bolmer-era). I was casually scrolling through my Twitter feed when I came across a tweet from Absolute Punk. “Jonny Craig forced into detox.” Apparently, Emarosa and the record label had had enough and actually made him leave the tour that morning, and sent him to a detox facility in California. This was right after he got caught scamming his fans by selling a Mac Book that didn’t exist for drug money.

(Rise Records had to pay back all of the fans who blindly Western Union’d him money.)

At the last minute, Tilian Pearson from Tides of Man was asked to fill in for Jonny’s vocals. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t Jonny.

I was really upset that night. An Emarosa without Jonny, followed by a Chiodos without Craig Owens. It was really confusing and stressful on my heart.

Meanwhile, Jonny was also back in Dance Gavin Dance, and jumped on a tour with them right after he got out of detox, so I got to see him a month later anyway. Seeing him live is hard to explain, because I love him as a singer so much, and he embodies all of the best things of 2008. I project a lot of emotion and bottled-up feelings on to him, which is why to the casual observer, I act like a 14-year-old reading a Kirk Cameron issue of Tiger Beat in 1987. He’s my best friend proxy, in a way. Especially considering he’s let me down almost as much as she has. But I still listen to his music, no matter what band he’s in, because it’s the only thing I have to keep the memories of 2008 alive.

Not long after the detox incident, Emarosa released a statement saying that they had parted ways with Jonny. Inevitable, but still my heart was broken. I loved Emarosa so much and the general consensus in the scene was that they were done. Without Jonny, what were they? Just another band fading into the background. With Jonny, they should have realistically enjoyed great levels of success, but because of his unprofessionalism, douchebaggery and drug addiction, it was a case of having the golden ticket to nowhere. They didn’t even record their last album together. Jonny did his vocals from the other side of the country.

What a piece of shit, right? God, I hate him but I love him so much, all at once.

Not too long after the Emarosa divorce, DGD also gave him the boot for the second time, but unlike Emarosa, they found a replacement pretty quickly: Tilian Pearson, the same guy who filled in for Jonny on the last Emarosa tour. Jonny hooked up with Kyle Lucas and Captain Midnite, recorded a new solo album, and went on a few tours. But Emarosa stayed pretty silent. I still followed them on Twitter and Facebook, but there were very few updates from 2011 to 2013. They opened up to Alternative Press and promised that this wasn’t the end for them.

But it really felt like the end.

Finally, last summer, Jonny conveniently let it slip on Twitter that Emarosa had found his replacement: Bradley Walden from Squid the Whale. I guess Jonny just wanted to put it out there and ruin whatever Emarosa was planning to do as an announcement. Because that’s the kind of awesome guy he is.

I didn’t know much about Squid the Whale previously but a quick listen made me a believer in Emarosa’s choice. Bradley could SANG, y’all. Still, I was nervous about what he could bring to the table, and how well he would be able to perform the Jonny songs.

After officially announcing their new singer, Emarosa went quiet again. Rise Records was posting all kinds of teasers on Facebook, like, “Hey guys, just heard the new Emarosa album. You guys are going to love it!” and we were all like, “STOP BEING DICKS! GIVE US A SINGLE!”

And they finally did:

And my heart burst into a million pieces of blood-coated stained glass. Ah, that voice, are you kidding me!? Backed by those five guys that I refused to give up on. It felt so good to be an Emarosa fan. Especially after the way they very professionally took much warranted pot shots at Jonny Craig in a promo video they released a few months ago. (No sarcasm here: considering the Hell Jonny put them through, I think they were within their right to talk about it and I’m really impressed at how they were able to keep it classy at the same time.)

While at the same time, Jonny was doing this:

With Jonny’s new band Slaves about to release their album in June too, the drama has been popcorn-worthy. And I have to say, I was nervous about seeing Emarosa live last Monday, because it’s hard to tell based on the shitty YouTube videos people have been uploading. I didn’t want Jonny to be right. It’s not easy loving a band and then hearing another voice singing those songs that have become your Bible.

I asked Chooch who he likes better and he said, “Bradley, obviously. Jonny Craig does drugs.”

I can tell you that it was only sound check, and hearing a five-second sample of Bradley’s voice made my heart feel like it was dropping out of my kooka. I had to grip Henry’s knee and he was like, “Stop it.” When the lights went out, they weren’t even fully on the stage yet and I was in tears. Then they went right into “The Past Should Stay Dead” and I was a sniveling mess. Bradley killed it. He sang those songs like they were written for him, and I know that’s driving Jonny nuts because he’s been whining on Twitter about how it’s terrible to hear HIS SONGS being destroyed. “His songs.” He did nothing to help Emarosa write those songs.

When Bradley sang the line “We know who does it best” I almost died, because POIGNANT.

He was all up in the crowd, being gracious, talking about how honored he is to be singing with a band that he has been a fan of for years. He didn’t try to sing like Jonny; he sang like Bradley. And he brought charisma by the boatload. How could something feel so familiar yet so new?

You know those fountains that move along to music? That was me Monday night at the House of Blues: music played and my tear ducts were engaged. Throw some fucking pennies in me.

And then this happened:

BRADLEY LEFT ME A HEART ON INSTAGRAM! Jonny probably would have just called me fat. I love that Bradley gives a shit.

The best part for me was seeing the rest of the guys SMILING while they played.

The worst part for me was when some asshole behind me started shouting, “WHERE’S JONNY CRAIG? YOU SUCK!” I was getting really upset and I think Henry was afraid I was going to open my mouth (I was) but some other girl beat me to it and shouted back to him, “HE’S A DOUCHE!”

“I hope Bradley didn’t hear him,” I cried to Henry afterward, and then proceeded to spend the next 72 hours being emotionally wrecked.

“Are you still crying?” Robbie asked incredulously while we were waiting for Chiodos to come on. YES, YES I WAS.

Bradley was standing by the merch booth after the show and Henry kept urging me to go talk to him because Henry likes to psychologically abuse me. I did a few stutter steps and while saying, “OK fine. No. OK I will. No I can’t” before finally just crying, “LET’S JUST GO!” I didn’t want to snot the guy’s shirt, you guys. I was just feeling way too raw to try and form words with my mouth without choking on tears and having yet another singer in a band think I’m special needs.

Honestly, I didn’t think I would ever get to see Emarosa again, one more memento of 2008 buried into the ground. It was a really confusing, emotional night for me. I wished that I could just crawl inside their music and lay there for awhile, like a bed full of all the best memories and softest feelings. SO CORNY BUT I DON’T CARE. STEP THE FUCK OFF. I’m having a moment.

I think they have the chance to become a true post-hardcore powerhouse and I can’t wait for their album to come out next month. Here’s to starting over.

************
I’m going to see Jonny’s new band tomorrow in Allentown, which I’m really stoked for because this is their first tour and I NEED TO KNOW, but after the Emarosa jabs, my love meter for Jonny is really waning. Maybe this will be my closure.

Seriously considering wearing my Emarosa shirt tomorrow night. #teambradley #emarosavseveryone

Throwback to that time in 1983 when my lover Henry spooned me while we googled Jonny Craig together on our bitchin’ detachable keyboard machine from the future.

Now I want to get bangs again.

And banged.

In Germany!

[Real life note: Barb accidentally found this picture yesterday when we were trying to find this electronic toy I had as a kid and I was like, “WHOA GO BACK! GO BACK! CLICK ON THAT!” and then I made her email it to me so I could make it my Facebook cover photo, because why not?]

[Real life note, part 2: The toy we were trying to find, in case you care, was the Mattel Teach & Learn Computer, the name of which I had been unable to remember until yesterday, after spending two hours Googling the shit out of “1980s electronic toy” variations. Thank the lord for the Internet.]

[Real life note, part 3: Chris was also involved in the mad search for this toy. I was so excited that I actually considered bidding on one I found on eBay. “I’ve never used eBay,” Chris admitted. “It makes me nervous.” So I assured her it was legit by saying, “It’s where I get all of my pictures of dead people!” I said it kind of loud, but it was just here at work and everyone already knows about me.]

Saturday, despite being full of crazy spring storms, was a really nice day all around. First, we had a birthday party to attend for my cousin Danielle’s mom, Janet.

To quickly back-story this bitch up, I don’t have much of a family. My immediate family (i.e. my mom and her side) pretty much kept to themselves, and because of this, I never had a chance to forge any real relationships with extended family members like cousins and great-aunts and uncles. About four years ago, I somehow saw my second-cousin Danielle on Facebook. We’re related because her dad was my grandma’s brother. He died young, before I was even born, so I sadly didn’t get to know him at all, and because of that, I barely got to know Danielle. I hadn’t seen her since I was probably about 4 years old, and she would have been a pre-teen? Teenager? Possibly we may have attended some of the same weddings in the 80s and 90s? I’m not even sure. But I took a chance and sent her a friend request, and suffice it to say, it has been really nice reconnecting with her over the last 4 years.

When Danielle invited us to her mom’s birthday party, I was hesitant because I don’t think I have ever met her mom and, well, I’m incredibly awkward at parties. But in the end, Henry, Chooch and I went and immediately befriended Ruth, an old neighbor of Danielle and her mom’s. Ruth reminded me of what  my grandma might have been like if she actually wanted to purposely talk to me in public. I liked her a lot. So Henry and I sat at a picnic table, listening to Ruth talk about the different sorts of wildflowers she spotted along the perimeter of the pavilion, while waiting for Janet’s arrival.

Another guest arrived and placed a gigantic potted plant down on the gift table.

“Oh, that’s really pretty,” I cooed robotically. And then to Henry I whispered, “My social cues told me to say that.”

“You don’t have social cues,” Henry sighed.

I’m really improving my small talk game these days. Just this morning, I accidentally struck up a conversation with some broad as we crossed Brookline Blvd together and then got stuck into walking an additional three blocks with her, talking about Pittsburgh weather, camping and my kid’s upcoming birthday party.

I don’t even know who I am anymore.

Finally, Danielle’s son Cory rolled up with the chicken and the lady of the hour. Everyone was like, “Yay!” and I was yay’ing too except that I felt like a fraud, you know? But then, after greeting some other guests, Janet came right over to me, gave me a hug and said, “You look familiar…”

“I don’t really know what this makes me to you, but I’m Valerie [blahblah’s] daughter,” I explained with a slight hesitation. Our family sitch is awkward and complicated—like most people’s, I know. But the amount of “write-offs” over the years have left one dead and ugly family trees on my generation’s hands.

Janet gasped a little bit and exclaimed, “You look like her!” Then she looked at Henry and asked, “And…is this your husband? Boyfriend? No, never mind. I don’t need to know!” she waved it off as my mouth started to form my signature “HE WON’T MARRY ME” catchphrase. And then she sat down with us and we talked about the family and it was pretty amazing, I won’t lie. I hoped that maybe she had some memories of my birth dad (I have a post about him pending), but she said that she didn’t really know much about him other than he gave my mom a real hard time.

I mean, that’s one way of putting it.

Suddenly, the calm Saturday air was disrupted by the cacophony of a fleet of motorcycles roaring down the path to the pavilion. I figured it was a bunch of bikers looking for a place to turn around, until Janet casually said, “Oh, here come the Pagans.”

WAIT, WHAT.

So it turns out my other cousin Skip is a member of the Pagan bike gang and they made quite an entrance. I was terrified yet entranced and did not make eye contact with any of them the whole afternoon because god forbid I should pull some terrible Pee Wee Herman-esque faux pas and wind up being lifted off the ground by a hand around my neck. I knew little to nothing about the Pagans until I Googled them later and then gulped.

When Janet’s sister and brother-in-law arrived, she introduced them to me right away and they were like “OMG” because it seems like as soon as you say the S-word (my mom’s maiden name) around certain people, it’s like RECORD SCRATCH.

“Are you hungry?” Janet asked me. “Go eat!” My favorite words!

What a great afternoon. I got to stuff my face with good food, cookies, and cake made my Ruth’s daughter; take a bunch of photos of Henry looking dumb with food; and get to know a little more about my enigmatic family. I hope I get to see Janet again soon because she is awesome and now I want her to be friends with Henry’s mom.

And I still don’t know what relation she is to me. 6th cousin? Lady person? My cousin’s mom? Great cousin? Great aunt?