Randomly, I googled for upcoming Never Shout Never shows the other night at work and two results came up: one for somewhere in South America, and one, surprisingly, in Latrobe which is only about an hour away from Pittsburgh.

And it’s a Saturday night!

It was a no-brainer. I bought tickets for Chooch immediately because he has been singing this shit in his SLEEP lately. He even commented on one of Christopher Drew’s Instagram pictures that as soon as he gets in the car, he puts on NSN CDs.

I bought him a NSN tshirt and he wore it for three days straight until I finally wrestled it off him and threw it in the laundry basket.

I don’t even think I was this obsessed over a band yet at that age!

So the plan is to not tell him about this until we get there on September 28th, which might just be the hardest secret I’ve ever had to keep.

He’s going to shit himself. And I can’t wait to Instavid it.

OK. I know that I mention Jonny Craig A LOT A LOT A LOT on my blog, on Facebook, in real life, in my dreams, while Henry is trying to get busy, but I feel like I have been doing kind of good with not spamming you guys with Jonny Craig videos.

BUT.

My boy Captain Midnite posted this one a little while ago on his Facebook and I’ve held off as long as I can and now I need to post it here because it’s a fucking compulsion, OK. A motherfucking compulsion.

Anyone wanna be my date to his show in Pittsburgh this October? Because Henry’s being a bitch about it.

Obligatory List of Bands We (I) Saw:

• Itch — Chooch’s new favorite.
• Stick To Your Guns — “too political, STFU,” per Henry, but I really liked them a lot.
• Architects (UK) — Chooch only let me stick around for 1.5 songs.
• Hawthorne Heights — only about 5 minutes’ worth, but at least “Ohio Is For Lovers” was covered in that.
• The Wonder Years
• letlive.
• Craig Owens — so on point.
• We Came As Romans
• The Used — definitely unplugged the hole in my heart.
• Chiodos!!!
• Forever Came Calling — only got to see their last song.
• Hands Like Houses — SO FUCKING GOOD. Even better than when I saw them last November with Pierce the Veil. They’re the only band that has come even close to filling the void that Emarosa left in my heart, even though one of the guys looks like if Tim Curry was in A Flock of Seagulls.  I could (and probably will) fill an entire blog post with my detailed feelings about them, but I’m trying to be succinct and wrap this shit up, OK?! No wait, not without saying that I want to stick my tongue down the singer’s Australian throat.
• Bring Me the Horizon — Oli made us all sit down at one point and that’s how I wound up walking around the rest of the day with motherfucking GUM ON MY ASS, thanks Oli.
• Big Chocolate
• Never Shout Never — this one was Chooch’s pick. But the thing with Chooch is that when he says, “I want to see [this band], he literally means, “I want to walk over there until I can see them and then we can go somewhere else.” Chiodos and Hands Like Houses I think were the only full sets he endured. But he’s 7, what can you do.
• Silverstein
• August Burns Red
• Anarbor
• Handguns — REALLY enjoyed this band a lot. I had only heard one of their songs before, but I’m definitely a fan now.
• Run DMT
• Sleeping With Sirens — Henry really dislikes them live. He pretty much scowled and rolled his eyes through their whole set, and I couldn’t even get him to admit that “Roger Rabbit” was pretty good. He thinks Kellin is an awful live singer. (I agree with this at times, but Kellin Quinn is OMGSOCUTE so they don’t have to worry about not having thousands of screaming and crying girls in front of their stage. To be fair, the rest of the band is fucking fantastic.)

The best/worst thing about Warped Tour is that there are so many bands, in such an array of genres, that the possibilities are endless! It’s a Ritalin kid’s wet dream—you canNOT get bored at Warped Tour unless you absolutely hate music. The downside to this is that it’s impossible to see everything. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to fall to my knees and scream in anguish because two bands I really love were scheduled to play at the same time on two different stages. But, that’s the nature of Warped Tour and the only way to change it would be to have less bands. And I vote no on that.

The Wonder Years & a rainstorm.

We saw a shit ton of bands on this day, but there were a few standouts, and letlive. was definitely the brightest highlight. Henry had taken Chooch to get food while this was going on, and I am still, a week later, trying to explain to Henry exactly what he missed. He of course does not give a shit.

letlive. is a band that might not be easily swallowed for some people. When I was friends with Alisha, she was actually extremely tolerant and open-minded of the music I listened to, but she just couldn’t get behind letlive. And I can understand that—they’re not for everyone. But their live show, my fucking Christ. Jason Aalon Butler is like a tightly wound snake on stage, recoiling for .002 seconds only to spring and lurch back up in a different direction; it was like watching someone have a psychotic episode—scary and fucking fascinating. I don’t know how photographers are able to snap any decent photos of him because he does.not.stop. We saw them in Lancaster last March, opening for Pierce the Veil, and to be perfectly honest, they are the reason I was so insistent on driving the 4 hours to that show rather than wait for Pierce the Veil to come back to Pittsburgh on a different tour a month later: I wanted to see letlive,, and I wanted to see Jason sing with Vic from Pierce the Veil (he has a guest appearance on the new PTV album). Unfortunately, since we had Chooch with us, we were standing back too far in the club for me to really get to see much.

He left the stage at one point and everyone looked really concerned. I couldn’t see where he went from where I was standing, but when he came back on stage, he was covered in paint.

They ended the set with Jason intertwining himself around the drum set, which is sometimes what I do to Henry when I’m feeling especially clingy and don’t want him to leave for work. Not that that happens often!!

Please come back to Pittsburgh soon, letlive. PLEASE.

The Used—I have seen them countless times and they have never put on a bad show. They ended with Pretty Handsome Awkward and I cried.

When am I not crying, though.

WET HENRY! RUNNNN!!!

Can we just stop for a second and really look at this picture? No, I mean—REALLY LOOK. That is a smile, you guys. A smile at WARPED TOUR. It’s a motherfucking Christmas miracle. Orphans are gon’ feed tonight!

Chooch with more free shit. He didn’t even care that it was pink, because it was free.

We climbed this hill a million times. Warped Tour is good exercise. Also—look at the rainbow furry tail up there on the right!!!

 Shirtless Chooch during Never Shout Never, whom he has taken a liking to just because he heard one of their songs on a mix CD I made awhile back, and liked how Christopher Drew said the word “question.” When I found out NSN was going to be at this year’s Warped Tour and I told Chooch, he said super-dramatically, “Thank god.” Then he bought one of their CDs at the Exchange on Monday and I have my fingers crossed that this is just the beginning of what will one day be a Hoarder’s episode of a music collection.

Crowd-rafting for Bring Me the Horizon. 

Oh man, Bring Me the Horizon was fantastic!! Earlier in the day when we were in line to meet Chiodos, we saw Oli Sykes milling about and I almost died because he is even more Britishly handsome up close OMG. Henry just rolled his eyes, but the important part of this is that not only did Henry know who he was, he also pointed out Kellin Quinn later on, too. Henry is such a secret scene girl.

But really, he just reads Alternative Press a lot in the bathroom.

Chooch’s wristband collection. He got the Fuck Yeah, I <3 Animals wristband from the Peta2 tent, but he’s supposed to be guest-posting later so I’ll let him write about the horrors he encountered inside. Suffice to say, when we were walking back to the car that night and he was leafing through more Peta2 literature, he said to be very earnestly, “I should stop eating meat. I really want to…but I just REALLY like hamburgers. I’m not sure I’m ready to join your team yet, Mommy.”

It was so cute! But for the record: I have never tried to brainwash the kid into going meatless. (I myself haven’t even been a full-veg for several years now after discovering that I REALLY LOVE SUSHI.) But what’s cool about Chooch is that he eats tofu on his own and loves it.  I would never push him into being a vegetarian. Just like I would never push him to like or dislike a certain band. (Again, I only do that to Henry. Haha.)

Meanwhile, Henry was making a new friend while Chooch and I were in PETA’s WTF Tent:

Yes, that was my reaction too.

Anyway, this guy was running the merch booth for some clothing company that benefits the homeless, so Henry asked me if I wanted a t-shirt.

RECORD SCRATCH.

Henry NEVER asks me if I want merch at a show! So here we are, once again, back to my theory that he’s either cheating on me or selling drugs.

I mean, I didn’t actually even want one of these t-shirts, but it was for a cause and Henry seemed so eager to please his new friend In the Universal Studios tank (perhaps that’s his mistress), so I let him buy me a shirt. And then I also let him buy me a Warped Tour 2013 t-shirt and a Hands Like Houses tank.

New Henry rules!!

 So fucking hardcore. This is my new favorite  shot of Chooch!

The Spotify Stage had all the dancing.

Somehow I forgot to mention that when we were standing in line that morning to get in, Henry pointed to a small hill on the other side of the fence and said, “Look who it is.”

It was KEVIN LYMAN, the Warped Tour godfather himself. In all of the years I have been going, I have never seen him, even though I know that he walks around a lot. And there he was, standing at the top of this hill, on the phone, assessing the crowd. You guys, he is such an inspiration to me. If I ever got to meet him…it would be Waterwork City.

At the end of the day, Chooch is still just a kid who wants to eat a fucking ice cream cone. Only, he’s a kid who eats a fucking ice cream cone with a band behind him screaming bloody murder.

Motherfucking juxtaposition.

I really hope this is Saint Eminem on her calf.

Chooch already has the ambivalent scene armcross going on here, but let’s address Parenting Fail No. 66976: Check out his fucking sunburn. When we arrived at First Niagara that morning, I assumed Henry sprayed Chooch with sunscreen because I could smell it on him. Apparently, Henry assumed that I had covered that parental task. Turns out, CHOOCH applied HIMSELF with sunscreen and did a pisspoor job of it—look at the weird amoeba-outline!

Oh, to be a Perfect Parent. I hear they’re out there. I think they’re called Mommy Bloggers?

This is the Handguns crowd. There was so much energy, it was palpable! (Henry still yawned through their set though.)

So, remember in my Warped Tour preface, where I ranted and bitched about people judging those of us who choose to bring our kids to Warped Tour and how it’s not like I had Chooch in any circle pits or anything?

Well…

Funny thing…

Handguns played on one of the smaller stages, so the crowd wasn’t very big. This meant that we were extremely close to the stage and just happened to be standing in the line of fire when a circle pit broke out. I mean, it’s not like Chooch got swept up in it or anything, but I suppose that if Henry and I had been too busy lighting our joints at that moment (A JOKE), perhaps this would have had a different outcome.

Instead, Chooch soaked this all in, his first glimpse at a real life circle pit, and then this happened:

Sleeping With Sirens was the last band of the night and even though Henry had his laundry list of gripes, I really enjoyed their set but was sad at the same time because I knew that as soon as they were done, it was going to be time to leave. I swear, this is the shortest day of the year. (Unless you’re Henry.)

In conclusion, do I regret my decision to bring Chooch with us this year? NO. It was the best idea ever, and I’m positive that it’s something he will never forget. And do you want to know the number of times he threw a fit? Zero. Number of times we had to yell at him? Zero. Number of times he got hurt? Zero. Number of times he wanted to leave? Zero. Number of times he smiled/jumped/laughed/danced/threw metal horns into the sky? LIKE A THOUSAND! In fact, Chooch was looking at the back of one of the Warped Tour shirts that had a list of cities and he cried, “IT’S GOING TO BE IN CLEVELAND TOMORROW?! CAN WE GO!?”

This of course prompted me to spin and scream into Henry’s face, “YEAH CAN WE GO, HENRY!?” He just frowned and trudged away into the metalcore-soundtracked sunset.

Fuck, I really wish I was still there. I have got to find a way to land myself a spot inside a merch tent or something.

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 wrote “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 the 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 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!)

YOU GUYS! I LOVE WARPED TOUR SO MUCH OMG!! But I was pretty stressed when I woke up Wednesday morning. I mean, sure I was stoked as fuck, but this year’s Warped Tour came with a wildcard and its name was Chooch. He was kind of like, “Sure, I guess I’m excited, whatever” every time I would be like, “Boy, get stoked!” So I worried that we were going to get there and he would be like, “This is hell and totally not for me. Take me somewhere quiet and air-conditioned, Henry” and then Henry would be all, “YES THANK YOU! We’ll be back to get you tonight, Erin. Try not to get date-raped.”

Because date-raping is something that happens a lot at Warped Tour.

(Sike. I really don’t think it is. I mean, Nickelback and Papa Roach aren’t in the line up. Ever.)

We arrived at First Niagara Pavilion bright and early (another reason I was worried—Chooch abhors early starts to the day) and trudged along through the parking lot under the blistering sun with hordes of scene kids whose excitement Henry certainly did not mirror. I usually try to keep conversation to a minimum until we get inside the gates, because he is so busy grouchily presiding over the Land of FML. We split up at the entrance so Henry could go get his Parent Pass* and I could donate our bags of canned goods in order to get the “jump the line” wristbands.” This means our kitchen is now empty, haha. But we only had to stand in line for like, 10 minutes as opposed to an hour!

*(I don’t know if that’s what it was really called. Parents got in free this year as long as they had a ticket-holding child under the age of 18; THIS is why I love Warped Tour and Kevin Lyman—he is always thinking of ways to make it a safer experience for the kids. I did not opt for the free pass. I bought my ticket in December, and even if I hadn’t, I love Warped Tour so much that I want them to have my money. It’s worth it to me.)

When I met back up with Henry and Chooch, I noticed that Chooch had that faux-surly look that I know so well plastered on his face. Turns out, his cougar 8th grade girlfriend Courtney was in line in front of them with her friend and dad. OF ALL THE PEOPLE.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Courtney with her rolled-up Sleeping With Sirens poster. Her friend offered Chooch a Pop Tart and I thought he was going to die, reanimate, and then die again. AHHH, GIRLS ARE TALKING TO ME, OMG!!

We breezed right through security, a perk of having a small child in tow—makes us look less like hooligans. They did make Henry dump out Chooch’s water bottle though. You know, in case Chooch had gin up in there.

And then we were in! Henry went off to purchase a $2 schedule while Chooch and I ran for the Vans tent, because the first 200 people who get there and say the magic words (which you would know if you follow Warped Tour on Twitter and Instagram, god!) get free swag. Other merch tents also do shit like this throughout the day, but I never usually participate because I’m too cool.

(See also: too backward, shy, A SHRINKING VIOLET)

While we were standing in line, an old couple cozied up behind us and we became fast friends. (Not hardly.) This wasn’t their first Warped Tour, but they only come for their kids and they actually enjoy hanging out in the Reverse Daycare tent—an air-conditioned area where old folk can rest their weary bones while their kids flail in circle pits and cry over Kellin Quinn’s pretty hair. Once they found out I’m a grown-up, they thought it was weird that I:

• paid for my ticket on purpose
• actually wanted to be there

Still, they seemed like pretty fun people, and by that I mean they were probably drunk by 11AM and I bet they have fucking fantastic BBQs.

Chooch wound up getting a Warped Tour license plate frame thingie, but as he was walking away, the grizzled guy behind the tent called, out, “HEY KID!” and then hurled a black-and-white checkered Vans wallet at his head. Chooch’s face lit up like a goddamn Best Day Ever billboard at night.

Insidious 2 was being heavily promoted at Warped Tour for some reason (a huge advertisement of it was even hanging up at the back of one of the smaller stages). We swung by their tent and all I had to was tag the above picture on Instagram to get free sunglasses. MORE FREE SHIT YAY!! Fuck I love me some Warped Tour action.

I did a quick once-over of the schedule to determine an impromptu game plan. That’s one of the really awesome things about Warped Tour—-they shuffle the line-up daily in order to avoid headlining bands. So, for instance, just because the Used was one of the more mainstream bands, it didn’t necessarily mean that they were going to play last. Or longer. All bands get the same limited stage time. No room for rockstars, y’all.

The first band we stumbled upon was Architects (UK) and I was really feeling it but Chooch had that Heavy Sigh expression on his face. At first, my natural huffiness began to come out, but then I checked myself. It was still the first hour. I didn’t want to either force him to stand there with me or send him off with Henry so soon. My strategy for this day was to not pressure him or make him feel obligated to “enjoy” something that he wasn’t feeling.

I only do that to Henry.

So we walked around and checked out merch and then migrated under the ampitheater where Stick To Your Guns were playing. I LOVED THEM! HENRY HATED THEM! “They’re too political,” he spat. “They should just shut up and play their stupid music.” So Henry stared at his phone while Chooch and I enjoyed the music for a little while before getting up to see what else was going on.

This is worth watching for Henry’s grimace at the end.

I was thinking about it, and even though there are always bands there that I want to see because I’m a scene kid, I feel like even if there wasn’t that one band that made me scream giddily when the line-up is revealed, I would still go. Because Warped Tour is just about the atmosphere and experience as it is the music. There is so much music to discover there! It’s almost overwhelming, really. No matter where you’re standing, you can hear music. And it is the greatest fucking feeling to be buffeted by music ALL DAY LONG. Chooch, smiling, put his hand on his belly at one point and said, “I can feel [the bass] right here!” He gets it, you guys.

In fact, we had paused for a bit in the shade on a hillside, because it was a scorcher that day and Chooch needed to rest. A solo perfomer from the UK called Itch was on the Spotify Stage at the foot of the hill, and Chooch wound up LOVING HIM. I was pretty stoked on him because he was in a wheelchair and from where I was sitting, I kept imagining that he was Artie from Glee. I found out later that he was only temporarily in the wheelchair due to a leg injury. But he was still pretty good and it was like a party on the stage. Some broad even came out to rap and I kept hoping it was Aneesa from the Real World, because I clearly have bad eyes and watch too much stupid TV.

Bottomline, it was really awesome for me to watch Chooch’s own musical tastes blossoming! I HAVE NEVER LOVED BEING A MOM MORE! Man, if you’ve been reading this blog for awhile, or know me IRL, then you know how much music means to me, and to be able to share that with my kid is just the best fucking feeling in the world.

But still, we were only in the first hour of the day, it was fucking hot as Snooki’s temperature during another chlamydia outbreak, and there was the strong possibility of Chooch becoming overstimulated. So, you know…I definitely didn’t want to assume the whole day was going to be a breeze.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Henry is unamused, you guys. Oh, god that frown. His shirt is basically a Litmus test for how fucking incredibly skin-blisteringly, obscenely hot and moist the air was that day.

Henry could have used his Parent Pass to chill in the Reverse Daycare tent at any given moment, but he didn’t. You know why? Because he secretly loves Warped Tour. (And probably also because he didn’t want Chooch and me to get taken.)

Be back later!

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.

Even more than amusement parks, county fairs, road trips and cemetery heat waves, my favorite thing about summer is WARPED TOUR. (Which you already know if you’ve known me for at least 15 days. I have framed pictures of the damn thing on my desk at work for fuck’s sake.)

The tour officially kicked off a few days ago and I have been salivating over all of the pictures they’ve been throwing up on Instagram. One more month until it’s here in Pittsburgh and I can hardly wait! Chiodos! Sleeping With Sirens! Hands Like Houses! The Wonder Years! letlive.! The Used! Man Overboard! BRING ME THE HORIZON! Plus all the bands I don’t even know that I like yet!  I can’t even. An entire day to be amongst my own people!

What’s notable about this year’s Warped Tour is that it will be Chooch’s first ever time attending!

We almost took him last year, but decided against it at the last minute. But ever since he went to the Pierce the Veil show (and found out his 8th grade cougar-girlfriend will be there), he has been expressing interest in going with us this summer and it’s not like I would ever try to discourage that! I really think he’s going to fucking love it. There’s so much going on there that if he needs a break from the music, he’ll be covered. And I’m sure Henry will be using him as his scapegoat.

“Oh, boy….uh, it looks like Chooch needs to….sit down. Under a tree. And take a nap. BBL KBYE.”

Maybe I’ll try to get them both to guest post about it afterward.

Anyway, I’m posting this not just because I’m excited but also because I needed a break from writing about Kennywood because the residual giggles are apt to get me fired from my job that is how obnoxious I’ve been here this week. Sorry, co-workers! I’m trying to get my psychotic, worrisome laughing fits confined to my desk but sometimes they slip out in the bathroom and the kitchen and every single hallway I’ve tread on today.

No Jonny Craig at Warped Tour this year, too bad so sad.

OK, I need to get back to penning my Kennywood prose so that my detractors can get ready to tell me how grammatically incorrect my “writing” is, at which point I will pause to remind everyone that all I do is post iPhone photos and YouTube videos of my favorite songs, so like…what writing?

First of all, I want to thank everyone for their concern and support the other night when I found out about Marcy.

I wasn’t really able to elaborate at the time because I kept crying. But I woke up yesterday with a small glimmer of hope, because she is, after all, still alive and here with us.

The vet said that aside from the tumor, she is otherwise healthy. Her weight is good and she hasn’t stopped eating at all. She’s still feisty, she still terrorizes her daughter Willie, and she still absolutely hates me.

It’s just that now we know she has breast cancer.

The reality of the situation is that Marcy is 15. Even though she doesn’t act like it, she is, for all intents and purposes, an old broad. The vet discouraged us from considering surgery because the stress of it could actually worsen her condition.

But the silver lining is that he didn’t mention euthanasia at this time. Henry said it wasn’t even an option given.

He did, however, refer us to a cancer clinic, so we’re waiting to get an appointment with them. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I know that I don’t want to put her through anything invasive, but if there is anything at all, acupuncture, special diet (we already switched to some gluten-free food, thanks to Andrea’s recommendation), anything holistic to give her a little more time…well, then I guess I will have to fill out that application I was given last weekend at Sephora, because god knows I’m going to need the extra income.

I’ve had her since I was 18. I was a telemarketer at Olan Mills, having a cigarette in the break room when the proof consultant mentioned that her neighbor’s cat had kittens and there was only one left that desperately needed a home. I wasn’t a cat person. Growing up, we always had dogs. BIG dogs. German Sherpherds, sheepdogs, Siberian Huskeys. What the fuck did I know about raising a kitten?

But still, my arm shot up and I said, “I’ll take her.”

She was brought in for me the next day, this tiny, fluffy ball of fur with bright blue eyes, purring and meowing furiously. My boss wanted me to name her Shaniqua. But this was 1998 and I was obsessed with the band Marcy Playground. So she became Marcy. I brought her home to my apartment and she has ruled the roost ever since.

Even if you’ve only been reading my blog for a month or so, you’ve probably deduced that the theme here is that Henry is a pushover, my kid is spitfire, and I AM OBSESSED WITH MY CATS. I honestly live everyday like it could be Marcy’s last, especially after losing Speck and Don last year. When I leave for work everyday, I come running back in to give her one more hug and kiss. And you know, Marcy in all of her surly glory is like, “Bitch, GO!!” When I went to Australia in 2000, that was my first time leaving the cats. I had accumulated all 4 by then: Nicotina (Speck) was given to me two months after I got Marcy (and Janna took Speck’s brother, and I made her name him Harvey after Harvey Danger. Alternative music in 1998 ruled, OK?) and then Don and Willie came from Marcy’s first litter 2 years later. I was such a nervous wreck about leaving them that I went out and bought them nearly $100 worth of treats and toys. (I also used to call them from work and leave messages for them on my answering machine. It’s a wonder I have always had a boyfriend when it’s so apparent to all of them that I love my cats more.)

But Marcy, out of all four, has become somewhat of a reluctant mascot over the years. My friends either love her or hate her (depending on how many wounds she’s inflicted upon them); sometimes when people I know on the Internet meet me in real life, they seem more excited to meet Marcy; she even had her own LiveJournal for awhile there and once won “Dark Hottie of the Month” on a goth website. I just can’t imagine life without her, after having spent nearly half of mine with her at this point. Pets are the ultimate heartbreakers.

I wasn’t at the vet that day we got the news. I was at work. And when Henry told me over the phone (and he was, of course, so calm and matter-of-fact about it), I was a mess. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to stay at work. I was worthless. She’s my Shark Attack, my Smidge, my Pretty Rainbow Sparkles.

When I came home that night, I pushed Chooch and Henry out of the way and ran upstairs to see Marcy. She was in my room, glowering as usual.

I sat at the top of the steps with her, dousing her fur with my big sloppy tears, when “Sex and Candy” came on the radio in my room. I’m not making this up. I even called Henry upstairs because I thought I was going nuts. Fucking Marcy Playground, of all times to come on the radio.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go smother my cat some more. Because she is still alive and I don’t want to waste anymore time.

Marcy has breast cancer. I think I’m going to die.

Today I am sharing two of my favorite Pierce the Veil songs because they are wonderful and maybe you will like them too. (Also because we just saw them for the fourth time in less than a year on Saturday and they just never fail to make my heart swell. You can ask Henry. I always turn around and yell in his ear, “THEY MAKE MY HEART SWELL!” So he is an expert on this.)

I get so lost in this song every time. Vic has said that he wrote this song for his parents, who are always financially struggling no matter how hard his dad works. It just makes me think of Henry, of how hard he has worked to keep our family OK and to make sure we have a roof over our heads. We’ve been through so much together over the last 12 years and I might rag on him constantly on the Internet, but the truth is, he has sacrificed so much for me and I would pretty much follow him anywhere because I am permanently his.

If I had to pick one favorite PTV song, it’s this one. Everything about it is so multi-dimensional – the lyrics, the music, the emotions it brings up in me. I heard them play this live for the first time last November and I swear I held my breath through the whole thing and then gushed to Henry for days on end, “I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY PLAED BESITOS. WE GOT TO HEAR THEM PLAY BESITOS!” It’s hard to explain why it makes me feel the way it does, because the lyrics are so cryptic and kind of obtuse, but I will just say that it makes me think of someone for whom I have vacillating feelings of fondness and hatred. The line “You know I’ve never held a gun in my life, but now I carry one around in case I see you tonight” makes me fucking rage out internally every time I hear it.

And then by the end of the song, I feel a little bit of inner peace. It’s a very confusing 4 minutes.

——-
I spent so much of my life turning to music to help me thru bad times and even though I am an adult now with a great support system, music still helps me heal. Maybe we don’t like the same music, but if you can relate to that, isn’t that really all that matters? Music saves.

“Just stay in the car,” Henry barked when we pulled into the Oriental Market parking lot. “Please,” his bark turned into a whine.

Yeah right, and risk missing out on the expensive delicacies that Henry would be sure to pass over?

Chooch and I pushed and shoved our way into the store past Henry, who was rapidly aging right before our eyes. He was also muttering under his breath and I’m certain it probably wasn’t an apology for farting.

The very thing I saw? My elusive MANGOSTEEN, mothafuckas.

“I AM GETTING THIS!” I declared to the entire produce section, but no one paid me any mind because I’m sure crazy white bitches up in the Asian markets are a dime a dozen.

Ignoring us doesn’t actually make us go away, though. Sorry.

You could almost hear Henry’s forehead vein strumming along as he watched me toss a bushel of mangosteen balls into the basket at $9.69 a pound.

Unfortunately, the little market was wax jamboo-less by the time we rolled up, but I made sure to Google that shit and immediately add it to my Must Eat list.

I’m so glad that I decided to buy one of these aroemanis mangoes even though Henry said, “IT IS JUST A MANGO.” Because it tasted much better than a regular mango! Richer, creamier, more expensive.  (And NOT Asian, I’ll have you know. The sticker says that it’s a product of Mexico, what the fuck is THAT, you produce posers!?)

Henry tried to pull the same authority with the Fire Dragon.

“THAT’S JUST A DRAGONFRUIT PUT IT BACK!” Henry yelled. But if it was “just a dragonfruit,” then why did they also have dragonfruits for sale further down!? So I made him buy a Fire Dragon, too.

Chooch always picks out one package of cookies and then promptly makes puking sounds in the backseat of the car after tasting one.

This is Henry’s face after the young girl wearing oversized lensless eyeglasses rang up the small pile of produce and asked him to hand over something greater than thirty US Dollars. We didn’t speak for awhile, but he seemed to be in a little bit of a better mood once he went to Jo-Ann Fabrics. (Seriously, I can verify that Henry doesn’t actually have a vagina, but I can understand why you’d wonder.)

A little later that afternoon, Henry stormed into the family room with one lone eyeball-sliver thing on a plate and spat, “HERE. YOU BETTER PRAY YOU LIKE IT BECAUSE YOU’RE EATING THE WHOLE BAG.”

It was a small piece of mangosteen and maybe it’s the lore and mystique talking here, but it was pretty fucking fantastic. It was like a mild Sweet Tart, with the texture of an eyeball, but the closer I came to the seed, the more its consistency was creamy and buttery like an angel’s nipple—just like my beloved CHERIMOYA. So if you don’t like cherimoya, go fuck yourself. I mean, then you might not like mangosteen.

But it wasn’t as good as cherimoya. That’s still top dawg.

Thank god I bought the Fire Dragon because WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT AMAZING FUSCHIA HUE?! I was worried that it was going to deceive me, the same way that beets fool me with their vibrant chromatics. One of these days, I’m going to eat a beet like it.

I hope.

Henry could shove one of those into a ring and I’d say yes.

This is what the mangosteens look like in their protective casing. I think I should probably keep a bag on hand when I’m riding the trolley. I might need to use it. And by use it I mean forcefully swing it into the balls of a would-be rapist. Those motherfuckers.

I’m eating my 4PM fruit salad right now at work and it feels so good to be back in action, like I could do ANYTHING. There are also grapes, apples and tangerines in my fruit salad, but who cares.

If it’s slow at work tonight, I’m going to check to see if there are any Fruit Clubs on Meetup.com and if so, I’m going to join and be a complete fruit snob. You know, like I am with everything else in life.

The line to get into the Chameleon Club was pretty massive, wrapping down and around the block,  this undulating  horde of scene kids staring at the old people who had the poor sense to bring their six-year-0ld to a Pierce the Veil show.

Chooch got a few shout outs for wearing a Chiodos shirt though.

“All these other people are wearing Pierce the Veil shirts and I’m wearing Chiodos!” he whined when we claimed our spot at the caboose of the scene kid train. I considered giving him the “Don’t wear the band’s shirt to their show” seminar, but figured I already control enough of his life.

So instead, I explained, “Well, that’s just because you don’t have a Pierce the Veil shirt yet” and then quickly used this as incentive to get him to stop being a dickhead in line.

And I guess when I say “dickhead,” what I actually mean is six-year-old. Of COURSE a six-year-old is going to go nuts standing in line for an hour! Especially when there are masses of teenaged girls paying attention to him.

Henry seemed relatively amiable and tempered, I’m assuming because there were other parents in line so he didn’t feel quite as pedophilic as usual.

After barely moving for 30 minutes, some of the Chameleon Club staff came out and tried create some sort of order to the situation, so they separated us into will call and TicketFly lines. This meant that every time our line moved forward, we would pass new people who hadn’t yet giggled and said “Aww!” when they saw Chooch. Thanks guys, for rewinding his asshole key.

The only way I could get him to calm down and stop moving was to ask him questions about that dumb Minecraft game that he plays. Six-year-old Chooch was shelved and suddenly I was talking to this new person, this little grown-up in my kid’s body. He is INTENSE about Minecraft and speaks extremely matter-of-factly about it. He paid no attention to any of the girls around him.

Wow. I just pictured his future and it looks dark. I guess that’s because he’s going to be LIVING IN MY BASEMENT.

The show was supposed to start at 7, but I’m pretty sure we were still standing outside by then. I don’t know if they were having problems or what, but it gave me way too much idle time to have a million doubts and second thoughts about bringing Chooch to a post-hardcore show.

Perhaps the person who called Child Services on us last year was on to something.

I kept scanning the crowd, looking for some other retarded, negligent mom who brought her innocent youth to the show, but Chooch was BY FAR the youngest kid there.

Of course he was. No one else is that stupid!

“Do you think this was a mistake?” I asked Henry as the lines finally started moving with purpose. Henry just frowned at me and then there we were, inside the Chameleon Club, throbbing bass drowning out Chooch’s Minecraft monologue. The transition from Quiet Outside to Loud Pandemonium didn’t even faze him. He just kept right on talking, mindlessly handing over his ticket to be scanned while explaining all of the Minecraft weapons to me.

At the top of the first flight of steps, a club staff member encouraged us to keep climbing the steps to the two balconies, because Chooch would supposedly be able to see no matter where he stood up there. Which would be true if Chooch was a six-foot-tall man. But as it turned out, every space in front of the balcony was already claimed and those teenagers don’t give a fuck about no six-year-old kid, that’s for sure. Not a single asshole would budge.

We decided that the main floor would be best, and to be honest — being on a balcony with Chooch is not really the best idea for a hyper-protective mom like me. Besides, we found a prime spot near the back, next to a wall that had a small ledge on it that was perfect for Chooch’s butt. The club was pretty small, so even though we were in the back, we weren’t very far from the stage. Even I could see perfectly, and I’m pretty short.

NOTE TO THE AUTHORITIES: WE PROVIDED EAR PLUGS FOR CHOOCH AND MADE SURE HE KEPT THEM IN DURING EVERY BAND. WE ARE NOT IDIOTS.

When the house music faded out and the first band — Issues — came out, Chooch became hyper-alert. It was a true make-or-break moment — this kid was either going to fucking FEEL it or he was going to be struck with aural fear. Henry hoisted him up on the little ledge thing and, without being prompted, Chooch started throwing his arms up in the air and he was SO INTO IT, you guys, I wanted to fucking DIE.  I felt like I had waited my whole life for that moment.

Chooch placed a hand on his chest and laughed.

“Do you feel the bass?” I yelled over the music.

“Yes!” he shouted and laughed again.

This was Chooch’s face after Tyler Carter from Issues called everyone motherfuckers.

[Interestingly, Jonny Craig and Tyler Carter were having a feud awhile back. Jonny’s twitter handle ends in “4L” and then Tyler made his twitter handle end in that too, so Jonny was all, “TAKE THE 4L OUT OF YOUR NAME, WAHHHH!” And then Tyler had all of these cryptic-but-not-cryptic tweets about losing all respect for his idol, which was actually pretty awesome.  But I guess they’re friends again because Jonny recently posted a picture with him on Instagram. Maybe I should host my own Scene Kid News Hour since it’s the only real news I know.]

At one point, Chooch booted me in the back.

“CLAP, MOMMY!” he screamed, after one of the songs ended and he noticed I wasn’t clapping. I started to tell him I wasn’t clapping because I didn’t care too much about this band, but instead  I just sighed and joined in the applause.  Chooch seemed satisifed about that.

LOOK AT HIM WITH HIS ARM UP, OH MY GOD!

After the Issues set ended, the concert version of  the “Are we there yet” game commenced (“When’s Pierce the Veil coming out!?”), so Henry stuffed a slice of pizza into Chooch’s mouth. I’ve never seen that kid devour any sort of non-ice cream food so fast before. All that raging during Issues made him hungry, I guess.

I kept his mind focused in between sets by allowing him to continue the Minecraft conversation. He was talking about some of the Minecraft videos he watches and mentioned something about someone’s roommate.

“Do you have a roommate?” I asked. (He only plays the Pocket Edition on his Kindle so he’s not actually playing online with other strangers.)

“Oh yes!” he answered excitedly. “It’s a pig. His name is Gilbert.”

Some guy in his early 20s stopped next to us and looked at Chooch thoughtfully. Finally, he spoke. “You’re awesome,” he said, offering his knuckles to Chooch, who bumped them back with his own fist. Chooch looked at me after the guy walked away and kind of laughed, as if to say, “What a fucking weener, of COURSE I’m awesome.”

Chooch disliked the next two bands (letlive.* apparently made his stomach hurt and Memphis May Fire wasn’t Pierce the Veil so he hated them) so I let him play on my phone. By the time MMF was over, he was starting to unravel. It was past 10PM and he had a long day being in the car with his asshole parents, so I couldn’t really blame him.

“Just try to make it a little bit longer and I’ll play air hockey with you when we get back to the hotel,” I promised, figuring he would be too tired by then anyway.

But when the lights went out and everyone started screaming, “PIERCE THE VEIL!”, Chooch was suddenly very alert. Henry put him back on the ledge and he sat there, clutching his Vic Fuentes doll, looking so expectant and excited.

I wish I had a picture of his face when PTV came out onto the stage, but I was so very much in the moment that fucking around with my phone was the last thing I was thinking of. It doesn’t matter if I don’t have a picture because I know I’ll never forget that look on his face — his smile was so big and he started laughing and waving his Vic doll in the air.

Chooch, in total awe. And speechless! When does THAT ever happen?

“I really like the drummer!” he shouted, so now of course he wants to take drum lessons and I am more than happy to oblige.

A few songs in, some kid pushed through the crowd, his 1998 candy raver girlfriend unconscious and draped over his arms. “Move!” he yelled, parting the people next to us.

Chooch took all of this in, then turned to me and said dryly,” She’s dead. She saw Vic and she died.” And then he focused his attention back on the stage. I wish I had that kid’s comedic timing.

Henry ended up taking him out to the car during the fourth song. It was almost 11 by then and he could barely keep his eyes open. They stopped by the merch table for a shirt and the merch guy gave Chooch a free poster for being his youngest customer.

I wasn’t there for that though because hello — I wasn’t leaving the Pierce the Veil show! I stayed there ’til the end. And then cried.

—————————————-

This will be my favorite picture of him for a long time, I can already tell.

Post-Show Shenanigans

We decided not to stick around and try to meet the band. It was almost midnight, cold and who knows what kind of area that place is at night — Amish juveniles might rage in the street with their pitchforks and torches, holes pre-cut in rape-ready bed sheets. Chooch had had enough excitement anyway, so maybe next time he can scratch “groupie” off his Underage Bucket List.

Chooch’s second wind kicked in when we got back to the hotel and I honored my promise of air hockey. However, when I was trying to get change out of the change machine, some older man and his grandson (?) hijacked the table, so Chooch ended up playing air hockey with some little foreign child and it was utterly awkward for me because the old guy and some broad who was presumably that kid’s mom just up and walked away, leaving me to supervise while they went off to play pool.  So fucking weird!

But then Chooch and I got to play while that kid stood to the side, trying to capture the puck. I had visions of me screaming, “HE WASN’T MY RESPONSIBILITY!” as the paramedics wrapped his broken fingers. Stupid idiot kid.

This entire situation left Chooch and I somewhere near an 87 on the Giddy Meter, so after our game, we tore off through the halls of the hotel, laughing and carrying on like children (which I guess is understandable in Chooch’s case). But then Henry happened to pass us in the hallway, on his way back from complaining about a clogged toilet to the front desk (maybe Of Monsters & Men can write a shitty song about THAT little talk), and totally put his foot into the asshole of our late night hotel antics.

“Get back to the room! SHUT UP!” he hissed, guiding us down to the room the Ramada had relocated us to. Apparently, we had to swap a working heater for a working toilet. But after the night I had, I could have been relegated to a hobo tent and would have still fallen asleep happy.

OK, that’s probably a total lie. But still — a chilly room was a small price to pay for the memories I got to make with Chooch at the Chameleon Club. My heart could not have felt any more swollen that night, I swear to god. Finally, both of my loves had converged inside of this little club in Lancaster. It was hard to justify complaining about a chilly room after that.

The last couple of apples Henry has bought have been downright horrific. I’m talking so bad that I have THROWN AWAY more than half of each 7pm work apple. They taste hard and like the ground, similar to raw potatoes. Total fucking fruit foul. WHAT IS GOING ON!?

So I asked Henry just that: “WHAT IS GOING ON?!”

“It’s not apple season,” explained Henry.

I didn’t like that answer, so when I was whining to Debbie and Barb about it at work today, I wailed, “WHAT IS GOING ON?!”

“It’s not apple season,” explained Barb.

OH OK, HENRY JR.

Later, I sidled up to Barb’s desk with my “I AM A VERY SWEET GIRL” smile on my face, while palming a Gala apple behind my back.

“Can I feel your apple?” I demanded. And of course Barb let me feel her apple, because I’m Erin Rachelle Kelly.
In response to Barb’s curious expression, I said, “I just know that my apple is going to suck, and if that’s the case, then I would rather you eat it.”

“OK. So, do you want to trade apples?” Barb is so good at reading between the lines.

And that is how I turned my Gala into a Pink Lady. I don’t know yet if it sucks. If it does, I’ll be interofficing Barb some hate mail.
———————–
Speaking of apples, Henry’s mom Judy was singing the praises of grapples a few weeks ago. She told me that they are apple and grape crossbreeds and that they are REALLY JUICY. This sounded good to me, so I asked Henry why he never buys any.

“Because they’re 4 for $4!” he cried. I always forget that we are peasants living in Shantytown, wearing sardine cans as shoes, and that we cannot afford such extravagant and superfluous foodstuffs. I guess I’ll just have to make do with the vittles I scavenge while playing wildberry roulette in the forest.

Finally, Henry bought a sleeve of grapples and by George those motherfuckers are some fine ass produce. They reek of grapes but taste like really moist apples! No wonder all these other apples taste like overripe garbage.

Grapples or gtfo!!!!
———————-
Henry and I had time to kill while Chooch was at a birthday party on Sunday, so I suggested that we walk up to the local Mexican market in Brookline. I went there with Chooch in December, but that was before I cared about fruit, so we only looked at candy and rosaries.

At first, I was so excited. This place had all kinds of non-American fruit!
But then I realized that it was just regular fruit with the names written in Spanish.

There were cactus petal things that Henry refused to buy, and these long ass weapons that were apparently aloe. Henry said no to those too. He did let me get these dwarf mango things, like I’m supposed to get down on my knees now or something.

“Ow! What are these?” I asked Henry about these grapefruit-sized balls of pain.

“I don’t know,” Henry answered.

“Ow!” I yelled again.

“Yeah. Keep touching it,” he muttered.

I made Henry buy tomatillos because I thought they were what fried green tomatoes are made from, but apparently fried green tomatoes are made from green tomatoes. But now we have a shit ton of tomatillos so Henry made salsa which is better than stupid fried green tomatoes anyway and now no one has to get hit by a train.

Henry also added some of my midget mangoes to the salsa. It was OK, but kind of tasted like a garden. I guess because that is what “fresh” is supposed to taste like.

Henry turned around after buying chorizo from the meat counter to find me standing with my arms full of scary religious candles, which is all I really wanted to go there for anyway. Truth comes out.

——————–

In other ethnic market news, Henry went to Pitaland (right next to the Mexican market; I hope they don’t decide to feud anytime soon because I walk past both of them A LOT) to get pita (surprise!) for his mom. He also came out with a bag of fresh dates. I love dates, but these dates were DESIRABLE. Super plump and soft, I couldn’t believe it.

SIDE NOTE: When Henry and I went to Coachella in 2004, visiting a date farm in Indio, CA was the highlight of the trip for me, probably because we fought so furiously—enough to make Sid and Nancy blush from their Afterworld drug den—that I literally blocked out most of that trip from my memory. But that date farm I will never forget. We watched some video about dates having sex, and they have always had a sleazy connotation for me ever since.

And we had date milk shakes.

Motherfucking milkshakes made from dates.

I would do unspeakable things to have one of those gyrating down my gullet right now.

(Apparently, it is a date garden.)

That milkshake alone makes up for the stripper shack in San Bernadino in which Henry put us up, and the 113 degree heat during the weekend-long concert in the desert, not to mention the fact that I was there with Henry.

“What are dates made out of, anyway,” I asked Henry, closing my eyes and obscenely sucking face with a fat ass date.

“Um…..dates?” Henry said, in his typical snide Professor Henry von Fuckstick tone.

I ate one of those sexual dates while I was writing this. I probably looked like a muted porno, just so you know.

After WEEKS of being forced to eat American people fruit, we finally went fruit hunting last weekend, thank the fucking lord. Henry asked me where I wanted to go and I just looked at him like his mouth had turned into a flapping kooka.

“Um, an Asian market, idiot!” I scoffed and it’s a wonder that man never backhands me.

There we were, surrounded by the fruits of the Oriental Market, and Henry asked, “What are we getting?”

What a fucking dumbass. All of the persimmons, obviously.

I haven’t had persimmons in weeks. WEEKS. The regular grocery stores quit selling them, but I just had a feeling my stinky little Eastern markets wouldn’t let me down.

Henry wouldn’t buy all of the persimmons, just four. Fucking tightwad. I was picking through the pear selection when I noticed a box of small green balls.

Apparently, jujubes aren’t just teeth-hugging candy. I tried to unload a handful into the basket but Henry juju-blocked me.

“You better google that shit and find out what it is first,” Henry warned, not wanting a repeat of the 2004 Durian Disaster.

Google told me that jujubes are basically Chinese dates. I love dates! So we bought some. Unfortunately, I didn’t read enough to learn that when the jujubes are green, that means that they’re not ripe and will essentially mock the taste of an apple, only without any flavor at all.

They also had mangosteen, which I desperately wanted and not only just because it looks like some crazy medievel marirtal aid. However, Henry did the whole cartoon-eyes act when he saw that they were only available in mesh bags (probably also doubling as marital aids in some uncivilized country) and were $8.toomuch a POUND.

This is apparently a lot of monies for fruit so Henry quickly shooed me away from the produce aisle, which was fine, because it’s in close proximity to the fish counter resulting in a veil of rotting scales got trapped in my throat every time I opened my mouth to complain.

So then we went to dumb Whole Foods where Henry stocked up on boring, regular fruits (seriously, how many types of tangerines do yuppies & hippies really require?!), which is what I ate all week in lieu of exotic pulps.

I’m a citrus’d out. Henry watched me eating a grapefruit the other day and was one errant eye-squirt away from enrolling me in the remedial living facility down the street.

“Who eats grapefuit like that!?” he cried, watching me stab the pink with a limp wrist and a fork.

“Someone who doesn’t have a GRAPEFRUIT SPOON!” I snapped, opening the door for another Life Lecture from Henry who tried to  tell me all I need to do is CUT IT WITH A KNIFE.

Oh OK, Henry. Remember my knife allergy?

Every time I eat a grapefruit, I wind up looking like the tail end of a citrus porno was just filmed on my face.

One time, I used one of Chooch’s coats as a bib.  And I don’t care if you tell him, because:

• he shouldn’t have left his fucking coat on the goddamn couch
• he’s done way worse shit to my stuff

Eating fruit is exhausting. I’m one step away from having Henry chew it for me first.

We went back to the Oriental Market on Saturday. The whole way there, I chanted, “Please can I get a mangosteen. Please can I get a mangosteen. Please can I get a mangosteen I’VE BEEN SO GOOD!” (Lies.) Totally wore Henry down and he snapped, “OK! OK. God.”

And of course they didn’t have any so I got to indulge in a Veruca Salt moment.

They did, however, have a jackfruit! Look at the size of that motherfucker! I didn’t even bother asking Henry if we could get it. That fruit’s girth had his answer written all over it.

Meanwhile, two white vans full of Asian adolescents dressed in their most eye-blinding neon swag (lens-less neon eyeglass frames, check!) spilled into the store and began loitering in every area I needed to access, like they were waiting for an LMFAO appearance. Chooch and I took that as our queue to go sit in the car, but car key-carrying Henry and I were separated by a sea of shopping carts spilling forth with bricks of tofu and seaweed-wrapped quail eggs and not one of the carts’ pushers would respond to my sad whimpering and quiet “excuse me”s so I had to walk all the way back around the produce department just to make it to Henry, like some lame Asian market rom-com.

Mangosteenless in Pittsburgh.

You’ve Got Exotic Fruit.

I don’t really watch many rom-coms so I have no idea what I’m saying right now, except that I had this overwhelming desire to get back to Henry, like he had just come home from the SERVICE and the only thing that stood between us was a bunch of adulterating whore-bitch army wives and psychological quicksand.

I have never felt that before! Either I’m Falling in Love For Real or I just really wanted out of that market.

Meanwhile, Chooch was squinting at candy wrappers, like clearer vision was going to help him understand how durian could possibly be made into a delightful treat.

After finally escaping with my precious produce, Henry got in the car and animatedly spoke of being jostled around by Eastern  elbows and finding himself the victim of a brutal line-jumping*, which was probably more action than he experienced in the SERVICE, but Chooch and I definitely didn’t care because there were no battle wounds to show for it, plus it didn’t happen to us and we are selfish motherfuckers cut from the same cloth.

(*Some old lady sideswiped him with her cart when he was trying to move up in line, totally robbing him of his spot. Cry us a river, Henry.)

At least I have enough persimmons to get me through the week.

I guess this wasn’t as urgent as I thought.

Oh, sure—this pile of fruit looks beautiful, doesn’t it? Too bad being aesthetically-pleasing to the eyeballs don’t mean SHIT if the tongue’s not getting flavor-fucked.

We have officially run out of Weird Fruit at the Appledale household. Henry went grocery-shopping over the weekend but came home with nothing that I haven’t already eaten, nothing that only grows in a riverbed of wombat dung, nothing that requires watching a YouTube video to learn how to eat it.

Just strawberries (yawn), blueberries (seriously, Henry?), pears (and not even exotic pears, but regular pears  that even orphans probably eat), apples (oh OK, 2011!), kiwis (Jesus Christ, Henry, I outgrew kiwis in the 90s), mangoes (overrated) and cherries, which I’m actually happy about because apparently when I settled for a Blue Collar Life with a man whose fruit palate is clearly as calloused as his hands, I settled for a life where a bag of fucking cherries is considered a “splurge.”

Even the blackberries Henry dumped into my fruit salad tasted like nothing more than petty Pittsburgh produce. I mean, what went through Henry’s mind when he was at the grocery store? “Oh, here are some plain oranges that plain Americans eat. I bet Erin will love that because her standards are so plain.

” IS THAT WHAT YOU THOUGHT, HENRY!? Bitch, please! He might as well just go buy me fruit from Wal-Mart.

My fruit purveyor Andrea called my current fruit menu “pedestrian,” and while she was probably mocking me I don’t care because this fruit is fucking PEDESTRIAN. I will stop short of calling it jejune, because that word sounds too fancy for what this fruit really is.

Oh my god, I miss the days of lychee and longans and jackfruit!

Persimmon and cherimoya! Eating that fruit made me feel important, like the guts of that cherimoya was really some kind of indulgent fruit-oyster that plain people weren’t allowed to share with me. But this everyday shit? There are elderfucks in nursing homes eating the same fruit as me right this very moment, except that theirs is suspended in green Jello and sadness.

Oh, I just can’t stand it.