Originally posted February 8, 2008

[1]: Pickle Park: – an interstate rest area frequented by prostitutes, for those not up with the trucker lexicon.

I never in a million years would have thought that one day I would be taking my seven-year-old son to a show at the motherfucking Grog Shop. Yet, there we were, 7:30 on a Wednesday night, with our kid at the Grog Shop.

I guess it must seem weird, or maybe even like shitty parenting, to some people. But you have to understand, he doesn’t have a mild affection for this band’s music. He has devoured every last song by Never Shout Never that he has gotten his hands on ever since this obsession started. He knows song names, what album they’re on, every last word in the lyrics. So I didn’t really have a problem with the occassional double-take we’d get from other fans at the venue. Are we letting him do shots of Jack at the bar? No. So STFU.

However, he still is only 7, after all, and his attention span reflects that quite clearly. So for the two openers (Front Porch Step and Nick Santino—both were wonderful, btw), Chooch was super ornery and whiny until Henry scouted an area by the merch tables where Chooch could sit. There was kind of like this long black wooden booth up against the window, and Chooch laid on his stomach back there and read his Simpsons book until Never Shout Never came on. It was kind of nice, because I was able to enjoy the first two singers in peace.

Around 8:30, manic outburts of “CHRIS, I LOVE YOU!!!” reverberated around the Grog Shop and Chooch snapped to attention. (He gets so annoyed at those girls though, and kept yelling, “NO YOU DON’T!!!”) They played until around 10:00, I guess, this intimate acoustic set full of quick banter and I realized that I really do like these guys. Thanks, Chooch! They’re entertaining as fuck.

Our friend Jason was at the show as well, and in lieu of a polite “hello,” Chooch opted to march up to him and demand, “I WANT TO MEET CHRISTOFER DREW!” He knows that Jason is the editor of a certain Cleveland-based music magazine, so for a second there, I was left wondering when I became the mom of Veruca Salt. Chooch is usually pretty good about not being a spoiled brat. USUALLY.

“Yeah, well I want to meet Christina Hendricks, but that’s not going to happen,” Jason countered. I was so embarrassed. I don’t like asking people for favors, ever, because it makes me feel like a user. So I gave Chooch a good rap on the head for that one.

So Chooch went back to standing on his seat (it was the only way he could see the stage) and trying to guess what each song was going to be based on the background stories Christofer would preface them with. He was so smug when he guessed “Piggy Bank” and I guessed “Sell Out” but he was right. So for the next 15,000 days, it’s going to be, “Remember when you guessed ‘Sell Out’ and were WRONG?!” Ugh.

At the time, I thought the highlight of the night for me was going to be when Chooch sang along loudly to Lost At Sea. I love listening to Chooch sing, and I wish I had recorded him that night, but I was too in the moment.

We cheered when they played “On the Brightside” and “California,” and Chooch got big ideas when Christofer hung upside down from the rafters. (And I instinctively slapped my hand over my chest and panicked, because I’m a mom now and that is what moms do.)

And then Chooch kept screaming, “PLAY ‘TRAMPOLINE‘!!!!” and everyone in front of us would turn around to see who was screaming but Chooch would promptly duck and I’d be the only asshole left standing, so after the fourth time, these kids were probably thinking, “Dang, that old lady REALLY wants to hear ‘Trampoline’!”

(They never did play it. And this old lady really did want them to!)

“If I ever meet them, I’m going to ask them how to buy Sunflower!” Chooch spat, because he is very angry that their last album was released as a digital download. He likes to buys CDs and have the full, tangible experience of pulling out the liner notes and poring over the lyrics. In other words, he is certainly my kid.

Anyway, after the show, we milled about and chatted with Jason for a little while, and the guy behind the Front Porch Step moniker gave Chooch a free poster, which was totally sweet. I really wanted his album but asshole Henry didn’t have any cash left on him, SO HE SAYS.

Meanwhile, Jason excused himself, saying he would be right back. Because I’m super naive, I didn’t think much of it. Chooch wasn’t in any  hurry to leave anyway, because once the crowd cleared out, the floor of the Grog Shop opened up into an open-spaced paradise, so he ran around doing round-offs and other scary parkour-y things, and we became Those Parents who bring their kid into a bar and let him do gymnastics. (In my defense, no one seemed to fucking care!)

So then Jason came back and asked me how old Chooch was. Still, my naivete prevailed. Until Henry was like, “He’s trying to get Chooch back there to meet the band, dummy.” So then I got all sweaty-palmed and panicky.

“Well, we’re going to have to try and get past all these girls,” Jason sighed, nodding toward the throng of salivating Christofer Drew groupies congregating in the tiny hallway outside of the backstage room door. This also happens to be the way to get to the restrooms, which Chooch had already visited once that night, so he was like, “Why are we following Jason to the bathroom?” I told him to just keep walking, and his mouth was going non-stop as usual. Seven-year-olds, right? They never fucking shut up!

So all these girls are like “WTF!?” when the guy guarding the door steps to the side to let us through, and Chooch is still clueless. Jason knocks on the door, and Chooch is still rambling away as we all walk into this small room. I stepped out of the way to give Chooch an unobstructed view, and that was when he realized that he was about 3 feet away from Christofer Drew. He looked like he was going to melt into the floor.

We all moved aside so that Chooch could step into the middle of the room and everyone stood up to greet him and shake his hand. Aside from Christofer, there are just two other guys in the band, Taylor and Hayden, and they were all so kind and sweet to us. But when Christofer was standing in front of Chooch, shaking his hand and asking him questions, Chooch absolutely clammed up. I think he literally lost the ability to speak, you guys, and I have never, not once, seen my kid that speechless. Not in 7 years. And then he started doing this thing with his hands, placing them on his face and pulling them in opposite directions, like he was actually trying to rip his skin open and step out of it.

There was a moment when he quickly turned his head away from Christofer and closed his eyes shut real tight and his face became flushed. I could tell he was fighting tears, and my heart broke in a million shards. This kid was in some fucking state of agony, and suddenly I began to recount all the times I got to meet bands that meant so much to me and lost my voice while standing in their presence. It’s beautiful torture. And somehow, my son is experiencing this at a very young age. I don’t know if I should be happy about this or pity him.

So with Chooch being speechless, I had to do the talking but I was nervous as fuck too! I could hear my voice shaking but I powered on for Chooch, and told them all how much of an inspiration they’ve been to him, how I have never seen him with such a vested interest in music before them. I mean, he likes other bands, sure. He likes Pierce the Veil and Chiodos, the Summer Set and We Came As Romans, but not anything that even comes close to matching this. Their music makes him thoughtful. We talk to each other about the lyrics and what they mean. They’ve opened up this emotional outlet in him that most kids probably don’t discover until they’re teenagers, I’m sure.

But he’s seven, and he doesn’t know how to tell them that. So he stood there in stunned silence. And then he held his wolf hat out to Christofer who took it from him and said, “This is a good style” before swapping out his own hat with it, and then placing his mini-top hat on Chooch’s head.

I’m pretty sure Chooch might have pissed himself. Just a little. Christofer pulled two guitar picks out of his pocket and gave them to Chooch, and definitely he pissed himself then.

Then Taylor said he likes his shoes Christofer said his Never Shout Never shirt was trippy, and Chooch was so overwhelmed by this that he had squeezed himself into a corner in between my back and the door. Taylor set out a folding chair for him in case he changed his mind and wanted to come out of hiding. And then he offered him a bottle of water, which Chooch was surprisingly able to activate enough of his motor skills to take from him.

“I’ve literally never seen him so quiet,” I told everyone.

“Oh, I know!” Jason remarked. “He was talking non-stop out there!”

Chooch kept whispering to me, “Mommy, I’m so shy. I’M.SO.SHY.” But he’s not shy. He was starstruck. I think the closest I ever came to that feeling as a kid was when I wrote a letter to Melissa Brennan, who played Jenn Horton on Days of Our Lives (I have been referencing this damn show so much lately, what the fuck) and she sent me back an autographed headshot with a hand-written letter thanking me for my support. I thought she was the fucking Queen of England after that. But I can tell you for a fact that my awe back in 1988 was nothing in comparison to what Chooch was feeling in that precise moment on 12/11/13.

I wonder what would have happened if I had told him beforehand that he was going to get to meet them. Henry thinks Chooch wouldn’t have been able to go through with it.  I kind of think it was fun to go the sneak-attack approach.

We got to hang out with them for about 20 minutes and I can’t stress enough how incredibly generous they were to make time to meet with Chooch. Between them and Jason, they gave Chooch such a great gift and I will never be able to thank them enough. Jason didn’t have to go out on a limb like this for us, and those guys certainly didn’t have to say yes. This may have been the best moment for me as a parent, to date, and I just want to start sending everyone fruit baskets or something. What the fuck is wrong with me!?

This is what matters. This is the shit I want to give my kid. Not Xbox and whatever the “in” toy is this year. I want to give him memories and experiences, things that he’ll look back on as an adult, things that will shape who he becomes. I promise you that nothing he could unwrap on Christmas morning could take his words away like that.

***

After promising them all that we would be careful driving back to Pittsburgh, they all shook our hands again (mine was SO HOT OMG, I’m sorry Never Shout Never) and we had to re-brave the horde of girls outside the door.

We parted ways with Jason outside the Grog Shop after thanking him profusely for literally making our kid’s dream come true. After we walked about a block away, Chooch totally lost it and started SOBBING.

Kid, I know the feeling.

In the car, I jokingly said to Henry, “We should have told Christofer about how Chooch screams that he wishes he was his dad every time he gets mad at you.”

“Yeah,” Henry laughed. “That wouldn’t have been awkward.”

I must have got all of my anger out on Halloween because Sunday was really peaceful (well, until Chooch and I totally shit the bed with giddiness Sunday night, which is always Extreme Fun for the first hour but always ends in tears because we’re bi-polar motherfuckers the Mania Coaster has to come down at some point; perhaps this could be a Henry Guest Post?). We went to the mall and I bought the newest Dance Gavin Dance CD at Hot Topic. I pre-ordered the limited edition 6 vinyl box set which Henry was really irritated about but I’m sorry, music is something I don’t consider a splurge—it’s a fucking necessity. Anyway, this isn’t due to ship until December, and I wanted to have the CD too so STFU Henry. Go listen to Ted Nugent in the warehouse at work.

****

That afternoon, I went to my favorite cemetery for a jog (I don’t do “running”) and listened to the new Dance Gavin Dance. The cemetery is my favorite place to listen to music because I can be 100% invested in it—Chooch isn’t interrupting me, work isn’t interrupting me, road rage isn’t interrupting me. There might be a zombie here and there, but otherwise, it feels like I own that fucking cemetery and I love it.

<3

I was 26 or 27 when I started listening to Dance Gavin Dance. They have gone through probably as many lineup changes as I have gone through best friends. But no matter how much they change (Jonny Craig got the boot again and now Tilian Pearson is the singer), and how much I change, there is something about their sound that weaves its way into my brain and massages my snapping synapses while blanketing my heart. It’s kind of the perfect music for a loner like me. And I love taking them with me to the cemetery.

Not to get all existential and sentimental, but I have literally grown into an adult in a place reserved for death. I can’t tell you how much time I’ve spent in cemeteries in general, but also this one in particular: laughing, crying, pregnant, alone, with friends, with Henry, with Chooch. I’ve puked in this cemetery, had Christmas picnics here, contemplated suicide, considered leaving Henry…(YES, HENRY, IT’S TRUE! But don’t worry, that was a long time ago.) There’s just something about this place that makes me feel everything on another level. The end result is always peace. I ALWAYS leave in peace.

(Unless Henry and Chooch are with me and we were trying to do a photo shoot. Then it might not be so peaceful…)

*****

I was playing this song this morning while Chooch was upstairs getting dressed for school. “Is that The Robot With Human Hair Part 4?” he called down the steps. “I LOVE that song!” See?! I think it takes a certain kind of fucked up brain to appreciate Dance Gavin Dance. Chooch, you’ve got it, buddy. I’m sorry.

So, I’m not going to do that November Thankful thingie that everyone else is doing, but if someone asked me yesterday what I was thankful for, aside from the obvious, I would have said “Cemeteries and Dance Gavin Dance.” Hope your Sunday was peaceful, too!

Hold up, wait up a minute. It’s more than halfway through October and I haven’t already posted 87 times about haunted houses? Shit son, let me stuff the word cannon.

This Halloween season, I have been pretty nostalgic about the “old days.” Way back in the age of flowing flannels and Contempo Casuals (where I would buy all of my slutty “I’m a slut who has money” slut uniforms), it was possible to go to two, sometimes even THREE haunted houses in one night for under $20. True story! It seemed like every last VFW, YMCA and Boy Scout Troop had hoarded enough black garbage bags over the course of a year and used their dues to stock up on slipshod Halloween masks from K-Mart to pull off a “haunted house.” And it may have been hokey and rudimentary, full of blacklit Jason Voorhees masks and “accidental” boob-brushes, but fuck if it wasn’t fun.

In high school, I would scour the newspaper for haunted house ads and then my friend Lisa and I would stuff her parents minivan with our ragamuffin group of friends and proceeded to exercise our god-given vocal prowess. We were Those Kids that everyone else hated standing in line with. And I was That Girl who flirted obnoxiously with Jason Voorhees and Michael Myers, hoping to make my crush Evan jealous. (HE NEVER EVEN NOTICED.) There was the Bethel Park Haunted Yard, Clairton’s Haunted Pool, the Glassport Haunted Fire Station, and then all of the Haunted Schools: Castle Shannon, Victory, the Tri-City Jaycees one that I lost my keys in and then it burnt down (no correlation to my keys). Before there was Hundred Acres Manor, there was Phantoms in the Park and Terrors By the Lake. Before Kennywood had their Fright Nights, Station Square transformed into Station Scare and offered carnival rides just in case all of the fog machines, hyper-jealous boyfriends and diet pills* didn’t get you nauseated enough.

*(What? My weight issues go waaaay back.)

But then the behemoth, corporate haunted houses started popping up and taking over. The ones that pay to have haunted house listings and the Travel Channel call them the #1 Haunted Attraction. The ones that make you wait in line for upwards of 3 hours because OMG WE ARE THE BEST IN THE BIZ SO STAND AND WAIT, JAGOFFS. They pour loads of money into their advertising, production and animatronics, but they lack the true Halloween spirit and moxie that the smaller haunted joints have. Money can’t buy moxie, you guys. I’d rather walk through a haunted trail lit by flaming jugs of moonshine in some hick’s backyard than give those corporate bastards my money, if we’re being totally frank here.

People are usually shocked when I start waxing contrary about the city’s most popular haunted attractions, so I have compiled a list to offer some insight into what makes a “good” haunted house.

Here is the official Oh Honestly Erin Haunted House Criteria:

1. Will There Be Chainsaws?

It doesn’t matter how many times Henry exasperatedly assures me that there are no chains on the chainsaws, the moment I hear that whirring, no matter how far away it is, I am suddenly in booty shorts at Camp Crystal Lake and Jason Voorhees is mad as fuck because I just had sex on a hammock, and where the hell did this adrenaline come from? I don’t know, but look! I can scale the backs of the people in front of me!

Even when I’m standing in line chanting, “I hope there are no chainsaws. I hope there are no chainsaws” the truth is that there better be at least one fucking chainsaw guy who takes his position really fucking seriously because I just gave you $15 to scare the shit out of me, so please, do just that. Henry does my laundry, so what do I care.

*THIS SEASON’S UNOFFICIAL WINNER*: Chainsaw Guy at Cheeseman Fright Farm. It was really cold that night on that bale of hay, and your persistent wielding provided warmth to my shivering extremities. Also, you didn’t give up even when I used my 7-year-old son as a shield. Good for you, Ambitious Non-Hockey Mask-Wearing Chainsaw Guy. You were way better than the apathetic Voorhees-wannabe at Freddy’s Haunts who whir-whir-whirred for approximately 10 seconds before walking away.

2. Will There Be the Possibility of Simulated Horror Porn by Michael Myers?

So, maybe it’s just me, but when I’m singled out in a crowd by some dude who looks like his face got violently bear-hugged by bologna slices and green olives, maybe even corners me and snorts and snarls in my ear, I am REALLY FUCKING EXCITED to be there at that haunted attraction. Especially if it’s a particularly sexy-savage Michael Myers. And for those 30 seconds you’re towering over me with your fake machete and vacant eyes, I promise to pretend that you’re not actually some pizza-faced 17-year-old band nerd. NO, YOU ARE A FUCKING HOT PSYCHOPATH WHOSE EVERY PRIMAL INSTINCT IS TELLING YOU TO KILL ME, BUT WAIT! WHAT’S THAT!? YOU ARE FALLING IN LOVE WITH THIS CHUBBY MOM-BROAD WHO IS SCREAMING HER FACE OFF!

And then I’ll go home and write about it in my haunted house journal and it goes something like this: Holy fuck, I am so hot for Michael Myers! I bet he doesn’t pay that much attention to anyone else in that wing of the haunted maze! When we made eye contact, I think he winked at me but it was hard to see over the strobe lights. AND SPEAKING OF HARD! I’m not sure if that was Michael’s tumescent cock-machete or the Pizza-Faced-Kid-Dressed-As-Him’s satchel of dork dice, but I’m totally probably maybe pregnant now, you guys, right?

Just to really illustrate my alarming Michael Myers crush, my kid wouldn’t exist today if I hadn’t thought his dumb dad looked like Michael Myers when he would wear his stupid blue Weiss Meats coveralls back when we were co-workers in 2001. THAT IS WHAT MADE ME WANT TO SLEEP WITH HIM, OK?

Anyway…

*THIS SEASON’S UNOFFICIAL WINNER*: Rich’s Fright Farm Michael Myers. You smashed your fist into the wall in front of me every time I tried to escape and at one point BROUGHT ME TO MY KNEES while Janna stood off to the side, staring at her imaginary watch. I could feel your hot murderous breath on my neck and it was, well, fucking hot. Now your demon seed is sprouting inside my womb. Womb, womb, womb.

3. Will Someone Please Entertain the Fuck Out of Me?

Hi. I just dropped the cost of a concert ticket* down on your haunted establishment, so please prove to me that I didn’t make a mistake. *(What? I like underground bands, you guys.) If you’re charging me approx. $18 for 30 minutes, then I better come out the other end feeling like I just came. I mean, feeling entertained. Ridicule my blondness with your biting wit! Tickle my eyeballs with your macabre decor! Make me follow directions! Engage me! (No really—do you want to get engaged? Because Henry apparently doesn’t.) Pay attention to me, to me, to me!

*THIS SEASON’S UNOFFICIAL WINNER*: Castle Blood, duh. You still never fail to call me out for being a dum-dum. (Remembering three talisman is trying. IT’S HARD FOR ME TO PAY ATTENTION, OK!?) You still make me believe I’m going to be poisoned in Professor Scrye’s lab and turned into mortal mana pua by some convincingly realistic witch. (I don’t know why I picked a Hawaiian food that I have never eaten.)

But let me tell you something about this sanguine estate—if you came looking for chainsaws and robotic corpses hemorrhaging on toilets, queue the Sad Tuba soundbite. This is half past Saw, more toward Nosferatu. Castle Blood’s tagline is “Halloween the way it oughta be” and they mean it. It’s elegant and unique, it’s intelligent and interactive, it’s humble and passionate about the season. I’ve been going to Castle Blood since the late 90s and it’s still just as refreshing and inspiring as it was when I was a teenager. We’ve been taking Chooch since he was a baby (first to the no-scare matinees; he’s since graduated to the nighttime tours) and he loves it because it’s magical while still maintaining a high creep-factor—-plus, sometimes Henry gets presented with a death certificate.

4. Will You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman Teenager Again?

As previously mentioned, I long for the old-school haunts of yore. The ones in vacant buildings that charge $12 and under and probably meet the safety standards of a treehouse in 1954. The ones that aren’t mentioned in the obligatory WHAT TO DO THIS OCTOBER newspaper write-up or any of the haunted house listings online. The small haunted house put together by members of a local community and advertise by tacking up flyers in Spirit Halloween stores or sticking bright orange signs in the ground next to the highway. I like giving these people my monies! They know how to crack me up while also making me pee my pants. (I had a longstanding reputation at the now-defunct Victory Haunted School, and every year, from the moment I set foot inside, the “monsters” would start chanting, “Erin’s here! Erin peed her pants!” So fucking obnoxious but I loved every second of it.

If I’m in such pitch-blackness that I need to walk with outstretched arms while simultaneously screaming to no one and everyone that I AM SO FUCKING SCARED OMG WAS THAT A BREAST I JUST TOUCHED, then this haunted house rules. If I’m told, “GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES AND CRAWL THROUGH THE TUNNEL OF LOVE…OR DEATH!” and I literally find myself scrambling on my hands and knees over top of what I really really really hope are pieces of a CLEAN mattress and I start screaming about how I CAN’T BELIEVE I HAVE TO DO THIS! I AM SO SCARED! OW I JUST HURT MYSELF! then this haunted house rules. If the volunteers are so over-the-top with their theatrical lines and fake gunfire that I am literally doing pee-squats from laughing so hard, then this haunted house rules. If I tell the guide that my name is Erin and he decides that “Smellvin” is a better name even though that would only make sense if my name was Melvin, but everyone else thinks it’s hilarious, then this haunted house rules. If some kid pops out of nowhere and freaking feeds me a mouthful of Silly String and even HENRY laughs, then this haunted house rules.

*THIS SEASON’S UNOFFICIAL WINNER*: Ohmygod it’s a tie! Teen Quest’s Scaremare in Mon City and the haunted basement of the Sewickley United Methodist Church. Can we please admire the irony here, that two of this heathen’s favorite haunted houses are Christian-based? IDGAF, these two haunts made me laugh until I almost peed. (ALMOST, I swear!) It was like being in high school again, faced with the threat of falling down a staircase and inhaling asbestos. And the volunteers at these two places had way more enthusiasm than any of the ones anywhere else, especially Terror Town, who apparently pays their actors and that is just ridiculous because for the last two years, their “employees” were relatively ineffective and I’m officially done giving them Henry’s hard-earned Faygo money. Especially after seeing one of those “actors” on Facebook turn her nose up at people who, god forbid, volunteer their time to play zombies. The people at Scaremare and the church in Sewickley had HEART. The church even had a babydoll displayed in a very horrific, decidedly un-Christian way! I applaud them for that, for being able to recognize that it’s OK to be outrageous and controversial in the name of Halloween, and for being so balls-to-the-wall. I actually wish I had the time to revisit both of these places this month. Even if it’s just essentially dropping money into a collection plate. I’m OK with that.

5. Do You Have a Worthy Haunted House Companion?

Chances are, during this season you are going to sometimes be driving great distances and are probably going to get lost at least twice (are you going to a hayride on some jackass’s farm? Yeah, good luck trusting your GPS with that), so you better make sure you don’t bring some douchebag along with you who is going to drive you so insane that you need to buy your first pack of Camel Wides in 7 years at some sketchy gas station in the middle of downtown Sharon, PA. (True story.) And then once you’ve arrived at the haunt, you might be standing in line for an hour at least. DON’T BRING A DUD OR YOU ARE FU-HAHAHAHA-UCKED. I was lucky this year and have gone to haunted houses with quality peeps (and Henry), but I have been pretty unfortunate in the past. Your company can make or break the haunted house experience, especially if you are so fucking over-the-top annoyed at who’s ripping your shirt in faux-fear that you forget about the actual haunted house itself. Did you like it? WHO EVEN FUCKING KNOWS?!

*THIS SEASON’S UNOFFICIAL WINNER*: And the award goes to my good friend Janna. No one handles being pushed and shoved into chainsaw guys with quite the panache as she, nor can anyone tolerate my extreme giddiness with such a steely veil of patience. Except Henry, but he hates going to haunted houses. I like to believe that every time I scream, and I mean SCREAM, “JANNNNNNAAAA LOOOOOOK OUTTTTT!” that I’m actually saving her life for real. And she just kind of chuckles a little at first, but by the end of the night, I sometimes detect some eye-rolling and sighing.

________________________

Those are my unofficial winners because I still have at least four more haunts to attend before Christmas starts shitting all over my fun. And remember, all of this is subjective. The things that I look for in a haunted house might not be the same things that make you scream like Laurie Strode or make popular local radio DJs jack off into each others’ cupped hands. If your haunt isn’t going to be gonzo enough to scare the FUCK out of me, at least entertain me. Make me laugh, make me push Janna into a chainsaw guy, have a hot Michael Myers, make me have some F-U-N if I’m giving you twenty goddamn dollars out of Poor Henry’s wallet.

(And let me just tell you, now that Chooch is brave enough to go to every haunted house with me, October is officially waaaaay more costly than December.)

Some extra tips:

• Look for coupons! Sometimes haunted houses will offer them on their website. Hundred Acres Manor usually offers $3 off coupons at Eat n Park or Burger King. (They’re only good on Sunday, Wednesday and Thursday nights, I believe.) And you know, check Groupon and Living Social or have a boss that forwards every single haunted house deal to you like I do. Maybe stop in your local corner pub and gather up enough barflies to qualify for a group rate. Just trying to save you some bucks, OK?
• Go on off-nights! If a haunted house is open on a Sunday or Wednesday night—GO THEN! You will beat the crowds and probably have a better victim:monster ratio. Have you ever gone through a haunted house with just the one person you arrived with? SCARY AS FUCK. Real talk.
• Try to remember that no haunt is perfect and “bad nights” can be expected. Maybe I went to Cheeseman’s Fright Farm last weekend and had a blast, but you went earlier in the month on a night where they happened to have a lot of volunteer no-shows. Shit happens, ya’ll, and most of it is behind the scenes. This is why I try not to do too much bashing. (And believe me, I’ve been to a few duds this year.)
• If you go to a haunted trail after it’s been raining all day, you’re PROBABLY GOING TO GET MUDDY. Don’t be that dickhead who complains about it. Maybe you should have stayed home and watched a Duck Dynasty marathon instead.
• Bitching about standing in line isn’t going to make the line move any faster and pro tip: NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR YOUR STUPID YINZER MONOLOGUE ABOUT IT, EITHER.
• Pretend that you are actually running for your life. BECAUSE YOU JUST NEVER KNOW.

She might love Henry more than she loves me, but Marcy will ALWAYS BE MY FAVORITE I LOVE HER SO MUCH IT HURTS. Why can’t she just live forever? :(

Ever since I went to the Palace of Gold, a Hare Krishna compound in the hills of West Virginia, I’ve been promising my brother Corey that I would take him there. And then Janna wanted to go too, and I had all of these wonderfully dark visions of her getting “taken” by the Hare Krishnas and spending the next eternity singing and selling books at some tiny county airport in Idaho. Spoiler alert: That didn’t happen. :(

But goddamn if we didn’t have the best day ever anyway!

NO SHOES IN THE PALACE.

Janna was asking me about the peacock stained glass before the tour started, and I was like, “Oh, you will learn about the significance of the peacock during the tour.”

The tour was much shorter this time around, mostly because we had the most apathetic, exhausted tour guide in the joint, and all she said about the peacocks was that there four stained glass windows in their likeness. Thanks, we can count.  Corey and I could have been more blatant with our clandestine photo-taking and she probably wouldn’t have cared.

I’m not going to reiterate facts, but if you’re interested, perhaps my post from last year’s tour will enlighten you. Although it is likely mostly just full of smack-talk for the other people in the tour group. You know how I do.

Luckily, there were three middle-aged Indian men on the tour with us, and the one would occasional offer me extra information about the things that the guide was glossing over. They were really kind and I was relieved because when we first walked in, I thought for sure they were going to write us off as ignorant crackers. I mean, not that we aren’t. But it was nice of them to give us a chance.

I mostly tried to not make eye contact with Corey because I knew he’d make me lose it and then we would end up doing our weird gang-laughter in the middle of the echo-y marbled halls of the palace.

I noticed the grounds seemed to be in the same state of disarray as they were last year, so I guess they don’t get as many post-tour donations as they’d like to. I feel like organizing a 5K for them. What? Everyone else has a 5K! Why not the Palace of Gold?!

Let’s run for Krishna, you guys! Or from. Maybe that will be more fun. Running from Krishna and chubby little Butter Thieves in the backwoods of West Virginia. I’m going to organize this. I’ll let you know when you can sign up.

The rose garden is so fucking creepy to me. I’m sure it’s something that is universally considered to be beautiful (it’s won awards, after all!), but it just seems like a really bad scene to me.

I took this picture just for Chooch, who hates butterflies. Always thinking of my son. What a great mom I am.

I got stuck on rose thorns right after this and Janna had to rescue me. Also, if I look drunk, it’s because I was DRUNK ON LIFE. (Seriously, I really look that dopey most of the time, though.)

We laughed like total hyenas for like 10 straight minutes because of this picture.

Corey took this when I wasn’t paying attention and I’m not sure what was going on, other than I was fixing my shoe and probably being eaten by rose bushes, but I love it. Also, I was wearing two different sets of stripes and polka-dot pants because I can. It enhances the fun.

Krishna kat.

OMG here’s Swami Jannamanama emerging from the Hare Krishna bathroom stall! She didn’t appreciate that I immediately posted this on Instagram but I was like, “What? It’s not like you’re nude.”

Up next: Awkward cafeteria dining, peer pressure rose water, and those giant statue things again. Meanwhile, I’m going to try and get Corey to guest post about his experience!

Well, you guys. Saturday night had the potential to go down as the biggest fail since I tried to make cookies out of bread. We arrived at the Saint Vincent campus in Latrobe around 6:00. Henry made us wait in the car while he asked two college girls where the Carey Center was because we didn’t want Chooch to hear. “Look, Daddy’s talking to GIRLS!” Chooch squealed, and we laughed about that during the entire walk to the Carey Center, which I guess is their basketball court thingie. Chooch kept asking, “Is this a college? What are we doing here?” so for awhile I was like, “We’re enrolling you early, Doogie Howser.” There was a small gathering of kids outside of the building, waiting for doors to open, so I figured that was as good a time as any to reveal his surprise.

So I gave him his ticket and he just stared at it.

“Is this my surprise?” he asked, not even TRYING to mask his disappointment. (He was being a total jerkface to me a few weeks ago so I snapped and told him that I had a surprise for him but I was going to give it to an orphan instead. So he knew something was cooking.) I said yes, and he was like, “I want a new surprise.”

“You don’t want to see Never Shout Never?!” I asked, trying not to scream because I have a “cool mom” façade to uphold and there were too many kids around.

“Yeah, but I want something from Amazon,” Chooch sighed. WHAT THE FUCK. Henry was in the will call line (he waited until three days ago to buy his ticket) so I texted him and it went something like I DON’T WANT TO BE A MOM ANYMORE THIS SUCKS LET’S JUST GO HOME WHAT A FUCKING SPOILED BRAT HE IS.

Henry turned around in his line and just laughed at me. “It’ll be fine,” he texted back.

And you know what? It really was fine. It was better than fine. It was a fucking fantastic night and Chooch and I really bonded! We had a ton of inside jokes that would make us double over in laughter (Man Boobs and bubblegum) and Henry would laugh too but then he would say, “Haha, what?” and we would just say, “You wouldn’t understand.” And then he would frown and bristle his mustache and we would laugh harder.

The venue was perfect for a seven-year-old. It was literally a college gym, so there were bleachers adjacent to the stage, and the view was unobstructed. Before the show started, Chooch acted like he owned the place, catching the eye of various blond college girls and then shrugging it off like it was no big thing. And then someone near the front of the stage started batting around a red balloon, and everyone acted like they had never batted around a balloon before, while the rest of us acted like we had never watched anyone bat around a balloon before, and somehow it became wildly entertaining. Especially when someone accidentally made the balloon waft out of reach on the stage, and there was a frantic outcry. They kept trying to get various roadies to grab it for them, but their cries were unheard. Finally, someone on stage noticed and returned the balloon to the crowd amid ear drum-perforating cheers.

Chooch then decided he wanted is own balloon to bat around on the bleachers and wanted Henry to take him to find one. Grumpy Henry grumped, “No! There aren’t any balloons out there! THOSE KIDS BROUGHT THAT ONE!” Because he didn’t want to irritate his hemorrhoids by standing up and walking, I guess. But then two, um, “white balloons” appeared in the mix and Chooch lost his mind. “SERIOUSLY?! WHERE ARE THEY GETTING THESE BALLOONS!?” he cried. But luckily, the lights went out soon after and the show commenced before anyone needed to make up an explanation for the “pocket balloons.”

Maps & Atlases opened, and all three of us really liked them. Unfortunately, the slovenly middle-aged couple behind us who kept kicking us in the back did not like them and were very vocal about it. After the Podunk wife complained for the fifth time about how “boring” the band was, her hick husband drawled, “Well shit, they ain’t Iron Maiden” which made her cachinnate a mouthful of phlegm and poor English onto the back of my head. Turns out they were there were Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, who I can’t remember being so terrible, but they were pretty terrible and provided the only lowlight of the night.

During Maps & Atlases set, Henry nudged me and pointed to the side of the stage, where Christofer Drew was watching the band. I in turn nudged Chooch and that kid fucking FLIPPED HIS SHIT. He sat there and straight stared at him until Christofer eventually walked back behind the stage.

“I want one of their albums,” Chooch shouted to me, gesturing over his shoulder to Maps & Atlases. What a wonderful thing to hear from a kid!

Red Jumpsuit Apparatus came on next. I know of them, I remember when they had that One Real Big Hit a handful of years ago, but I have never really paid attention to them. And that Saturday night, I was assured that I hadn’t been missing much. I’m sure to a lot of people, this is a great band. And that’s fine. They seemed like they knew what they were doing up there, but it wasn’t my thang, you guys. It was boring and loud for the sake of being loud. It was cheesy guitar solos. It was Southern rock with boring vocals. It was a guitarist that looked like Taylor Lautner (Henry’s observation, and I laughed that he knew Taylor Lautner’s name) even though Chooch kept arguing that he looked like Justin Bieber.

Chooch was anti-Red Jumpsuit from the get go.

“Ain’t no one got time for that!” he screamed into my ear. And, “Oh, the horror! Kill me now!”

But the jerk-slobs behind us were stoked, that’s for sure!

After playing entirely too long, Red Jumpsuit finally left the stage and we all exhaled in relief. They totally threw off the vibe of the night, and Chooch was acting downright offended by them. He kept forgetting “Apparatus” and started calling them Red Jumpsuit Pfffffft, spraying me with spit every time.

But then Never Shout Never came on and my lord, I knew Chooch had a big-ass mouth, but I never thought a scream so 1989 NKOTB GIRLY could come barreling out of it like it did at the moment. That kid was going NUTS. He inadvertently punched me in the face a few times while overzealously waving his arms in the air.

The second song they played was “Trouble,” which is Chooch’s all-time favorite. He sang along to every word and his eyes were GLISTENING WITH TEARS. I thought maybe I was seeing things, but Henry and I discussed this on the ride home while Chooch was sleeping in the backseat, and Henry confirmed that he witnessed Chooch crying several times throughout the night. HE IS MY SON FOR REAL, YOU GUYS! I officially don’t care how much everyone thinks he looks like just Henry and 0% like me! He has all of my emotions!

God help us all.

I feel like a real douchebag. I used to make fun of Never Shout Never when Christofer Drew hit the scene six years ago (when he was only 16!). I thought he was so stupid-looking, like this weird emo-hippie hybrid who could pass as the second-coming of Jimmy from H.R. Pufnstuf.

And I never really gave his music a chance because it was too “happy-sounding” and we all know how doom n’ gloom I am. I skipped over him every time he was at Warped Tour, I was disgusted when I saw his parts in the Warped Tour documentary that came out last year because he was so negative about the scene. But somehow, one of his songs (“What Is Love?”) made it onto a mixed CD I made for one of our road trips last spring. I don’t know if I had the track on the computer from a compilation or what, but I put it on this CD (yes, I still make mixed CDs in this day and age OMG) and while it didn’t nauseate me, someone in the backseat REALLY latched on to it. I didn’t think it was really going to amount to much, but when I found out that NSN was playing Warped Tour this time around, Chooch said, “Thank god.”

But then he didn’t even really care! We stood near that stage for maybe a song or two, and then Chooch was ready to move on. But a few weeks later, he and I walked down to the Exchange because I wanted to buy the new Hands Like Houses and sometimes they get new releases there. They didn’t, and the girl who was working kept trying to look in the electronica section when I told her it was post-hardcore; way to know your stuff, dumbass. But they had a Never Shout Never EP there, and Chooch said he wanted it. It was $5 so I was like, “Whatever,” figuring that he would listen to it once and it would get thrown to the wayside in favor of Minecraft videos on his phone. But he played the FUCK out of that EP, and then I bought him the “What Is Love?” album and he played the FUCK out of that, memorized all the words almost immediately, proceeded to watch 259451259745 NSN videos on YouTube, and then found Christopher Drew on Instagram.

I can’t stress enough how important I believe music is. Yeah, I get: everyone thinks forcing young children to play some form of organized team sport is like THE FOUNDATION for a healthy childhood, but to me, music is just as important. Chooch is a really emotional kid, some of those emotions seem really advanced to me—this isn’t me bragging. This is me being legitimately concerned that my kid is suddenly not going to have an outlet for those emotions because some days he reminds me of Erin Rachelle Kelly at Fifteen. But seeing how connected he’s become to music is somewhat of a relief to me. I mean, this isn’t like a kid hearing an LMFAO song on the radio and singing along. This is a kid devouring everything he can find about an artist, poring over lyrics, asking me what certain parts of the songs mean. Music heals, you guys.

I thought Chooch’s NSN-mania was cute, and I was thankful that it wasn’t something really terrible like Fresh Beat Band or Katy Perry, but I still didn’t really get the appeal. After Saturday night, I think I can officially say that my mind has been effectively changed. That kid is a fucking PERFORMER. His banter with his bassist and drummer, and the crowd, was entertaining and not at all annoying. You know how sometimes it’s like, “OK STFU AND SING, YOU MOTHERFUCKER? I DIDN’T PAY TO HEAR YOU TALK?!” It wasn’t like that. The between-song hijinks were just as entertaining as the actual music and I even caught Henry smiling. HENRY—SMILING! I wish it wasn’t so dark in there so I could have photographed that, as well as captured video of Chooch going nuts.

They played for about 90 minutes, so we didn’t get out of there until around 11:30. Chooch started losing steam around 10:30; I put my arm around him (look at me, being a mom!!), but every time he’d start to fall asleep on my shoulder, they would play a song that he loved, so he snap his head up and start singing and clapping. Before one song, Christofer started to talk about how he used to smoke a lot of cigarettes. Chooch cupped a hand around his mouth and yelled to me, “‘Coffee and Cigarettes’! I know that’s what he’s going to sing next!” (Except that Chooch calls them “cigarats.”) And then when the band played the first few notes, Chooch smirked and yelled, “See? ‘Coffee and Cigarats’. I knew it!” And when he played “Can’t Stand It,” kids started breaking away from the crowd to dance with each other. And I gotta say, it was a refreshing change from the circle pits and walls of death that are prevalent at the shows I normally attend.

And now I kind of think that Christofer Drew is adorable. I guess I always assumed he was trying too hard, what with the warpaint he used to wear on his face and the wolf hat-wearing and the acting like he just stepped out of Henry’s wardrobe circa 1972. But this is who he is, for real. A walking, talking, no-shoe-wearing Woodstock representative in this scary 21st Century Land who just wants everyone to love each other. I get it now, Christofer Drew. I get it. I’m a fan. And I’m happy that I get to share this with Chooch now before he becomes a surly teenager who doesn’t want his lame mom to like the same music as him.

When we got back to the car, I turned to Chooch and asked, “So, now do you think this was a good surprise?

And in this earnest, sincere voice, he shook his head and quietly answered yes. He then proceeded to excitedly talk a mile a minute about the show before passing out for the hour drive home to Pittsburgh. Totally worth it. But I’m still not posting the video of when I gave Chooch his ticket because it pisses me off so bad! Even though Henry tried to explain to me that a concert ticket doesn’t mean the same thing to a 7-year-old as it would to a teenager, and I guess I understand that. Thankfully, the actual concert was another story!

I have a feeling someone is going to be asking for a ukulele for Christmas.

This was very necessary, though neither Marcy nor Henry seemed to think so.

I had the day/evening off of work last Friday and I was absolutely giddy just thinking about it all week. I’m not the type of person that calls off work—I hoard my PTO days and then schedule a day off here and there and then proceed to treat it like an absolute luxury. It makes it so much better, I swear!

Everyday when I’m on the trolley, I sit on the same side and stare out the window in order to avoid eye contact and the schizo conversation that will undoubtedly invite. I get on the trolley in Dormont and from there it travels down the main street in Beechview, which is another little neighborhood similar to mine in Brookline. I like to look at the (mostly closed-up) storefronts, and near the end of the boulevard, there is a coffee shop called Brew on Broadway that I have always wanted to try thanks to a chalkboard sign out front boasting REALLY GOOD waffles and a comedy night called the Brew Ha Ha. But recently, the sign has changed to announce the arrival of pumpkin spice lattes. Look, I love PSL (because this acronym is apparently a thing now) from Starbucks, as much as I feel like a corporate asshole admitting that, but I’m always up for spending my money at independent coffee shops.

The really wonderful thing about where I live is that it is possible to walk to a lot of different places. I grew up in the suburbs and NOTHING was within walking distance from my house. Not even a goddamn convenience store. Not even really a bus stop, which made it really hard all of those times I tried to run away to join a girl gang in Hazelwood. (This was a real aspiration.) So if I can walk somewhere, I will do it, even if there is not a Law Firm Walking Challenge happening. I figured, it takes me about 10 minutes to walk to the trolley stop every day, and from there, if I followed the tracks into Beechview, it would only be about another 20 minutes. And it’s mostly level.

I texted Janna the night before to see if she wanted to join me. She tried to rearrange plans a few times to include a car, but I kept saying, “JANNA THE POINT IS THAT I WANT TO WALK ARE YOU IN OR NOT.”

She ultimately said that was fine, but that she had to pick up a client at 1PM, so we planned on leaving my house at 10. That morning, she was almost an hour late! I thought for sure she was doing it on purpose to sabotage my plans, and I was prepared to tell her to just drive herself and I’d meet her there, but she was all, “No, no, no, I want to walk side by side while you talk forever about everything and nothing at all.”

And it was such a beautiful day for it, too! Mid-70s, sun high overhead, footfalls sound-tracked by my incessant narration. What more could Janna have asked for on a Friday morning? I was in such a great mood, too. I love walking! And I love pumpkin spice lattes! And I barely get to hang out with friends during the week, so it was a really nice treat…

OK, fuck it. I only wanted to do this because it provided me with ample opportunity to stalk my trolley driver. I figured, walking parallel to the tracks, I was bound to see him at some point! So every several minutes, I would interrupt myself to shout, “WAIT IS THAT HIM!?” but it wasn’t ever him.

Approximately 5,000 steps later, we arrived at Brew on Broadway and ordered our drinks, sat for awhile, blah blah blah. And then I looked up just as this familiar girl walked in.

“REMIND ME TO TELL YOU SOMETHING WHEN WE LEAVE,” I whispered hoarsely and VERY URGENTLY to Janna, who said OK and then went back to whatever it was she was talking about. She’s known me since 6th grade, so she didn’t seem too concerned or intrigued.

All I wanted to tell her anyway was that the girl who had just walked in and was currently ordering her coffee right behind me was the girl with the pink Mohawk who I was obsessing over last winter! (There’s just a little blurb about her toward the end of the post.) She used to get on the same trolley as me almost everyday, right outside from the coffee shop, actually. But I haven’t seen her since….well, since I wrote about her on my blog. Probably just a coincidence….

Right?

I realized that it was nearly noon by then, and that we would have to head back to my house so that Janna could get her car and pick up her client. However, and this was probably poor planning on my part, Janna’s office is actually located on the same road we had been walking on. We were about a quarter of the way into the walk when Janna tried to stop me because she spotted one of her co-workers outside of the office.

Too late.

“Janna!” the lady called out. “We missed you at the staff meeting!

”

“We had a staff meeting?” Janna tongue-fumbled. “Oh, shit.”

“Well, you’re in luck because it’s still going on! I just came outside to get something from my car,” the lady explained.

“Wait’ll I tell everyone who I found, haha!” she laughed, and then Janna laughed too, uncomfortably. I just stood there awkwardly, wondering if the lady was going to ask why Janna was strolling about Beechview with some blond bimbo. Luckily for me, she just pretended I was invisible. I was down with that.

Janna shrugged and started to follow her down the sidewalk.

“Wait, give me your keys and I’ll bring your car back!” I offered, since she was already probably going to be late picking up her client. (Janna works for an intellectual disability facility, placing mentally handicapped people into jobs. She has some really awesome stories.)

So I walked all the way home, drove her car back (she had some old-timey radio soap opera playing in her car and I couldn’t stop laughing at it), and then walked home AGAIN. She offered to drive me, but it was about 12:40 by then and I knew if I was going to see my Trolley Driver at all that day, it would be then.

I said goodbye to her and called Henry on my way back.

“Are you RUNNING?” he asked, because I guess I sounded breathy (and we weren’t having phone sex so that was probably out of place) and also probably because when I run, I say things like, “Ow!” and “Oof!” for no real reason. These just seem like things I should say to express how dire my race actually is. I forgot that the road and the track split at one point and I needed to get back to an area where they were parallel with each other so he could notice me.

It was 12:47 and I was nearly back to the platform where I would generally catch the trolley, so I screamed, “I HAVE TO GO!” and hung up on Henry in order to prepare my phone to record. I went back to walking at a relaxed pace and tried to appear casual. Just walking along this street I wouldn’t ever typically walk along, no big deal.

And then there it was, on the horizon: my trolley! My heartbeat sped up again and I got that exhilarated sensation in my gut that only happens when you see someone you want to bang, fall down a flight of steps, or stalk someone.

It’s usually accompanied with a very strong urge to urinate.

So there I am, all casual, phone on “record” and pointed out from my hip, when the trolley chugged on by and it WAS NOT MY TROLLEY DRIVER WTFFFFFF. I started to get really worried because that was two days in a row he wasn’t there! What if he really did get in trouble for stepping off the trolley to fraternize with that awful trolley troll on the First Avenue platform?!

Then on the last block before my house, I saw this asshole woman with a cane whom I absolutely cannot stand (I see her every morning when I take Chooch to school and I think she’s FAKING IT) so by that point I was really worried that my day off was soiled entirely. But once I retrieved Chooch from school (and saw some lady laying on the ground, having seizures! It was so scary!), things really started to look up.

Oh yeah, and Janna didn’t get in any trouble at work. Sorry again, Janna! (OR AM I.)

On my next day off, I’m going to walk to the Crested Duck for some stalking. I mean, for some cheese.

One more week until I can finally give Chooch his secret tickets to the Never Shout Never show! I’m getting all excited about it, and I never even really had much of an opinion of Never Shout Never before, but Christopher Drew has really grown on me thanks to Chooch’s constant need to listen to their CDs in the car. I usually gravitate more toward sad, depressing lyrics, but he is so freaking positive, basically a 21st century hippie, and that’s OK. It’s good that Chooch has someone like that to look up to, I guess.

(I mean, if you ignore the fact that he’s a pothead.

I guess it could be worse, though.

It could be Jonny Craig,)

This is the song that started Chooch’s obsession, all because he likes how Christopher sings “question.” And below is a video of Chooch singing the beginning of “Love is Our Weapon,” among other Chooch-things. Seriously, who stands like that while watching videos on their phone?!

Hopefully, when he realizes what’s going on this Saturday, he won’t look like this. DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW HARD IT HAS BEEN FOR ME TO KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT ABOUT THIS OMG!?

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.

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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.

I had just arrived to work yesterday and was loitering around Barb’s desk like I’m wont to do until it’s officially my start time, because god forbid I should be in my office-thing prior to 1:30 and have to answer the phone or something. While I was standing there, an office-wide email went out announcing that one of the Pittsburgh Penguins had arrived at the Firm to deliver the season tickets and have his picture taken with the winner of last week’s raffle, which I didn’t enter because it required me to have to leave my department and venture onto another floor alone, and we all know how awful I am at that. I’m a firm believer in the Buddy System.

The email went on to say that if anyone wanted to check out a Penguin in the flesh, just mosey on up to the reception area on the 28th floor. Maybe you know that I’m a pretty big hockey fanatic. I scarred Chooch for life when the Penguins won the Stanley Cup in 2009 and I was holding him and screaming and he was CRYING. I mean, CRYING HIS STUPID THREE-YEAR-OLD HEAD OFF. He was like, “Put me down, Crazy Lady!” and has hated hockey ever since.

“Do you want to go?” Barb asked, and I was like, “Um, if I don’t have to go alone, then yes!”  So I was running back to my office-thing to get my badge-thing, when Amber2 and Girl-Chris (she’s new and likes weird fruit and owls and My Chemical Romance and has gone to Warped Tour and she feeds me, so we’re basically best work-sisters now) were all, “Hey, do you want to go up with us to see who it is?” And that is how we wound up with a real life stalking posse.

I was so frantic about this though that first I almost forgot to grab my phone and THEN I almost fell when I was running around the corner because my shoe was untied. Barb made me tie it in the elevator.

To get to the 28th floor, we have to take the elevator down to the lobby and go to a different elevator bank on the other side of the building. As we were walking over to that side, we saw some old broad holding her phone up to take a picture. We entered the elevator bank JUST IN TIME TO SEE ONE OF THE ELEVATOR DOORS CLOSING ON MOTHERFUCKING JAMES “ERIN’S PROM DATE” NEAL OMFG. We were joking on the way down that they were probably going to send a 4th liner, and Amber2, who loves James as much as me, jokingly wished for it to be James Neal. And then we laughed because why would James Neal want to come to a law firm. BUT THANK YOU AMBER FOR WISHING IT TRUE!!

So we get into another elevator and proceed to freak out while some random woman stood in the corner trying to pretend she didn’t think we were idiots. When we arrived at reception, I was bracing myself to have to elbow-chop my way though a throng of excited law firm workers, but there were like, 10 of us. When we walked in, James was on the upper level with his cameraman in tow, getting ready to be escorted to a private room somewhere down the hall.

I sent this picture to Henry and he was like, “Nice. Who is it?”

“PROM DATE!!!” I replied, and he was all, “lol.”

It wasn’t the best photo-op, but it was better than nothing! I haven’t been that close to a real life hockey player since 1992! I figured we were going to go back to work after that, but Barb shouted, “Well, he has to come back out sometime!” So we hung around for a few minutes while Barb made us look at these disgusting spiders hanging outside the window and then tried to make up some story about why they like the 28th floor, but thank god JAMES NEAL came back and saved us from Barb’s Nature Hour! We all clapped for him and he smiled and waved and we prepared for him to walk down the steps to our level but sonofabitch if he wasn’t escorted to the elevators on that level.

Barb started running. “Maybe we can get on the same elevator!” she gasped, jabbing at the down button. The door started to open and we all held our breath. But it was empty. I was kind of relieved because I’m not sure I could handle being on an ELEVATOR with the guy. Elevators are pretty much in my Top 5 Most Awkward Locations.

Barb tried one more time before conceding. “They probably have one of those keys so that the elevator will just go all the way down without stopping,” she said, and we all stepped into the empty elevator, accepting that our brush with greatness was just that: a tiny, brief brush from a distance.

The elevator spilled us out into the lobby and there he was, just about to leave through the revolving doors with his cameraman, surrounded by NO ONE. The four us just stood there in a huddle next to the security desk, giggling and acting like basic puck bunnies, which is really so not like me! I love hockey terribly, but I am not the type of person to stalk the players after a game. But it was JAMES NEAL and he is so great, you guys. Just so goddamn great. (And his face is pretty goddamn great too, OMFG.)

I guess his stalker senses began to prickle, because he turned around right before leaving and made eye contact with all of us. Good lord, I can only imagine what we must have looked like to him. A bunch of cats in heat, is my guess.

He smiled at us and I vaguely remember kind of waving back. IT’S ALL A BLUR, OK?

“Do you want a picture?” he asked, and then slowly and cautiously approached us. I don’t know where I got the balls to be the first one to step forward, I think I was operating on pure hockey adrenaline at that point, but then I just stood there in front of him, holding up my phone, forgetting how to even use it.

“Do YOU want to be in the picture?” he asked and I stupidly said, “Oh. OK.” So Girl-Chris tool this picture of me forgetting how to stand next to another human being:

This photo makes me look like I’ve lost zero pounds since January but I don’t even care because JAMES NEAL. I really need to learn how to stand.

I remember instantly perspiring the moment he placed his hand on my back and almost blurting out: I TWEET ABOUT YOU BEING MY PROM DATE LIKE ALL OF THE TIME!!! But to myself I was saying, “Just keep your fucking mouth shut. DON’T RUIN THIS MOMENT WITH YOUR UNINTELLIBLE WORDS.”

It was the longest MOST ROMANTIC 5 seconds of my life, after which I slid into the background and proceeded to have full-body shakes while Amber2 and Girl-Chris had their turns (Barb politely declined the photo op and said she was happy just watching us completely unravel into a giggly puddle of estrogen and pheromones). Then one of our other co-workers walked into the lobby on her way back from getting lunch and was all, “What’s going on? I want in on this, too” and then made me hold her half-eaten foil-wrapped burger while she jumped in for a picture. Yes please, let’s add to Erin’s awkwardness by forcing her to hold a hot clump of meat far away from her body like it’s a bomb.

My face probably bore a striking resemblance to that mound of beef in my hand: one blushing, sebaceous hot mess.

I can’t even remember going back to our floor after that. HOW DID WE GET BACK UP THERE?!

Those ten minutes pretty much rendered Amber2 and me useless for the rest of the day. God, what a great day to work at the law firm!! And then it occurred to me that the goddamn cameraman was all up in our grills, so that was a slight urination on my excitement. I hope that shit doesn’t surface anywhere.

I sent Henry this picture and it took him TWO HOURS to reply. Because now he’s afraid that James Neal is going to come back for me, THAT’S WHY. Yeah Henry, you better be fucking afraid. I heard he’s really into nervously frumpy girls who don’t talk.

(Here, go to this post and watch this 30 second video to know how awesome James Neal is. Oh, and have a good day.)

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.”)