This was me & Chooch right before the park closed (to the common folk, that is; us card-carrying DAFE peeps got to stay for about 90 minutes longer and take unlimited rides on the two dark rides there which normally cost extra). I had a bad stomachache when we first got to the park that morning, so it’s a miracle that I didn’t end up puking on any rides. Thank you, theme park gods.

After a pit stop in Hershey (where we saw a girl who was at the Pierce the Veil show in Lancaster — Henry was actually the one who recognized her because looking at teenaged girls is what he does best), we are now on our way home. I have “bad hotel sleep attitude.” I’m also pouting because Henry wouldn’t buy me a bumper car.

(I would have sat in it every day & watched MTV.)

Felt good to be riding things again, though. More later this week!

Shippensburg, PA would have absolutely no value to me if not for Ed Helms and his impeccably-constructed Tiny World, a small village in his yard built for his cats.  Henry seemed pretty ambivalent about this stop on my agenda, and I think he was going to try and dispute it so I made sure to loudly announce, “But it’s a town built for CATS!” which made Chooch’s interest pique real quick, and soon Henry had two children whining and begging to visit Tiny World. Henry glared at me for using the c-word. “Cat” is like the equivalent to smelling salt for Chooch. He can be in the deepest zone, a self-induced pouting coma, but someone casually says the c-word and he’s very much in the present, yelling, “WHERE? WHERE? WHERE IS  THE CAT!?”

Sometimes I don’t even know why Henry bothers to object. His voice of dissent falls on pretend-deaf ears every time.

As Henry wound the car over country roads, he asked, “Um, this isn’t at someone’s house, is it?” I answered him by looking out the window and ignoring him.

Parts of Tiny World can be seen from the road, so I screamed for Henry to pull over the first second I glimpsed a hillside dotted with a doll-sized community. We parked in a small, makeshift gravel lot next to several other cars. At first it seemed like Tiny World was going to be booming with tourists, but we were the only oglers the whole time, so I guess the cars belonged to the family.

I don’t know what I was expecting, just some plywood shells I suppose, but Ed’s attention to detail was impeccable. I read online that he had no formal training in this stuff, just sat down and did it for no reason other than because he wanted to. And you know what, that’s inspiring even to someone like me. If I want to be a brain surgeon, I should just sit down and do it! And boy, have I got just the person to be my guinea pig.

The town was a tiny bit weathered, some of the furnishings had toppled over and cobwebs abound, but it was still pretty surprising that it wasn’t in a greater state of disarray. The proprietor is apparently pretty old and was suffering some health problems according to a Roadside America update from 2011, so it’s hard to say if upkeep is being honored at all.

The attic of one of the larger plantation-esque homes had items all strewn about and I wondered if it was intentionally done to make it look haunted. In either case, I legitimately shivered and stepped away from the window before I wound up accidently staring into the eyes of Bagul.

Dead rooster in the barn’s hay loft.

To be honest, I kind of liked that it had an abandoned tone to it. It made me feel like we were being watched from the nearby woods, hackneyed hillbillies lining us up in the crosshairs of their laser guns, preparing to shrink us down into Tiny World citizens. I already knew which house I was going to move into. (The one with the haunted attic, duh.)

If you like trains, then one might imagine you would enjoy the Tiny World Train Station.

That wallpaper! And look at that tiny box of thread on the sewing machine – even if you’re some joyless cat-hating asshole who thinks that building a sprawling town for feral cats is a waste of time, you still have to give respect to the details that went into this project — it’s a true labor of love.

There was even a relatively hot picture of Jesus Christ on the wall of the church.

Chooch’s succinct review, typed on his own: “It’s cool!  it’s kitty awesome! it’s  really freakin cool as shit.”

Again, the reviews I read online weren’t exactly current, but Tiny World is supposedly a hot commodity for all of the neighbors during the Christmas season. We noticed quite a bit of leftover Christmas lights and decorations peeking out here and there, so God only knows the last time the holiday lights set-up was functioning.

Built into the entrance/exit trellis is a pot for donations which I insisted on contributing. This seemed to prickle Papa Tight Wad’s asshole, but he finally handed Chooch a dollar for the pot.

“I WANT TO PUT MONEY IN TOO!” I cried. “IT WAS MY IDEA TO COME HERE!!!”

Henry sighed wearily and slapped another buck in my opened, whiny palm, which I then happily dropped into the collection hole.

“I’m so glad we came out here! It was totally worth it!” I gushed while Henry tried to find his way back to the highway and a gas station before Chooch pissed his pants. “Wasn’t it awesome?!” I cried, shaking Henry’s arm.

He didn’t answer, just continued to drive while looking like the personification of FML.

Henry, actually SMILING was washing the car windows! It’s a road trip miracle!

We also visited the Flight 93 Memorial in Shanksville, but I don’t feel that it’s appropriate or respectful to include that in this post.

To lighten the mood, we stopped in Bedford for a photo op with a large Coffee Pot, which used to be a lunch stand way back in the day. Like all awesomely tacky roadside attractions, it was in threat of being demolished in the 90s, but was eventually restored and is now used as a landmark.

THANK GOD!

“No, that’s OK,” Henry mumbled when I asked him if he was going to get out of the car and gawk at it with me and Chooch.

After Chooch accidentally knocked off part of the coffee pot (in his defense, that pot has structural leprosy), we both turned into royal motherfuckers. Henry of course knew this was because we were hungry and FINALLY stopped at a Valley Dairy to feed us.

“Hey Mommy, knock knock,” Chooch said after our food was served and we began to return to our non-surly, hyper selves.

“Who’s there?” I begrudgingly went along. His knock knock jokes are the worst.

“Room service!” And then we both laughed our food all over the table while Henry simply frowned at the memory of his stressful experience the night before at the hotel.

“What are you looking at?” Chooch asked me as I stared off into the distance while slowly eating a scoop of maple pecan ice cream. (Hello Weight Watcher narcs, I was on “vacation.”)

“Nothing, I’m just thinking,” I answered.

“Oh,” Chooch shrugged. “I always figured that when you do stuff like that, you’re wondering why Daddy won’t marry you.”

HOW ASTUTE.

—————

That night, after we had been home for a few hours, Chooch sighed, “I miss yesterday.”

“What part do you miss?” I asked.

“Uh, Pierce the Veil,”  he answered in that awesomely snotty teenaged tone.

Me too, Chooch. Me too.

So much love for that entire weekend!

It was imperative to go back to Dutch Haven the next morning before we left Lancaster. Crybaby Henry wanted to get a piece of shoo-fly pie and Chooch and I wanted souvenirs for our peeps. Plus, I like to look at the windmill on top of the store.

“How many pictures of that do you need!?” Henry cried when I went out front to take another picture. AS MANY AS THE DUTCH GIRL INSIDE OF ME DESIRES, OK FATHER?

I almost bought this Amish bonnet for Andrea because she said she wanted Amish shit, but I just couldn’t decide which one would make her look like the best Chaste Candlemaker. So I got her other Amish shit instead which of course I haven’t mailed yet, because I have a Lazy Sender reputation to uphold.

Chooch so badly wanted a t-shirt of a bunch of cats on the beach. It said “Beach Bums” and the back of the shirt was a picture of the cats’ asses. We literally fought about this shirt in the middle of the store because hello, I’m not buying some stupid beach t-shirt when Lancaster doesn’t even have a beach! Get a courting candle or GTFO kid!!

He ended up getting a little Amish doll magnet — for his TEACHER whom he loves more than me.

Of course, he managed to lose the magnet during his spring break.

Thank god for the Roadside America app or else we would have gotten home about 4 hours earlier than we actually did. There is a ton of tacky shit to see and do along the historic Rt. 30, so I was pretty thankful for our bent wheel keeping us off the turnpike.

One of the things I desperately wanted to do was take a tour of a Shoe House in Hellam, PA. I emailed them a few days beforehand to see if anyone would be around to give us a tour and they said NO. I flew into a rage that night at work. DON’T LIVE IN A HOUSE SHAPED LIKE A SHOE IF YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BE AVAILABLE TO GIVE A TOUR, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!

I mean….maybe next time.

On our way to Lancaster the day before, we kept seeing signs for Smittie’s Soft Pretzels but never actually found Smittie and his soft pretzels. Near Gettsyburg, the signs began popping up again, but unless Smittie was selling his wares from inside a broke-down van from 1983 (one of the signs was propped up against its hood), there was no sight of any damn pretzels.

Miles later, I screamed, “THERE! ANOTHER SMITTIE’S SIGN!” Henry pulled over down the street and there it was — the elusive pretzel van.

The pretzels were eh.

“They’d be better if they were warm,” Henry lamented. Yeah, what’s up with that, Smitty? Maybe he should have my co-worker Cheryl send out an email for a pretzel warmer contribution drive. She’s really good at collecting money, on par with the paperboy from “Better Off Dead,” at least.

Fuck you and your room temp pretzels, Smitty. You cunt.

Of all places, Henry was the most adamant about stopping at Mister Ed’s.

“Is it going to make us miss Mister Ed’s?” he interrogated me when I mentioned casually some of the other awesome tourist traps I wished to visit. Then I figured out he probably just wanted to see if they had any old-timey candy from his childhood.

We were going to stop there the day before, but they were having some gigantic Easter egg hunt and there were millions of screaming kids and their asshole parents milling about, so we kept on driving and felt extremely thankful that Chooch was sleeping in the backseat, else we’d have never heard the end of it.

So, the story is that Mister Ed has been collecting elephantine things for his entire life, for no good reason. Except that if I had watched the video playing in the small museum, or read any of the signs on the walls, or cared enough to Google, I would probably have way more information to enlighten you guys right now. But the truth is that I stopped reading when I got to “over 5,000 elephant items” because really, what else do I need  to know?

Wait! Lies! I’m telling lies again! I did read that Mister Ed’s had a fire a few years ago and over 2,000 of his elephant thingies perished. He ended up receiving OVER FIVE THOUSAND more in the mail from kind-hearted hoarders all over the world.

Mister Ed’s is basically just a roadside candy & gift shop with way too many stuffed animals for Chooch to beg for. Henry was mad at us for some reason that I forget now so he wouldn’t even stand near us inside the store. We even let him buy himself a Mallo Cup, but he was still being a total Hoover. Then he got mad because I bought a maple cake even though he mumbled, “You’re not going to like that.”

Well guess what? He was right. It was disgusting. But still!

I know. Don’t say it. This is going to be Chooch as an old man, but with tens of thousands of cat curios.

The actual elephant museum was only one room, but it was still worth it. Mister Ed even had the same elephant table as me! Except that his is elephant-colored, not pink. I bought a small Hindu-esque elephant from the gift shop and now I don’t know where I put it.  I also bought a Mister Ed’s magnet and lost that, too.  I always happen to LOSE STUFF after Henry cleans the house.

Ugh, I wish this was for sale!! I’ll just get Henry to make me one, I guess. In lieu of an engagement ring, maybe.

l-r. elphants.

Henry, being miserable. Even in a pachyderm paradise.

That elephant was supposed to talk, but it did NOT.

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.

We arrived in Lancaster, PA around 3:30 and since the crappy Ramada check-in time wasn’t until 4PM, we decided to go get some motherfucking shoo-fly pie.

SHOO-FLY PIE!

Someone asked me at work WTF is a shoo-fly pie anyway, and all I could really say was, “Very gooey pie.” I mean, read the sign. Duh.

My family went to Lancaster when I was a kid, in some elementary school grade, and all I remember was eating at family-style smorgasbords—literally sharing a table and bowls of food with other restaurant patrons, passing the corn and butter for real, Amish people of course, and that sweet fucking shoo-fly pie. Years later, my mom found some mail order (pre-Internet, remember) shoo-fly pie place but it just wasn’t the same. You can’t eat that at home unless there is the stench of fresh cow shit in the country air and Amish fuckers giving you the hairy eyeball.

Everybody knows that. God!

Anyway, there are days when I DAYDREAM about shoo-fly pie. It’s not even that it’s the Best Pie In the World, but it reminds me of childhood.

And my immature obsession with the Amish community.

And Intercourse, PA.

And fucking someone through a hole cut in a sheet.

(What? That’s called Amish-style. Read a fucking sex book every once in awhile and you might learn something.)

We passed the hotel and drove straight to Dutch Haven, a local gift shop shaped like a windmill (not the kind I hate, but a real Holland-kind of windmill!) that sells all kinds of Amish crap and SHOO-FLY PIE. Bitch, best warm a slice up, Mama’s comin’.

OMFG you can’t even see the pie beneath that double-D whipped cream bosom. I would gladly drive 6 hours every Saturday for this to be my Weight Watchers splurge item. (Or have Henry drive me.)

They have other pies there too, but who needs that shit.

Chooch opted for a plate of chocolate chip cookies, because he has poor taste. This picture was taken right as he was coyly asking, “MOMMY WHAT DOES THAT SHIRT SAY!?” because it said something witty about Intercourse, PA and he wanted to hear me say it out loud, presumably so he could then ask loudly, “WHAT DOES INTERCOURSE MEAN?” when he clearly damn well knows, or else he wouldn’t have been asking me in that creepy, fake-innocent tone of his.

Masticating Amishly. (He’s so lucky that I was too distracted by Pierce the Veil to make any Weener Photos this time around.)

God, this place just injects me with joy-sperm! SO MUCH OF THE JOYFUL PENETRATION.

I wanted to eat at Jakey’s Amish Barbeque (even though I don’t do meat; I had my heart set on potato salad, yee haw) but it was CLOSED. Henry didn’t seem to care, but I was all bent out of shape about it.

“Over what? Macaroni and cheese?” he spat over top of my ad nauseum whining.

Potato salad. POTATO SALAD. P-O-T-A-T-O S-A-L-A-D.

I can’t tell you how many times during the six-hour car ride I said, “Gee willikers, I can’t wait to grind into some sexual, creamy potato salad at Jakey’s Amish BBQ.”

NOT MACARONI AND CHEESE.

This is proof that Henry doesn’t listen to me. At all.

We settled for Jennie’s Diner, mostly because it was:

• right down the street
• open
• not an overpriced smorgasbord with a parking lot full of tour buses carrying religious people

Henry immediately liked it because it boasted an Air Force wall clock. That’s the SERVICE that Henry was in back in the 80s, you guys! (1980s, not 1880s.) I didn’t actually check, but I bet Henry left the waitress a big tip.

(She actually was a really good waitress and even told Henry the best way to order his burger to save money. I bet she also likes Pierce the Veil. I’m good at stereotyping.)

Chooch deduced that our waitress’s boyfriend was sitting at the counter and kept speculating loudly about it. He had a neck tattoo so I asked Chooch to kindly STFU before he interpreted Chooch’s concern to mean that Henry had the hots for his woman.

I know, I know — like anyone would be threatened that Henry would steal their woman. But go talk to my ex-boyfriend Jeff. I’m sure he has a lot to opine on that topic.

Pre-Pierce the Veil fuelage.

We had about an hour to kill after we checked into our hotel, which was conveniently situated directly across the street from a very closed-for-the-season Dutch Wonderland, thanks for that, Henry.

Since Henry was unloading in the bathroom, Chooch and I decided to go exploring, which is the best part of staying in a hotel when you’re six and/or Erin. The game room was right down the hall from our room, so we scoped that out but there were lots of d-bag kids in there at the moment (plus, Henry gave us zero dollars for tokens), so we retreated. When we got to our room, I said, “Watch this, Chooch.” Knowing that Henry was definitely still pooping, I rapped on the door and yelled, “Room service.”

Then to Chooch, I screamed, “RUN!!!” So we ran like escaped orphans through the halls of the Lancaster Ramada, hugging corners and panting at the thrill of potentially being chased but really knowing that Henry was probably still sunk into the Room 306 commode and even if he was post-poop, he’s still a 47-year-old man who would rather turn on the Canadian DIY show “She’s Crafty” than search a stinky hotel for his missing child & faux-spouse.

Speaking of Canada, there was a Canadian-themed* hotel down the street and while I wasn’t quite sure what it could possibly have to offer other than poutine and cheap Nickelback CDs on the pillows, I was still pissed that Henry didn’t book us a room there. There were maple leaves all over the signage!

“It didn’t come up in the hotel listing!” Henry cried defensively.

THAT’S WHAT THEY ALL SAY.

(*Maybe Canadians are a hot commodity in Lancaster, who the hell knows.)

While Henry was doing God only knows what in the hotel room (as if God even WANTS to know), Chooch and I had taken our tour of terror up another level — to the fourth floor, bitches.

It looked exactly the same as our third floor layout, but I noticed that one of the room number signs on the wall had rooms that started with a 5.

It became our mission to find the fifth floor and we were so confused because the staircase stopped on the fourth. We found a small ramp and door at the end of the hallway and realized that the fifth floor was really the four and a half floor. Still, it didn’t stop us from blowing through the door and barreling down the hall like heavyweight tumbleweeds.

There were a few rooms in that hallway, a random table and lamp and an elevator. And then we reached a dead end. On our walk back to the 4th floor ramp, a middle-aged, rotund little Asian man in a blazer walked through the door. My paranoia immediately prickled. I didn’t like his shifty gait and I didn’t like the way his one hand kept disappearing beneath the side of his blazer, like he was REACHING FOR SOMETHING.

“Chooch,” I whispered hoarsely. “I don’t trust this guy.”

“Can we get stuff out of the vending machine?” Chooch responded, not yet grasping the severity of the situation.

“DON’T MAKE EYE CONTACT,” I coached him. When we passed him, me all stiff-limbed and Chooch walking like a normal human, I barked out a hollow, “HELLO.”

(I always hope that if I am friendly to someone who is considering assassinating me, it might change their mind.)

He smiled congenially and then stopped in front of the elevator. I kept trying to covertly shove Chooch along—he walks so slow, like he doesn’t know that we’re being HUNTED—and dared to look over my shoulder once. The man was still waiting for the elevator and didn’t seem to be paying attention to us anymore. Probably because he is THAT GOOD of an assassin.

When we reached the door at the end of the 5th floor ramp, I yelled, “RUN!!!!” and we sprinted all the way back to the stairwell and to our room, where we collided with Henry who did NOT look happy.

“Some Asian guy was going to kill us!” Chooch informed him and Henry just sighed deeply and I’m sure the idea of finishing Asian Guy’s job for him crossed Henry’s mind at least twice.

In case I haven’t mentioned lately how much Henry sucks, he got us a room with two double beds. DOUBLE BEDS.

Post-Assassination Attempt.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, en route to the Chameleon Club for the Pierce the Veil show, I said, “Hey Chooch, remember when that Asian guy was trying to kill us?”

And Henry mumbled, “You two are fucking idiots” for the 87th time that day.

The sky, somewhere in Laurel Highlands. Reminded me of something you’d see in the Sistine Chapel, so I took that as a good omen.

Back in December, it seemed like a Really Great Idea to buy Chooch a ticket to see Pierce the Veil in Lancaster, PA. Never mind that it’s on the other side of the state and Chooch is only 6-years-old, and never mind that Henry really did NOT want to go, and never mind that we have never been to the venue (the Chameleon Club), so this was kind of a blind trip for us. But I was still so fucking excited! And so was Chooch, until he realized after the first 25 minutes in the car that perhaps this was going to be a long drive.

Henry was NOT excited. He was worried about the car and that this whole “taking Chooch to a concert” idea was going to blow up in our faces, and most of all he was worried about having to take care of two children for an entire weekend, hundreds of miles away from home.

(Chooch and I are kind of high-maintenance in that we need lots of special care.)

I had grand plans of leaving the house at 8AM, but it was not to be. Planning never gets us anywhere. Chooch and I were ready bright and early, and wound up waiting for Henry who was still packing. This might have something to do with the fact that all Chooch and I did to get ready was put our clothes on; Henry had to pack for all three of us. (Though I did put my makeup in my overnight bag all on my own.)

Then we had to wait for Henry to walk around the house, making sure everything was shut off and locked. God, it was so annoying. By the time we stopped at the McDonald’s down the street, Advanced Auto Parts for oil and then back to our house TWICE when I realized the Vic doll wasn’t in my purse (the first return to home proved fruitless, but I made Henry go back a second time after Vic wasn’t found in the parking lot of the car part place — it was a disaster that saw us progressing less than five miles away from home in an hour), it was nearly 10AM. We rule at road trips.

(Vic ended up being in Chooch’s room. He must have falled out of my purse when I ran up there at the last minute to grab Chooch’s sketch pad. Thank god he wasn’t stolen by some random scene kid going into Advanced Auto Parts for scene car parts!)

We took the scenic Rt. 30, eschewing the turnpike for a more leisurely drive through WIND TURBINE CENTRAL. God, I hate those fucking things. They’re so disgusting! LOOK AT THEM!!! And the worst part is that my jerk kid knows of my aversion to these things and water towers (ugh) so he LOVES to very sweetly say, “Oh Mommy! Look out the window, it’s so cool!” and every time it’s some disgusting thing that I hate and I fall for it.

And then Chooch lets loose with this gutteral giggle. He is  my nemesis. Just like THOSE WIND TURBINES, AHHHHH.

There was one instance where I happened to look out the window just in time to notice that we were on a BRIDGE passing over the Susquehanna RIVER with WIND TURBINES to the right and a WATER TOWER ahead. Fucking kill me.  (The capital letters mean THINGS THAT ERIN HATES. Just in case you didn’t know.)

In full disclosure, we only took the scenic route because we apparently have a bent wheel on our car and as soon as we go over 60 MPH, the entire car shakes and vibrates and maybe the wheel will fling off, who knows. So a 4-hour drive took us 6 hours, but it was worth it because there were tons of taxidermy & church signs to look at.

Rt. 30  goes through lots of mountains, so I got to yell at Henry a lot for being a shitty driver, and then he would yell back, “I’M DOING THE SPEED LIMIT!” but I really felt like were going to plunge over a cliff and I’m sorry, but I left my hobo-bag of night vision glasses at home.

Meanwhile, Chooch spent most of his time playing Minecraft on his Kindle, sleeping, and only occassionally asking us how much farther, to which we would both just mumble the answer because it was always TOO M ANY HOURS.

Henry and I actually kind of got along, which is amazing considering that taking this roadtrip was pretty much the last thing he wanted to be doing.  Except that we had a mild argument over the fact that I always want to stay in Supernatural motels, but then we end up somewhere plain, like a Ramada.

“In reality, you would never stay in a place like that!” Henry countered. And sure, he’s probably right, because he knows I’m a former Silver Spoon kid, but sometimes I just really want to rest my weary head on a pillow in a roomwhich hasn’t been remodeled since 1971, and think about how Sam and Dean Winchester might have stopped  there in between collecting rings from the Four Horsemen and fighting the Yellow-Eyed Demon if Sam and Dean Winchester were real people and not just characters on the CW.

We didn’t stop anywhere other than a thousand gas stations on the way there (Henry promised we could do all of my Roadside America bullshit on the way home), but that didn’t stop me from checking the app every five minutes anyway.

“OMG we’re going to pass where Abe Lincoln meets Perry Como!” I shouted as we crawled through downtown Gettsyburg.

“That’s great!” Henry exclaimed sarcastically. “Let me know when we’re going to pass Sheetz With Bathroom.”

Seriously, all that man does is piss.

Halfway to Lancaster, I put on Dance Gavin Dance and Henry started to wish that we had careened over that cliff 100 miles ago.

The “I’d Rather Be Doing Anything Else But Driving to Lancaster to see Pierce the Veil” frown.

I’m sure he’ll be fine once he gets to drink flat Amish root beer.

In other PTV news, Chooch drew this for Vic. He said he’s going to write “Vic, you’re the best singer” on it & I almost cried a little. <3

Morocco 1993. I was so excited to ride a camel. Pretty sure my Aunt Sharon intentionally cut off my head, making this probably the prettiest picture of me ever.

My history with camels suck.

For Andrea.

I wonder how many souls of children this “joyful clown” has stolen over the years.

This guy has been the same age since 1805.

Waiting for the Blue Streak attendant to finish his cigarette. No, seriously. Every other time we walked past, he was hanging out across the walkway at the hot dog stand. I mean, what else was he going to do? Perform safety inspections?

The gift shop sold everything but Conneaut souvenirs (OK, there was a small table of glassware). In search of Abraham’s bust? They got you covered. Creepy half-ceramic / half-plush clown dolls for $3? There’s a whole stash! (Henry Warbucks totally bought me one, albeit grudgingly.) Mementos for being a hick? Racks and racks of fishing t-shirts to peruse at your leisure.

It stunk in there so bad like old people and moth balls, but it provided refuge from the rain.

My favorite part of these little amusement parks is finding all of the strange and old rides that you just wouldn’t ever come across at Six Flags. Conneaut’s claim is the Witch’s Stew. Holy fuck, as if it weren’t enough that there are creepy depictions of Hansel & Gretel, gingerbread men and wicked witches, this ride is pretty much the reason some pharamist whipped up the first batch of Dramamine in his mortar and pestle.

Whiplash and Motion Sickness city! And only some of the seats have seat belts, which I discovered AFTER the ride started the first time Chooch and I went on.

Of course, we were sitting in the seat beltless seats. I for sure thought Chooch was going to perish, and he was getting so mad that I had my arm around him but oh my god, my Mom Vision was going haywire and I swear I was seeing flashes of 87 different versions of Chooch being expunged from this creepy ass tea cups-on-acid suicide mission.

And then as soon as the ride ended, we pushed and shoved each other toward the exit and ran to Henry, screaming, “OMG THAT WAS THE BEST RIDE EVARRRRR!!”

The second time we went on it was even better because it started STORMING and the lacksadaiscal ride attendant just let us whip around beneath pregnant storm clouds. Since the ride is on a tilted platform, spates of rain water were sluicing off the top of the cars straight onto our backs. It wasn’t uncomfortable at all.

As I stalked toward the exit, frozen in a jumping jack-stance to allow the water to drip from my clothing, the ride attendant gave me a once-over and said with a smirk, “I hope you enjoyed the extended wet ride.”

I think that means he wanted to have sex with me, but I’m not sure.

“Holy shit! We’re still alive!”

The “famous” wall of gum in the Devil’s Den.

Find the Frown!

I think there were only about 20 other people in the park with us that day. The only time we waited in line was for the bumper cars.

Honestly? I can’t wait to go back. With props and models. And the unicorn head mask I just bought.

I guess I felt we’d be remiss if we went to Erie and not spent some time at that Presque Isle place, so we did that briefly Saturday evening.

I’m not a big beach person (beached whale, yeah), let alone a fake beach person, but it was OK for the short amount of time we spent there. My family used to go to Wildwood, NJ every summer and I was OK with spending my days eating sand because I knew that I would be rewarded with all of the action after dinner when we’d hit the boardwalk.

If I HAD to go to the beach, it would be Wildwood but that’s ONLY because of Morey’s Piers.

The entire time, Henry reminisced about his stupid fishing trip that he took there a hundred years ago. “That’s where we stayed when I came here to fish!” he exclaimed wistfully at one point as we passed some negative-star motel.

“I PARKED THERE WHEN I WENT FISHING!”

“I ATE AT THAT PERKINS WHEN I CAME UP HERE TO FISH!”

Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP.

Chooch probably still has sand on him.

I should probably give him a bath at some point this week.

Still, trodding through wet sand at Presque Isle wasn’t the worst way to waste time. And I guess it was pretty, if you like all that nature shit.

Conneaut Lake Park was the first stop on our agenda today, but we had a little bit of time to kill before it opened at noon so Henry took us on a tour of Small Town USA which culminated with stop at Linesville Spillway. There are so many carp there begging for carb-droppings that the ducks can quite literally walk on them.

It was horrifying and nasty, but I couldn’t stop watching these fish aggressively fighting each other for rolls and crust. It was intense.

The “I USED TO COME HERE ALL THE TIME WITH MY GRANDPAP IN THE 1920s, DON’T RUIN THIS BY BEING AN ASSHOLE” Frown.

***

My birthday weekend getaway almost didn’t happen. I joked a few days ago, albeit with a healthy scoop of bitterness, that with the way our luck has been going this year, our car would probably break down. Well, our car didn’t exactly break down, but Henry finally got off his pretend-mechanic ass and decided to check out the horrible sound the car’s been making FOR LIKE A MONTH. It turned out to be something I don’t understand that could potentially “seize up” if we drove long distance.

The good news: he could fix it himself and it wouldn’t cost much.

The bad news: he wouldn’t be able to fix it in enough time for us to go to Erie that weekend.

He informed me of this last night when I was at work and I proceeded to cry at my desk like the bitchbaby I am. But then Seri was all, “Don’t be stupid, just take one of our cars.” I kept saying no, that this was Henry’s problem to solve, but Seri can be very convincing. If it weren’t for her generosity, I wouldn’t have been able to walk around a creepy, half-abandoned amusement park; visit a Victorian Perambulator Museum; argue with Henry for two hours over where to eat for dinner; or watch a school of fish hungrily flex their gaping maws like a sea of Jersey Shore kookas ready for a post-Karma feeding.

It’s not like I have some vested interest in televisions, but going to the Early Television Museum seemed like a perfectly acceptable way to spend a chilly, overcast Sunday in March.

Even if it meant driving 3+ hours to the small town of Hilliard outside of Columbus, OH. Nothing weird about that, or the fact that Henry had to keep putting me and my petulant attitude in check, or the fact that nearly every one of my senses was drop-kicking me straight back into the hands of 2005.

I was just there to see some vintage fucking TV sets. Goddammit.

Our current TV is about three years away from being quite at home here.

Andrea would have hated this place because it was an unguided tour. The aging hippie at the front desk took our donation and was basically like, “I don’t give a shit what you do. Touch whatever you want.” And that is exactly what Chooch did — touched every button on every TV. (OK, I did too.)

I can’t remember the last time Jonny Craig sounded so loud in my head, even around the constant hum and squelch of vintage television.

Some buttons actually were off-limits. Thank god there were cameras in every room to make sure that we didn’t touch anything/anyone we weren’t supposed to be touching.

Oh look! It’s Henry standing amongst televisions from his own era!

“I like your shirt.”

“Thanks, I bought it after you quit talking to me.”

When I was five-years-old, there were only three TV channels and I ate sardines straight from the can! Henry to Chooch, who fucked around with his “new iPhone” all day.

For all my clown-lovahs out there.

World’s first clicker aka remote,  I think.

GERMAN TV!

PURPLE TV!

I was worried it wouldn’t be worth it. But it was worth it.

I was so distracted by all the relics from the past, that I forgot to even sign the guest book.

I was kind of let down by this park in Columbus, because really – the excitement of bush people only extends so far. But surprisingly, Chooch was really infatuated by it and when he saw that there was a house for sale across the street, he wanted to buy it.

I was wildly concerned with the possibility of one of us stepping in dog poop.

There are no pictures of Henry because he was too busy sitting on a bench, chaperoning. And by chaperoning, I mean squinting at his phone with his glasses resting precariously on the tip of his nose.

We stopped here after visiting the Early Television Museum, which I’ll write about later. Putting things in order is so overrated.

Chooch kept wanting to lay down everywhere, which would make me shout, “Hello!

Dog shit!”

For not giving a shit about the topiary people, leaving that place was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

Seriously. Who actually LOVES Ohio? In either case, we had a nice day there yesterday. I’m very tired though & ruing the moment I gave Chooch my old iPhone so he can play Draw Something on his own.

Granted, it’s helping him with his reading and spelling, but he is SO HIGH MAINTENANCE about it and gets all pissed of when people don’t drop everything to guess his drawing immediately after he sends it to them. (omgitschooch if you want to play him.)

(He really is getting so good at reading and spelling though. Through the power of “sounding it out,” he was able to spell “piss” the other day. I’m proud and also extremely surprised that he started with such a PG word.)

At one point yesterday, we were at some playground in this small town outside of Columbus when he patted the pockets of his jeans and exclaimed, “Shit, where’s my phone?!”

Dude, you’re 5. Calm the fuck down and play with some Legos. And no, not a Lego app on your iPhone!

On December 17th, Henry and I were Cleveland-bound again, this time for the Craig Owens solo show at the Grog Shop. You might know that I have had a long-standing love affair with Craig Owens’ music ever since he was in Chiodos, even though I feel that I’m starting to out-grow him a little bit at a time. (I love his new band, but there is this braggadocian cloud he’s been riding lately that I’m just not a fan of. It’s really hard to explain, because he acts all Kumbaya at his solo shows, but when he’s on stage with his band D.R.U.G.S., I kind of want to vomit into a hobo boot.) Regardless, Craig still has a way of warming my soul so I thought it would do wonders considering the depressed state I had been floundering in.

Plus, all that time to irritate Henry while he’s trapped in the car with me and the constant rotation of Jonny Craig projects oozing from the speakers, making me fan my face? You can’t get that kind of joy in regular therapy.

Henry’s favorite part of the trip was all the piles and piles of snow that began to appear as we drew nearer to Cleveland. He knew that it was supposed to snow later that night, but didn’t know that it had already previously snowed the night before. I did know this and made the mistake of casually saying that I had seen snow pictures from some Cleveland people on Twitter and Henry was all, “YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS?” like the fallen snow was code for me taking his mom to get a clandestine piercing.

Apparently now on top of sitting around looking pretty, I have to keep tabs on the weather. I’m so overworked in this relationship.

Getting lost, sliding in snow, PISSED.

By the time we made it to Coventry, we were starving and running out of pre-show time. There’s a Winking Lizard near the Grog Shop and we settled on that, because we had eaten there before and I was reaching that point where I was so hungry that I honestly didn’t know what I wanted and we were about to come to blows. Henry ordered a chicken caesar salad and I honestly did a spit-take. I mean, it’s unusual for men to order a salad to begin with, but Henry? HENRY? BLUE-COLLAR HENRY? I have not once in my life seen this man eat a salad unless it was atop a blood-dripping burger.

“What are you suddenly watching your girlish figure?” I asked him.

“No, my stomach is still messed up*,” he mumbled. So what does he do? He orders a salad and a side of wings. He threatened to make me cry if I took a picture of him and his salad.

*(I still think I brought home some kind of Bavarian virus from the music box museum.)

I felt like living large so I ordered some gingerbread cocktail in spite of Henry’s pursed lips and shaking head. It was pretty much the worst thing I have ever imbibed this side of an egg cream, which made Henry go on a tirade about how I just wasted $6 and I was like, “Jesus, I’ll offer to wash the dishes if your piddly Faygo salary can’t afford a $6 cocktail, go cry in your pussy caesar salad.” It’s just a matter of time before one of us tries to stab the other at a restaurant.

We had just enough time to run down to Big Fun after dinner, which is one of my favorite places to shop in Cleveland. I was hoping to grab some last minute Christmas bullshit for Chooch, but the most annoying people in the world were in there (most of them were probably en route to the Craig show, I’m sure) so I got fed up. I was also going to buy a pair of reindeer ears, because Craig had tweeted earlier that he wanted all the boys at the show to wear Santa hats and all the girls to wear reindeer ears, but then you know what? I got this sudden jolt of self-righteousness and said, “Fuck this, I’m too old to be playing sheep.” So I put it back and got some giant rubber mustache for Tommy and Jessy’s dogs. Next time Craig does something I tell him to do in a tweet, we’ll talk.

Besides, I hate being like other people. I enjoy being the plain old lady at the back of the show. Reindeer ears would only distract from that.

We got to the Grog Shop just as the first opening band was starting. I grabbed us a spot at the bar and immediately began chugging Strongbow. It was either get drunk or be emotionally vulnerable and cry through the whole show. It was bad enough there was one acoustic emo band after the next playing all kinds of wrist-cutting melancholy.

I don’t remember much about the opening band. They were local and their name had something do with Wolves. But the second band, Envoi, came out and I was immediately taken by the singer.

“He is so fucking hot and totally my type,” I hissed at Henry. By this point, Henry likely could have achieved a buzz off my breath alone. I like to slam back some Strongbow, ok?

Henry didn’t respond, so I repeated myself.

“He’s not that hot,” he muttered. At first I thought maybe he was just sulking, but he’s typically a pretty decent wingman so I was confused. That didn’t stop me from tweeting things like, “I can’t wait to date rape this singer after the show, just as soon as I chuck my kid’s carseat out of the backseat.” I mean, I had it so bad that I kept latching on to Henry’s bicep and squeezing, while making purring sounds that probably made everyone around me uncomfortable.

After their set, I kept my eyes on him, willing him to come over to the bar. He had huge gauges and was wearing a slouchy beanie and scene glasses – TOTALLY MY TYPE, RIGHT GUYS? Henry was still frowning over my latest conquest.

Finally, he did end up coming over to the bar, and squeezed in right next to where I was sitting. I was so stunned that I swiveled by seat away from him and mouthed to Henry, “WELL IS HE HOT OR WHAT?” Henry was firm in his stance and said, “No, not at all.”

I quickly spun my head around, letting my eyes scan him just long enough to determine that, oh fuck, Henry was right. This guy was so not hot at all. Not even his sex-voice would have been enough to win me over after finally seeing him close up.

“My eyes are really bad,” I said, returning to my can of Strongbow. At least I know I can still trust Henry as my wingman, even when he wears my pink Delia’s scarf.

Then we were totally making fun of this flapper-wannabe with an angel halo head topper and she totally ended up being with Craig’s “band.” I think she just stood there playing the tambourine. I was not impressed. But before I could find that out, we had to get through two more bands, one of which was My Arcadia, a female-fronted band we recently saw at Warped Tour. I liked them better this time, though I did admit to Henry that I wished the singer was just a smidge hotter. She had good stage presence at least.

Sometime before Craig took the stage, our friend Jason arrived and Henry immediately turned into a sycophant. He’s so ridiculous when it comes to bromances. He practically clotheslined himself against the bar, trying to get the bartender to put Jason’s Boylan’s on our tab.

“Can we go now?”

Craig came out and chose to cover Bieber’s “Under the Mistletoe” as his opening song. I thought it was a joke at first; who wouldn’t? He slowed it down and made it all breathy and serious; I kept waiting for him to stop abruptly and say, “Sike, naw!”

But no. He was serious. This was unironic. I seemed to be in the minority, considering that all the kids in the crowd were going ape nuts over this. I kept frowning at Henry and rubbing my chin, like this was going to help me suddenly make sense of things. It just sounded absolutely ridiculous.

At least the next song was “Lindsay Quit Lollygagging”, and I adore that song so much, you guys. It takes me back to a pre-pregnancy time. But for some reason, I kept finding ways to make everything about Speck, so I started crying, and since I was drunk, it was that stupid half-sobbing/half-laughing psychotic meltdown which usually leaves me wanting to punch people and there just happened to be a group of 4 or 5 asshole chicks next to me who I always see at Craig/Chiodos shows and I’m pretty sure they’re from Pittsburgh and I just really hate them. They do all these horrible exaggerated Glee-movements while drunkenly singing along with flipped-back heads, but this is just when they’re not SCREAM-CONVERSING with each other over top all of the songs.

The last time I felt like fighting while drinking Strongbow was at a Chiodos show in Columbus, only this time it was two jocks standing behind me, talking shit on the Penguins (too bad they won the Stanley Cup a month later, motherfuckers).

Anyway, I think I lost some love for Craig that night. He talked too much and there were times when he was borderline cult-leader up there on that stage. And he’s all “OMG I LOVE MY FANS” to such an extreme degree that it’s almost hard to believe his sincerity. I really don’t like feeling this way! But he leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth now. And also, I paid to hear him sing his fucking songs, not all the kids in the audience. I really dislike that he only sings three words and then gives away the mic.

Meanwhile, Henry’s caesar salad began knocking on the exit door, so he took off for the nearest bathroom, after refusing to poop on the prison-like Grog Shop commodes. I didn’t see him for at least four songs. Which ended up being most of the set, since the Grog Shop double-booked and Craig had to be off the stage around 9. Totally fucking weak. I knew this ahead of time, but I guess I assumed all the other bands would have cut their sets short to give Craig more time. And I also feel like Craig wasted so much of his set on stupid songs.

I really wanted to hear “Bibles and Badges” and we all know it’s all about me.

He did a few D.R.U.G.S. songs (none I particularly care for), “Intensity in Ten Cities” (not my favorite but at least it’s Chiodos), a Cinematic Sunrise joint and a song off the mediocre solo EP he put out a few years ago. Pretty disappointing show, but I was still happy to be out of the house, drunk, and having some quality time with Henry. (I know, right?) And it’s always a treat to see Jason.

At one point, he brought his puppy Charlie out so everyone could say hello and all that did was make me sad again. “SHE’S GONNA DIE SOMEDAY!” I was screaming in my head. I miss my fucking cat so bad.

The last song he sang was “Baby, You Wouldn’t Last a Minute on the Creek,” one of my all-time favorite Chiodos songs. He left the stage and had a bunch of guys hold him up which was cool, but that just made it easier for him to give the mic to the crowd. HI CRAIG, CAN YOU SING ONE SONG IN ITS ENTIRETY? At least let me get a quarter of my money’s worth? Cut the summer camp bullshit, please. He kept stopping during every song, putting his hand behind his ear and screaming “WHAT?” while holding the mic out to the crowd. I cringed every time.

I get that he wants it to be all intimate and shit, but then go for more of a Storyteller’s vibe and DON’T STOP SINGING.

Still, when he left the stage, I turned and walked back to Henry and Jason with my lip all protruding like a TV tray. Jason pantomimed straining to lift it up from the floor while Henry gave me that “Please don’t embarrass me by crying” mustache bristle. Afterward, we hung around and talked to Jason for a little bit before heading back to Pittsburgh, where Henry thankfully only needed to stop twice to tend to his explosive diarrhea.

(I also asked Henry some questions about his night at the show, which I will type up here tomorrow! And hey, don’t forget to tell me if you’re Team Poor Henry or Team Blame Henry!)