That time Chooch proved that everyone has a bad angle right before we fed him to the camels in Virginia and then ate at a Friendly’s with some old, regal, forearm-shroud-wearin’ coot.

(Oops, it’s still Thursday. Throwback Thursday Because I Can’t Sleep, k bye.

)

Feeling all nostalgic and going through old Flickr photos. I miss the baby era! This may or may not have something to do with the fact that Chooch talked nonstop from the moment I picked him up from school at 2:50 until, oh, right now. NOT THAT I DON’T ENJOY HIS MELODIOUS CHILD-VOICE. But Jesus, that boy is always on.

Anyway, here are 4 old pictures from 2006.

Cure pin swag. ;) Today, he had a Dance Gavin Dance pin on the collar of his shirt, so not much has changed.

OMG brothers!

Henry painted the legs and knobs yesterday and was able to put them back on by late afternoon. And that was it! DONE! (Well, except it still needs more coats of Mod Podge plus a hard coat, but I figured it looked done enough that I could put a picture on here and say it’s done and you people would believe me.) We (haha “we”) used a textured black metallic paint for the legs and knobs, but that’s also what’s in the center of the table, so the pictures have a sparkly border to them.

We make such a good team!! I just stand there, arms akimbo, lips pursed, pointing out everything he’s done wrong and then he snaps, “I’M NOT DONE YET.”

The most amazing part to me is that Henry and I made it through three weeks of  this without severely fighting or me flipping the table through the living room window! (The latter is mostly because I didn’t really have anything to do with this project other than gathering Instagram pictures and then doling them out to Henry 10 at a time to ensure they were laid down in an order I approved of. If I had to paste any of the pictures down, that would have been the end of the table, and possibly Henry’s life.)

There are pictures from cemeteries, amusement parks, fairs, the Bayernhof!!!, all of the cats, my brother, Blake, various friends, Warped Tour, Pierce the Veil, and just random moments that I’m happy to have to look at every day. Henry, however, is not amused that there are so many pictures of him, and that just makes me happier! There’s even a picture of the day we were locked out of the house because that still makes me laugh!

Look how magnificent this gold is! I begged Henry to paint our living room ceiling in the same vein, but that proposal was vetoed with a disgusted glare. The other desk-thingie that he’s working on is going to be entirely gold glitter like the drawers. But this one also has doors on it, so I want him to paint those with black, pink and gold chevron stripes, to tie that in with the coffee table. Henry was like, “….what are chevron stripes?” so I showed him a picture and he sighed wearily.

I don’t know how much this project ended up costing us, you’d have to ask Henry since I tend to black out anytime we’re in Home Depot or Lowe’s. But the table itself was literally $10 at Goodwill. I guess because there was particle board in the center and it was coming up on some of the sides and basically looked like shit. My original idea last year was to just sand it down and paint it with chalkboard paint, but now I’m glad Henry was too unmotivated to work on it, because it forced me  to think things out better. And you really have to catch Henry at the right time when it comes to these things. He’s really good at the projects I give him, but it has to be on his terms (which I hate because this is MY kingdom, but whatever). I was so annoyed that it took him so long to finish this table, but he quietly explained to me that he wanted to “not rush through it and get it done right.” Like he was deflowering it, I guess.

My favorite part is that someday, this will hopefully be in Chooch’s house (and not a landfill) and he’ll get to tell his friends and family about the different pictures and then he’ll get tired of explaining things and start directing people to my blog and then maybe my blog stats will spike. That is, if blogs still exist then.

I told Chooch that this might end up being a family heirloom someday and he gave me a look that could make Henry’s basic frown shrivel in fear.

“Dad, why do we have a picture of some weird guy yawning on our table?” future Chooch-spawn might ask.

Chooch, sighing heavily, “I don’t know. Here, just go read grandma’s blog.”

Two down, 87,154 more to go! (Seriously, I want everything in our bedrooms re-done, too. Hahahahahaha.)

Henry has been OMG so busy because of his job, which means he’s been sorely slacking on the produce tip. (If he were a real man, he’d find a way to multitask, thank you.) Thankfully, Gayle had a spare apple for me yesterday, but after prowling around the department for a little while earlier today, it was starting to look grim. Barb gave me a peach but last time I checked A PEACH IS NOT AN APPLE.

I mean, I’ll eat it though. I wound up with a small bounty thanks to my caregivers here at work:

But then my boss caught wind of my apple hunt and gifted me with a Honey Crisp, so I’m totally content right now.

Some of my co-workers were like, “WTF is up with you and apples, anyway?” and since it’s Throwback Thursday on some blogs, I decided that this would be a good time to repost the story that started it all! Dude, it’s from 10/27/2011, which means I’ve stuck to an obession for almost two years,e ven though Henry was all, “No, I’m not going to buy you an orchard considering you’ll probably hate apples after three weeks.” Well, BOOM, motherhumper! Look at me, still eating the apples after all this time.

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

Applegate

10/27/2011

Or: How Barb Found Another Way To Ruin My Life

Or: That Fucking Tomato, The Sequel

Before Barb left work on Monday, she had to go and fuck up my whole world by offering me an apple. I just smiled and said thanks, but what was really happening at that moment was that a vignette of cumulative botched apple-cutting situations began whirring around in my head, my inner-wrists started tingling at even the suggestion of wielding a paring knife, and my teeth were curling back inside my gums at the thought of biting into a whole apple.

Meanwhile the ghost of Johnny Appleseed openly mocked me from above my desk.

It just sat there all night, to the left of me, this glowing red/yellow orb of temptation. If I had been the original Eve, the Bible as we know it (and I don’t really know it) would be drastically altered, because I have a feeling Adam would have been too busy exploring holes with his dick to cut a fucking apple.

We might all be walking around nude right now.

Eventually, I tossed it into my purse, thinking I would just find some way to eat it at home. And by that I of course mean Henry would put a Gerber bib on me and slice the apple into Erin-appropriate wedges.

That night at work, I ate peanuts and Halloween candy instead. Fucking apple.

***

I forgot the apple was in my purse until the next morning and Henry had the audacity to not drop everything and come home from work wearing his produce armor to cut my fucking apple.

“Where did you get an apple?!” he asked, probably thinking I was trying to eat random growths from neighborhood trees again.

Gee, I don’t know, Henry. An old fucking lady brought it up to my cottage window while goddamn bluebirds sang Disney songs behind her.

“Barb gave it to me last night and I put it in my purse! Don’t act like you don’t go through my purse!” I answered defensively, like I was trying to deny an affair with a bait shop owner.

(This all happened via Facebook; look at me, making it appear that Henry and I have real life conversations that don’t take place via the Internet, text, and Post-It Notes!)

Seriously, when will apples shake their stigma? WE NEARLY BROKE UP OVER THIS.

I had people on twitter sending me tutorials but the first I watched said I needed a melon baller and I started to break a sweat because I was pretty sure we don’t have a melon baller and also because I think I used a melon baller as a torture device in a short story I wrote a long time ago.

I decided to just wait for Henry to come home from work.

***

Henry hadn’t yet had a chance to get both feet through the door before I was blocking his path and shoving an apple-fist in his face.

He looked tired and disgruntled.

“Give me the fucking thing,” he said, snatching the apple from my hand. As he disappeared into the kitchen, I heard him grumble, “You’re pathetic.”

Nice to know he worries about my safety and the possibility of apple-induced arterial spray.

He practically frisbee’d a plate of shoddily-cut apple wedges at me before storming out the door to pick up our son, who will have to learn how to cut his own apples if he ever so much as dreams of eating one when Henry is away from the house.

This was definitely the product of a pissed off man with a knife. I call it Henry Sliced the Apple: the shocking conclusion to How Will Erin Eat Her Apple?

***

When I got to work later that day, I regaled Barb with the horrors of what had come to be known as Applegate. I did a lot of hand-wringing to further illustrate the distress her stupid apple had put me under.

“Oh, honey,” she said in her Babying Erin Voice, which you might have figured gets a ton of use.

“You should have just used the apple corer we keep here.”

WHAT APPLE CORER.

I took a picture of Barb demonstrating, so I could look back on it for reference.

That night, Barb left me another apple, the apple corer thing, and an assignment: to try it by myself.

I waited until everybody but the late shift people had gone for the day, just in case I wound up causing a scene. You never can be too safe. My first attempt propelled the apple with great force against the kitchen wall, knocking over the paper towel holder.

(Speaking of the paper towel holder: The roll was empty the other night and I put a new one on all by myself. So now no one can say I haven’t helped out around there.) I think I didn’t have it properly centered because I might not have been paying attention.

My second attempt sent me lurching into the kitchen counter, but I did reach some low level of success. I couldn’t get the blades to split the apple the whole way through and wound up having to break it off the corer thing, but this was a win as far as Things Erin Tries To Do In The Kitchen goes.

Then I happily ate my apple, while saying, “I did this myself!” to everyone who walked by. (And by everyone, I mean just Carey.)

And that is how I learned to cut an apple at work.

(You should see me with an orange.)

My friend Natasha shared a link on my Facebook timeline just a few moments ago:

“On this day in 1990, The Cure released its “Disintegration”-era live album “Entreat” – recorded in London’s Wembley Arena in July 1989.”

I remember it being so hard to find this when I started to really really really like the Cure in the late 90s because it was released as a promotional item. Pretty sure I was still unaware of Amazon in 1999. I don’t even think I was using eBay yet? Instead of relying on the Internet, I relied on my weekend visits to Eide’s Entertainment in the Strip District, where my “Cure dealer,” as I lovingly referred to him, would see me walk in and run to pull out the latest bootlegs and imports that they had acquired, and I would in turn pull out the good old credit card. And whenever there was a new video (always on VHS), it was truly a red letter day. The last couple of times I visited Eide’s, it was obviously a very different experience. As it is with any record store in the iTunes-era.

I love the Cure. I will always love the Cure. But I hate that it is not as fun to love the Cure, as far as “collecting” goes.

Now I can just go online and download what was once considered a treasure to find. I can go on YouTube and watch live videos from Tokyo, the same videos that made people say, “Sweet find!” about my Live in Japan VHS I snagged when I was 20.

<

If I can’t make it to Lollapalooza, I can live-stream the Cure’s set from my fucking living room. Technology may have made it easy to be a band’s #1 fan, but it sure as shit took a lot of the fun out of it.

On the other hand, what I think is great about Robert Smith is his lack of an Internet presence. Because not only is there a huge over-share problem with us regular plebes, celebrities in general post so much bullshit on Instagram and Twitter that there is no mystique left. I’ve seen the weeners of half of the metalcore scene thanks to Twitter and the now-defunct Is Anybody Up. But you don’t get that with Robert. There’s still that air of mystery. I can still pretend that Robert’s wife Mary never existed and that he sleeps in a coffin with my picture taped to the top.

My Robert Smith love is very different from my Jonny Craig love, that’s for sure. I would never fly to Australia for that douchebag, that’s for sure.

Anyway, unrelated to any of this, I want to close out my unofficial Cure Week with one of my favorite songs from The Head On the Door, which was the Cure album I was listening to the most during the time I was running around trying to secure travel arrangements to see the Dream Tour in Canberra. Coincidently, the week I was over there was the exact same week Henry started his job at Weiss Meats, the place I was currently employed. So his first impression of me was an empty desk and everyone telling him that I was the “crazy office manager” who flew to Australia “for some band.” Before we started dating, when we were in that awkward “Does he/she like me?” phase, Henry “randomly” made me this elaborate Cure screensaver; that’s when I knew he liked me for real. (God, that’s so dorky!)

Four years later, we were on a plane to California together, destination: Coachella, where the Cure was headlining. Thank god I found someone who could tolerate my hyper-obsessions.

When I was really little, maybe 5 or 6, I remember my stepdad having parties where there was always a David Bowie record spinning, or Duran Duran, or The Cure, or…Hall & Oats (and I still like them because of this!). My dad wasn’t necessarily a huge fan of the Cure that I know of, but he is definitely how I first heard of them. It wasn’t love at first listen, though. I wasn’t wearing Head on the Door t-shirts to Kindergarten with my hair all teased out. I was still primarily a radio-happy kid who loved Madonna and Michael Jackson and Toto’s “Africa.”

I didn’t own any of the Cure’s music myself until I was 12, when I bought the “Friday I’m In Love” cassette single at National Record Mart. I used to watch a lot of late night MTV in my room then. I can’t even pretend to be cool and talk about all the actual records of theirs that I owned, because by the time I was really starting to get into music, CDs had already hit the scene. Up until then, the only records I owned were T’Pau, Steve Winwood, Flashbeagle and that terrible Julio Iglesias/Wilile Nelson duet. So believe me, even though I was making mix tapes with my little Fisher Price tape recorder, I wasn’t half the audiophile that Chooch is already at age 7.

So even though I owned that cassette single from the Wish album, it wasn’t until I was in my late teens when I actually heard anything else from it (I had to let the gangsta rap stage run its course, OK??); I was immediately taken with “Open” and how, even apart from the lyrics, it’s like listening to someone’s sanity completely derailing.

and the way the rain comes down hard

that’s how I feel inside…

God, yes! That’s how I feel even without the assistance of drugs or alcohol. How relatable are Cure songs to us sad sacks? So on point!

The whole Wish album is amazing, really. Even the oft-skipped over “Wendy Time” lights a spark in me, and obviously “From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea,” during which I have had to force Henry’s hands into the sky the two times we saw the Cure together. He’s so stubborn!

Henry and I went to Cleveland in 2005 to see Circa Survive and I bought this cheap plastic ring at the greatest store ever (Big Fun) because the design on it reminded me of the Wish album cover. It’s cracked now, on the part that goes around the back of my finger, and I barely wear it anymore because I don’t want it to break.

One more video! This one is from Wild Mood Swings, which is actually in my bottom 3 favorite Cure albums, but I lovelovelove this song because there’s a line that goes “It kind of wasn’t quite what I hoped for, you know” which basically sums up how I feel about most everything.

Thanks to all who have been following along and contributing Cure stories and favorites of your own! This has been so much fun, but tomorrow will be the 7th post already! :(

In the early 80s, the Cure found itself with just two members: Robert Smith and Lol Tolhurst. (Lol is the subject of an inside joke I’ve shared with my friend Alyson for years, so I immediately get giggly even typing his name.) Lol moved to keyboards for the series of singles that would become the Japanese Whispers EP, veering the Cure toward a more synthpop/new wave sound which has always appealed to me because I LOVE SYNTHPOP. A Different Drum 4 lyfe!

Because my other Cure posts have been so fucking depressing, I wanted to definitely feature my favorite song from this particular Cure era to kind of lighten the mood. (Even though it’s Sunday and I’m historically miserable and depressed on Sundays.) “Let’s Go To Bed” was intended to be a tongue-in-cheek response to how hyper-sexual pop music was at the time (and three decades later, the joke is even more relevant). I only wish that I could find the original video, because it’s fantastic and Robert is so young and adorable and OMG. But, short of me dusting off my VHS copy in the attic and making Henry find a way to get it on the computer, this generic YouTube video will have to do. HAPPY FUCKING SUNDAY.

(There was no Cure post yesterday because god forbid some jerk 7-year-old should give his mom 5 minutes on the computer.)

I’m afraid that this is going to be another two-video post. But there is just so much I want to share and I’m having a lot of fun doing so!

Not to come across as some sickeningly depressive sad sack, but today let’s talk about the two songs from the beloved Disintegration album that can make me drop tears faster than Snooki drops her baby.

When I first moved into my current house back in 1999, I was really lonely. Yes, I almost always had people in my house, but in my heart, you guys. In my heart, I was lonely. I was still a year away from meeting Henry, and almost two more away from officially dating him, so I had that sadness that sometimes creeps in when you’re with all of the wrong people for the wrong reasons, like stuffing a bourbon-soaked cotton ball into a cavity-filled molar. So when I was alone, I would spend A LOT of time curled up on these two giant pillows I had on the floor, drinking Manischevitz from a blood-red goblet from Pier 1, and sobbing my dumb fucking eyes out to “Prayers For Rain.” Usually on repeat. But goddamn, did I feel great afterward! Like my heart was all scrubbed out and cleansed.

The drums always reminded me of when Atreyu was approaching the Riddle Gate in “The Neverending Story.”

The next summer, for my 21st birthday, my incredibly thoughtful friend Shawn (aka Mr. Wonka) built the most personal gift ever for me:

I had no idea what the hell it was when he presented it to me. He’s really into smart people things, so I was thinking to myself, “Oh great. A pyramid. Is this some geometric prank on me?” But then when I opened it, a small pot inside the pyramid began slowly revolving while “Prayers For Rain” played. He made that. FOR ME! It doesn’t play anymore, the batteries died I guess, but I will NEVER EVER EVER PART WITH THIS. It has a special place inside my curio cabinet. One of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received.

Conversely, the only time Wonka and I have ever fought was on the way back from a haunted hayride in Somerset, PA that same year when he had the audacity to say that Morrissey can sing circles around Robert Smith and I swear to you, I almost cut him. His then-girlfriend tried to change the subject by talking about Fiona Apple, like I give a shit about Fiona Apple, but at least she wasn’t trying to say she sang better than Robert fucking Smith!

I am clearly still fuming about this.

*****

It’s nearly impossible to have a favorite song by the Cure, but I’m pretty sure if I was forced to choose, it would have to be “Same Deep Water As You.” From the opening peal of thunder to Robert’s breathy “and we shall be together,” this song puts me in the most beautiful trance.

This was playing in our house last Saturday night, and I held my arm up to Chooch and said, “Look at the goosebumps.” He looked and then nodded solemnly. He gets it.

But then he walked away because he said I was making him want to cry.

For years and years and years, I have wanted this to be what plays while I walk down the aisle, but at this rate, I guess just use it for my funeral. (You know, followed by “Funeral Party.”)

One of my most treasured hobbies used to be scouring eBay for Cure artifacts. (OK, I still do this sometimes, but it’s not as much fun now that I don’t have Mommy’s AmEx card to pay for my bounty.) Some girl painted the above portrait of Robert for an art class and I had to have it. Henry and I were at King’s Island in Cincinnati the day that the auction was ending, and this was in 2005 so I didn’thave the luxury of hawkeyeing my iPhone every 3 seconds, watching the auction countdown.

So I did it the old-fashioned way: I wrote “DON’T FORGET THE CURE” on my wrist and left the amusement park early enough to get back to Christina’s house so I could place my winning bid. I love the fuck out of this painting and hopefully one day I’ll find a suitable (read: gaudy) frame for it.

I think I won this on eBay in 1999? It was actually delivered to my house on Christmas Day, that much I do remember. It was the best Christmas present ever.

Yes, before I had a Jonny Craig doll, I had a Robert Smith doll. I’m certain I (see also: my mom) paid a small fortune for this.

But my favorite piece in my collection is probably this limited edition print of a self-portrait Robert painted in 1990. At the bottom is a verse from the yet-to-be-released “Letter to Elise.” This print has been hanging over my couch for as long as I can remember and I refuse to replace it with anything else, not even a picture of my kid.

I remember this one time, a journal that Robert Smith and Lydia Lunch had shared together was up for auction. Of course, the reserve on it was something astronomical. I drove to my mom’s house to beg her to help me get it, I pulled my hair in desperation, I rolled around on her kitchen floor in anguish. At the pinnacle of my frenzy, I even suggested that I sell my car.
You guys, I was pretty obsessed. I have really calmed down a lot since then (I mean, mostly) but there is not a day that goes by that I regret a single cent I spent on any of this memorabilia. The Cure was such a huge coming-of-age influence on me and helped me really discover who I was behind that yo-girl, gangsta rap-spouting front I always had up. I never really considered myself to be Goth, but being on the periphery of that scene was really where I started to find myself. I was even inspired to not only start writing again, but to share my writing with strangers. I stopped being the fake-happy person I thought everyone else wanted me to be and started being myself. In a way, the Cure kind of helped me to grow some fucking balls.

And now I’ll leave you with the song that reminds me of driving down dark country roads to haunted hayrides; roomfuls of apple cider candles; and sitting cross-legged on the floor, making mixtapes.

I feel like the popular answer for the whole “you can only take one Cure album with you to the deserted island” question would probably be Disintegration. And that is a really fucking great album, don’t get me wrong. But my choice would be “Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me” for the sheer variety.

There’s moody, there’s upbeat and happy, there’s downright schizophrenic aching. It’s like an instrumental journey around the world. And that’s what I love.

But I have two favorites and they both remind me of stabbing the shit out someone mid-coitus on balmy summer nights.

First up is “The Kiss.” This song makes me want to simultaneously rage out and make a baby. (Pretty much how Chooch was conceived?) The instrumental intro is intense, passionate, HOT.

And when Robert’s anguished wail bursts through the speakers, climaxing with his urgent desire to “get your fucking voice out of [his] head,” it’s like THE ORIGINAL SCREAMO.

Second is “If Only Tonight We Could Sleep” (with “Like Cockatoos” coming in a super close third). This is the song I want to hear as I’m dying.

When I saw the Cure at the Royal Theater in Canberra 13 years ago this October, they played all three of those songs in a row and it brought me to my knees; I remember briefly feeling alone in that moment, mostly because, well, I had gone to Australia for this concert alone. And I wished I had someone there with me to share this moment, but then I realized that I wasn’t alone: I was surrounded by a thousand people who felt the same way as I did, and who fully appreciated this moment more than most anybody. How could I think I was alone? I promise you that this was one of the Top 5 best moments I’ve had to date. October 19th, 2000, baby. Goddamn.

Never has music relaxed me so much, yet wound me up at the same time. It’s like being in a foreign place yet somehow feeling comfortable.

The Cure is so good at that.

I’ve decided to declare this week as Cure Week on my blog, mostly because I can. I realize that today is Tuesday and most “[x] Weeks” would probably start on a Monday, but you know how it is over here: completely unorganized and scattered.

You might know that the Cure is my all-time favoritest band in all of the world. Yes, Robert Smith has way more of my heart than Jonny Craig. And if you didn’t know that, just come to my house, where framed portraits of Robert abound. (And dozens of others are rolled up in my bedroom, waiting to be framed.)

I was in the cemetery on Saturday (obviously), listening to the Cure (how cliché), when I started thinking about how much they’ve impacted my life, how I literally can’t listen to a single song of theirs without being transported back to certain times, and how thankfully I don’t associate them with any of the shitty people from my 20s.

Maybe you don’t know anything about the Cure, or maybe you only know the big radio singles (“Friday, I’m In Love” / “Lovesong” (NOT THE 311 VERSION, UGH UGH UGH) / “Close To Me” / “Just Like Heaven” / “Boys Don’t Cry”), and if even one person out there realizes that they like the Cure, I will consider this a success. BECAUSE THE CURE IS AMAZING and it makes me sad the amount of times I’m met with a blank look when I tell someone that the Cure is my favorite band. I guess I just assume that a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame-nominated band is well-known.

For Day One of Cure Week, and in honor of Chooch’s newfound fear of butterflies, let’s start with the classic “The Caterpillar” from the Top album, which I always consider to be one of their sleeper hits. It’s full of all kinds of weird shit, which is my favorite music genre. (The piano in the beginning of “The Caterpillar” sounds uncannily akin to the frenetic noise my brain makes when I’m writing in this blog, by the way.) I used to make my friend Brian watch this video over and over every time he came to my house, which probably factored into him eventually moving to Nebraska.

I was thinking about how many fun ice cream outings we’ve had so far this summer, and it made me remember this one day in 2008 when Blake came out with us and we took pictures and got ice cream at Bill’s Golfland. It was such a good day. BLAKE, WE MISS YOU!!

Ugh, they were both so goddamn young! Chooch was even wearing an age-appropriate t-shirt, what the fuckkkk.

One of my all-time favorite pictures of Chooch.

Summer + ice cream = GOOD MEMORIES.

Sometime around noon, Craig Owens and Bradley Bell of Chiodos did a little acoustic show in the Acoustic Basement tent. Craig is a hot commodity in this scene, so the crowd was spilling like hot and sweaty guts out of the tent. Chooch couldn’t actually see Craig from where we were standing, plus we were all smashed together with a throng of sweaty kids and lost interest, so Henry opted to take Chooch to the inflatable slip n’ slide while I quietly dropped tears from my eyeballs as Craig strummed some of my favorite Chiodos/D.R.U.G.S./his own solo songs on his guitar while Bradley accompanied him on keyboard. It was, in spite of the face-melting heat, one of the most sublime performances I’ve experienced at Warped Tour. Absolute perfection, and I noticed that Craig had made subtle tweaks to his vocals on certain parts of songs that just really gave it a whole new feel.

Attention all of my worst critics, who were once the best of friends…

I got this from someone’s YouTube, and while the quality is what you’d expect from an iPhone recording, I wanted to post it anyway so that I can go back and remember the moments that made the hairs stand up on my arms.

Later in the afternoon, Chiodos did a signing at their merch tent. I was anticipating this, so I came prepared with a copy of a picture we took of Chooch with Chiodos back in 2008 when they did an in-store signing at a record store in Columbus, OH. They weren’t even performing, just doing a meet and greet, and I still made Henry drive the 3+ hours because OMFG CHIODOS!!

Anyway, I thought it would be cool to give them a copy of it and have Chooch re-meet them now that he’s at an age where he can remember it.  While we were standing in line, one of the kids behind me tapped me on the shoulder and, pointing to Chooch, asked, “Excuse me, but is that him in the picture?” I said it was and he and his friend were all, “Oh, that is so cool. He’s so lucky!” And Chooch smiled all proudly because HELLO HE HAS A COOL MOM, THANK YOU. Maybe now he’s starting to recognize that shit.

When we were next, Derrick Frost, their drummer, took the picture from me after I explained that Chooch had met them when he was almost two-years-old. He looked at it and said, “I remember this!” And I don’t think he was bullshitting me! “Is this for us? Can we have this?” he asked, and when I said yes, he said, “This is getting hung up on our bus!” We bought Chooch a shirt earlier from their merch tent, so Derrick signed it and then passed it down the table to Matt.

“Do you want a poster too?” he asked Chooch. So Derrick signed the poster too and then write “2 to 7 — crazy!”

Derrick has actually been my favorite member of Chiodos ever since that day in Columbus, and I was so so so happy to see him again! He re-joined the band around teh same time Craig came back, which was like the cherry on top, really. He’s just such a good, decent dude. (And, just like in 2008, basically the only one of them who spoke to us, haha.)

We weren’t allowed to take pictures, but I made Henry stand off to the side, which probably didn’t look too out of place because he has that “Creepy Corner Dweller” image anyway, to try to take some covert photos.

Classy bra straps, FTW, Erin.

“You’re not going to like this picture,” Henry warned. “Because your hair’s wet.” (There was a brief rainstorm that was so fucking appreciated because it cut the humidity down and the rest of the day was so much more tolerable. Plus, it made jumping to the Wonder Years even more fun!)

Right, Henry. THAT’S the reason I don’t like this picture of me. It’s not at all because of my hunchback (which I don’t really have, I swear! I would be honest if I did), awkward stance or stupidly huge nose.

But I know, I know. It’s not about me, it’s about Chooch’s big moment, blah blah blah. And wouldya look at him cheesin’ up there!

Meanwhile, Chooch was a repeat customer at the misting station and inflatable slip n’ slide, which ended up being our saviors of the day and totally prevented a Big Butler Fair Psycho Heat Stroke relapse.

 After one of their slip ‘n’ slide field trips, Henry brought Chooch back to me shirtless, which is how he remained for the rest of the day all because some dudes told him to take his shirt off. (Not in a gross, sleazy way, but in a “You’ll be able to slide better” way.” Chooch was really well-received by the older bros all day! I can’t tell you how many random high-fives were requested of him.)

The guy in the weird straw hat was the Warped-appointed slip ‘n’ slide regulator all day, so he and Chooch became pretty chummy (according to Henry, anyway; I was only there with him three of the 87 gabillion times he slid across a slide commingled with scene-sweat and water). Also, the guy behind Chooch was giving him some kind of tip. He must be a seasoned veteran, because the only tip I know to give someone is “run! now…slide.”

Also, the guy behind Chooch is hot.

Warped Tour is for making franz with trannies before Chiodos’ set.

Waiting for Chiodos dangerously close to crotch-sweat.

Henry’s serious, non-smiling review of Chiodos: “They were good. They are always good.” This is also what Henry looks like when he’s enjoying ice cream, sex, and being tickled.

I can’t wait until Chooch is older so I can ask, “Hey Chooch, remember that time you were sitting on the edge of a garbage can during a Chiodos show while some kid was puking in it?” And he’ll say, “What? No!” And then I’ll pretend that it didn’t happen.

I don’t even know how to explain what these guys do to my heart. But I will tell you that during the summer of 2007, Henry and I came sickeningly close to breaking up. He was even looking for an apartment. I spent a lot of time during the month of August listening to the All’s Well That Ends Well album and furiously painting; that summer, the song “Baby, You Wouldn’t Last a Minute On the Creek” became kind of my anthem.

SPOILER ALERT: We sorted things out. Ever since then, Chiodos is one of the few bands that we both like and Henry doesn’t bitch about having to go see. Even though Craig Owens got shitty with me on Twitter because he didn’t like what I wrote in my blog about his solo show in 2011, I still fucking love this band and cheered when I found out that the rest of the guys made amends with him and invited him back as their singer after giving him the boot in 2009.

 And now Chooch likes them even more, after meeting them again and getting to watch them perform live for the first time ever, and has been singing Thermacare ever since. It’s this really special thing, you guys, to be able to share this with Henry and Chooch, because it’s normally me, all by myself, obsessively loving music and it gets kind of lonely sometimes in my world.

How can I explain this to normal people…it’s kind of like when you go to church as a family, I suppose. That’s what this day felt like to me: the two people I love the most (ugh, shut up, Henry) with me at my favorite place ever, worshiping at the altar of life-saving music.

 I hope Chiodos stay together for a super long time.

******

Here’s Chooch with his framed poster. Henry’s mom was talking to him about it yesterday and she asked him what he said to the band.

“Nothing,” he said. “I was shy.”

And it’s true, he really was! For the first time ever, Chooch was rendered speechless. He really is just like me. I’m about to be 34 and I still get all flustered and weepy when I meet bands and then end up not saying anything and regretting it forever.

Warped Tour in general might have been the Best Day Ever, but the Chiodos parts were the best moments ever.

(This is probably the best, not to mention the worst idea that I have ever had >>> basically everything in my life, ever!)

I’m going to veer off schedule here for a  minute and share the pictures from our tour of the Lizzie Borden house in Fall River, MA. After an entertaining breakfast at AlMac’s Diner where I had Portuguese bolo and will consequently never be satisfied with a regular old English Muffin ever again, we stopped here on our last full day of vacation.

Chooch was pretty fucking stoked to say the least. The kid has grown up in a house where serial killer greeting cards are made, what do you expect?

Henry and I stayed over night here back in 2002, but it was worth the return trip for us, too. Mostly to experience it all over again with Chooch, who knows the legendary story and has watched countless YouTube videos about the house. However, when we walked into the gift shop to pay for a tour, the tour guide behind the register looked a little skeptical at these two assholes toting a 7-year-old child to a murder house.

But then Chooch sprawled out on the couch in the waiting area, mimicking the crime scene photo of dead Andrew Borden, and the tour guide widenened her eyes a bit. “Do you wanna help me out when we get in the house?” At first she suggested that he play the role of Abby Borden, but Chooch quickly said, “No. I want to be the dead dad.”

“How old is he?” one of the three old people in our group asked. I could tell that they too were leery of taking an hour long tour with some brat, but I’d like to think they were pleasantly surprised by the tour’s end.

I mean, come on guys. You know I’m the first person to call my kid out for being a dick. But he was actually super well-behaved and genuinely enrapt in touring the house. I was so proud of my gruesome little brat!

Floral patterns suit him.

The house has changed owners since we were last there. To be honest, I don’t rememeber much of the original tour we got in 2002, other than being a served a plate of cheese and Oreos to snack on while watching some made-for-TV movie about Lizzie Borden, so a lot of what I saw on this day was basically brand new to me. I also feel that the guide we had this time was more knowledgeable.

(Side Note: The guide we had in 2002 was also the summer caretaker and ended up being the only other person sleeping in the house with us that night. He was pretty creepy, but affable at the same time. I posted a picture of him on my blog a few years ago and someone commented, informing me that he had perished in a house fire. So sad! I mentioned this to our tour guide last week—I shamefully can’t remember her name but she was really wonderful—and she said that when the new owners bought the Borden house, they had a really hard time getting him to leave.)

The house was replicated as best as possible, considering they only had black and white photos to go on.

In the dining room, we learned that this is where Abby Borden’s autopsy was done. The guide had pictures of their mutilated bodies and said to me, “It’s up to you if you want your son to see these.”

I asked Chooch if he wanted to see, and he shrugged and said, “Yeah, sure.”

I found out later that I probably should have asked him if he knew what “autopsy” meant first.

While the guide was demonstrating ironing handkerchiefs (one of Lizzie’s alleged alibis), Chooch was chomping at the bit to go into the next room because he recognized the couch immediately. You’d have thought he waited all his life for this one short moment of impersonating some dead dude with a crushed skull and dangling eyeball.

Chooch’s Shining Moment.

The old people on the tour with us laughed uncomfortably during his performance.

We were all clustered in the foyer listening about Andrew Borden’s final moments on Earth; I was standing at the foot of the steps — the top of which was where Abby Borden’s dead body was first spotted prostrate on the other side of the bed in the guest room–with my back to the front door when the mailman began shoving circulars and bills through the mailslot. The new gray hairs I must have amassed in that moment has got to be a staggering number.

Chooch volunteered me to play the butchered Abby Borden, which required me to sprawl ass-up on the floor while Chooch giggled devilishly. Thank god there are no pictures. My ass is much wider than the last time I was photographed in this pose.

This lady knows her shit! We definitely got our money’s worth.

Borden spirits all up in Henry’s shit!

J/K. I was just really bored in the car. Best use of a bokeh app!

In the corner of the guest room, the actual dress Elizabeth Montgomery wore in the final scene of the Lizzie Borden movie in the 80s is on display. When the guide mentioned Elizabeth’s name, Chooch put his hand up to his mouth and whispered, “Witch!” to me, giving me this faux-serious look. At first I couldn’t figure out why he said that, but then I remembered that the day before, we took him to the Salem Witch Museum and there was a wall of photos of famous witches throughout history, and of course “Bewitched” was one of them.

The guide we had that day pointed out each picture and gave a brief explanation, and I guess that little jerk was actually paying attention (because I know I barely was).  Yay for money not wasted for once!

Actual books that belonged to Lizzie. Check out “With Edged Tools.” LOL right!?

Chooch was really into all the vintage cat figures he spotted throughout the house, and also the creepy trunk of toys that the owner keeps in one of the attic bedroom that is supposedly haunted by random children. Chooch said that’s the room he wants to sleep in when we go back and I was like, “That’s cool, bro. But have fun staying up there by yourself.”

Haunted or not, there is something to be said about standing in a house where one of the most sensationalized double-murders in this country’s history were carried out.  I was definitely on edge the entire time while Henry just looked bored (or probably confused because the only way he understands anything is if the cast of Criminal Minds is acting it out on TV for him). Chooch would get fidgety here and there, but thankfully he didn’t do anything overtly dickish to draw attention to himself. For the most part, he honestly seemed like he was interested in what the tour guide was saying, officially making “7” my favorite Chooch age thus far.

When I went back to the gift shop afterward to buy souvenirs, the guide admitted to me that she was a little worried when she saw us walk in with Chooch, and how pleasantly surprised she was at how he conducted himself. I’m so glad she told me that, because as a parent, I’m sure there are times when I think my kid is acting normal but everyone else is thinking, “TAKE THAT BASTARD BACK TO THE ZOO, MY GOD!” My fear is that we’re going to take him somewhere like this and he’s going to break something or cause a general scene by throwing a tantrum out of boredom.

I remember the time when I was a kid, just a little bit older than him, on vacation with my grandparents in Europe. I think we had stopped in Assisi, Italy and, right befor walking into a shop filled to the brim with breakables, my grandma gripped me by the upper arm and hissed, “DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING!”

Aaaaand guess who knocked over an entire display of glass figurines with her purse? GOOD OLD GRANDMA JEAN.

Meanwhile, as the guide was praising my kid’s good behavior, Chooch was in the process of pissing on his shorts in the customer rest room. So, you win some, you lose some.

Can’t leave Fall River without paying our respects at the cemetery!

Stoked for Lizzie!

I really was pleased with how we were able to sneak in educational bullshit on our vacation without it feeling like 5 days of war memorials and dry history lectures. I can’t wait for Chooch to go back to second grade and tell everyone about the shit he did, haha.

Sometimes I like to go back and revisit songs that I REALLY REALLY OMG REALLY DEFINATELY loved as a young teenager to see if they hold up, like “Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover” by Sophie B. Hawkins (yes) , “Come Undone” by Duran Duran (YES, GOD YES), “Because I Love You” by Stevie B (I mean….) or anything from the 90210 soundtrack (I mean, I wouldn’t know since I neither owned nor heard that “album”, ever. EVER I SWEAR).

Sometimes these songs just pop in my head. God only knows what triggers them. And this past weekend, I was serendipitously visited by the memory of one Army of Lovers and their strangely exotic song “Crucified.” I was young when this song was played on MTV (I think Kennedy was the VJ who introduced me to them but I could be wrong, and probably am), maybe 13? The song came out in 1991, so maybe I was 12 at the youngest. (God, my blog just keeps getting more and more riveting. How can you guys stand all of this drama!? The suspense?! The total underusage of capitalization?!) But I was captivated, and so I bought the CD single from Waves and tortured my friends with it ad nauseum. (Christy, do you remember this, or have you paid a hypnotist to eradicate the memory from your mind?)

I still have the CD single (I remember it had a minimum of 18 remixes on it, in a variety of languages) floating around somewhere, but I was mostly interested in watching the video again. THANK GOD FOR YOUTUBE.

Does the song hold up? YES. Does the video still make me uncomfortable yet mildy aroused? DEAR GOD, DIARY, YES. Only now I’m watching it and thinking, “THIS IS WHAT I WANT MY WEDDING TO LOOK LIKE!” It’s a good thing I’m never getting married since I can’t make up my fucking mind on the theme. “White Wheelchair Wedding”? “80s New Wave Dance Party”? “Carrie’s Prom”? “Mod Funeral with Waitstaff Wearing Prosthetics”? And didn’t I want to recreate a Cock Robin video in lieu of wedding vows at one point, also? WHO HAS TIME TO CHOOSE. All I know is that no matter what, I’d like to be wearing stilts at some point.

I hope this song plays in your head forever and ever and ever and OMG that fucking cleavage in the beginning of the video, amirite?