Hi we’re in Lancaster! We just sent a little Amish lad off to cut us some cheese.

Henry and Tommy have been sharing lots of laughs over a map in the front seat.

Now we’re going to a wine gallery! I want to send drunk postcards. Hit me up if you want one: butgavincantdance at gmail.com.

Blake was 8 when I met him. Today, he turned 18. I can’t even.

There was a time when we didn’t get along too well, but now I can’t even imagine not having him around. He’s one of the few people I can talk to about music and is pretty much down for any of my weird  ideas.

(“Why yes, I DO in fact want to help you make STD cookies, Erin.

That sounds like a smashing good time.

“) He’s amazing with Chooch (even when he makes me think he’s going to drop him on his head), has way better style than anyone I know, and is my favorite Scattergories partner. Basically, he’s pretty much the coolest person I know.

Happy birthday, Blake! Don’t let your dad take you to any strip clubs, unless you want to spend the whole night checking for Adam’s apples.

Was going to post some photos I took of Chooch on Sunday, when he was being a huge sour puss.

I was looking at them, getting ready to upload them here, when I thought, “God, why can’t he be more cooperative? Like Blake.” And then I immediately thought of Blake’s pumpkinhead photos, and those are some of my favorite photos ever, so I’m giving them life again.

Also mostly because I don’t feel like writing shit today. I just want to watch TV while my kid is in school, OK?!

Blake, where you at? Let’s do this again soon.

Maybe if Chooch is lucky, I’ll post his photos later.

And maybe let him up from the basement.

I knew it was a dumb fucking idea as soon as I penciled in my name as a volunteer for the upcoming preschool Halloween party. I don’t know if I was using this as a catalyst for getting over my fear of other moms or other kids, but how fucking naive of me to think that this could bring upon me anything but misery, stress and one heaping hassle reaking of eau de soccer mom.

A slip of paper was returned to me at the start of last week. On it was the four moms volunteering for the party and our respective phone numbers. I figured at some point we would all meet up, maybe before or after school, and discuss the boring minutia involved in planning a successful preschool Halloween party that wouldn’t implode upon itself.

But apparently I don’t know shit about planning school functions, because when I walked into Chooch’s classroom last Friday morning, I was quickly cornered by some tall, nerdy mommy who assertively introduced herself as the mother of one of the girls in the class.

“I’m also one of the moms volunteering for the party next week,” she continued, and I tried with all of my might to stop feeling like she was looking down her nose at me. I really don’t deal well with condescention.

I figured she was going to ask me what my ideas were, maybe suggest that I hang back and wait for the other mom-broads to show up with their respective children, so we can sit down like grown-ups and work this shit out so it won’t wind up being a complete clusterfuck.

Again with the naivete.

“So I just happened to run into the other two moms on Wednesday. They’re cousins, so they already have been deciding what they’re going to do. One of them is taking care of the treat and the other is doing a craft. Now, I’m going to go to Eat n Park and get smiley cookies for the snack,” she prattled on, looking entirely too smug. “So, that leaves the game up to you. Will that be a problem?” There was something in her voice. Gilded haughtiness. Smarmy high-horseness. Whatever it was, it didn’t sit well with me.

I was stunned, almost to the point of silence; completely shocked. In my periphery, I could see bright flashing lights, probably from the blood vessels that were bursting.

In my perfect world, I’d have called her a cunt a hundred different ways and threatened her vagina with a wide assortment of spiny farm tools. But over the ringing in my ears, I could hear the laughter of Chooch’s schoolmates as they played before class. And then I looked down and saw Chooch at my side, waiting to ask me a question.

So I sucked in a deep breath and said, with the slightest sarcastic lilt, “Clearly it’s not going to be a problem.” I then informed her that I already had treat bags, and I intended to still use them.

“Oh, that’s fine,” she said, and I can’t help but feel she didn’t really think that was fine at all, that some new mommy might have a chance to out-do all the veterans. “I’m bringing in tattoos for them, on  top of the smiley cookies,” she went on, reminding me again of how pathetic her snack was going to be.

Smiley cookies? Seriously? Mother of the motherfucking year. I bet your daughter will be so proud that her mommy went to a restaurant to buy Halloween cookies when a REAL MOM (or in my case – A REAL MOM WITH A HENRY) was planning on baking Halloween CUPCAKES.

I left the school that morning in tears. It’s what repressed anger does to me. (And when it gets really bad, that’s when the uncontrollable laughter kicks in, but Henry is typically the only one who angers me enough to see that.) As soon as I walked into the house, I grabbed my phone and called Henry, wherein the tears turned into waterfalls.

“I’m going to go and talk to the teacher,” Henry barked. “That’s bullshit.”

“NO!” I wailed. “You’ll just make it worse!” Like I’m suddenly the kid who’s being bullied. But it’s true, and I thought a lot about it – it will make it worse for Chooch.

“Then just don’t help them at all,” Henry suggested. “Fuck them, let them do it all!”

“That’ll ruin it for Chooch,” I reasoned. “And he’s the only reason I wanted to help in the first place.”

So you know what? Fuck those broads. Not only am I still going to bring in the treat bags, but I’m still baking those fucking cupcakes. (And of course, you’ll translate to mean “Henry is still baking those fucking cupcakes.”)

Oh, they’ll get their fucking game. I’ll bring in a Ouija board, I don’t give a fuck.

“I wish Vic [from Pierce the Veil] was my boyfriend,” I muttered to Henry just now on the way to the flea market, after a huge fight erupted over iced coffee. “I bet HE would understand me.”

Henry snorted. “Not unless he’s raised kids.”

I’ve been trying to take photos of Kara’s baby Harland forever and something always arises, whether Chooch is busting open his mouth or peeing in his pants. Seriously, he did that as soon as we got to the park on Wednesday. He never pees himself! And I didn’t have any spare clothes because, again, he never pees himself! So we had to leave the park as soon as we got there.

Tried again today, and even though the weather seemed iffy at times, it all worked out. Plus, Henry was there this time to provide an extra set of hands, and he was so insulted when Harland immediately reached back for Kara when Henry was holding him, yet allowed me to hold him. Me! I figured that it was just probably because my chubby body was cozy for him, but Kara said it was because he could tell babies make me nervous.

And they do. My fear must smell like Blow-Pops and babywipes.

But honestly, how would YOU react if you were a baby (or adult!) and suddenly found yourself ensconced in the arms of some retarded pirate-looking man with a molester-stache and poorly executed jokes?

And I can only imagine what Harland must think of Chooch. He eyes him up suspiciously. And Chooch has had a crush on Kara since the beginning of his time, so he’s kind of suspicious of Harland as well. There was one scene where Choocj watched as Kara sat Harland on her lap and together they slid down a slide. Chooch thought it should be his turn next, so he ordered Kara to put her baby “over there” while pointing to the ground a few yards away. Henry and I had to explain to him that she couldn’t abandon her child just to free up her lap for Chooch and he was kind of like, “But you guys abandon ME all the time….?”

Don’t ask.

I haven’t gone through all the pictures of Harland yet, but goddamn is that kid cute!

Sep 11 2010 020 , originally uploaded by appledale.

Spotted at Children’s Hospital, obsessed over, picture taken from a ninth floor window.

My hair has needed cut(ted) for way too long now.

I was starting to look like a baglady.

Plus the pie party is tomorrow and god forbid I should get HAIR tangled in my PIE-forking.

Anyway, I’m going back to the salon in a few weeks so Lucia can start the Back to Blond process.

Enough’s enough.

This concludes a very boring post about nothing other than my hair.

As a sort of foreword to the opinion I’m about to drop, I’d like to start by saying that Craigery Owens is someone who has touched my heart over the years. So much that I paid someone to paint a small portrait of him, which hangs on my wall. So much that I drove to Cleveland to see his solo performance and also give him one of my own paintings, which he inspired. So much that I cried when I heard of his suicide attempt during the summer of 2008.

That being said, you can imagine that I, like so many of his staunch supporters, was really upset when he was let go from Chiodos last fall. Like, heart-droppingly upset. Like “this must be some sort of a mistake” upset. And like so many of you, I felt betrayed by Chiodos and I vowed to not give a shit about any future music they might happen to produce if they had the balls to carry on without their signature voice.

But then I thought back to the winter of 2008 when they met my son, who was not quite two-years-old yet, and took such a genuine liking to him (particularly ex-drummer Derrick Frost). And that memory started to dissipate my anger. That memory enabled me to remember that Chiodos was not ever just Craig Owens. It was also Bradley, Derrick, Pat, Jason and Matt. And each one of those guys is overloaded with talent in their own right.

There are always two sides.

When the Craigery-less Chiodos announced the addition of new singer Brandon Bolmer last year, my first thought was, “Poor dude. Poor, poor dude.” The shoes he was about to step into were not only huge, but sacred in this scene.

Live videos began popping up on YouTube. Videos of the new Chiodos, with Brandon singing “Letter From Janelle.”

“This is like sacrilege,” I thought. But then I saw a video of a new song, “Caves,” and I realized that this new singer kind of had a nice voice. And this new song was kind of better than nice.

And you know what else? Craig seemed to quickly bounce back and soon began piquing his fans’ interests with cryptic tweets about new music, a new band. Knowing that made me feel relieved, kind of like finding out your ex was dating again so you didn’t have to feel guilty anymore for moving on. I realized I could support Chiodos and Craig at the same time, that there was no real post-hardcore “bro code” telling me this was unacceptable.

I pre-ordered Chiodos’ “Illuminaudio” without so much as a twinge of guilt. And when it arrived the other day, I was no more than 30 seconds into the first track when the tears began to fall, goosebumps done sprung. It made me realize that all the times I described something as breath-taking? I was lying. It took Illuminaudio to literally make me momentarily stop breathing for me to learn that lesson. Chiodos succeeded in weaving 12 tracks together with more craftmanship than your grandma’s Amish-made quilt.

In a recent interview in Alternative Press, Brandon had expressed concern that he would not be well-received by the hardcore fans of Craigery-era Chiodos. Brandon, I am here to tell you to stop your worrying. Those big shoes? They spillith over, my friend.

Brandon doesn’t try to emulate Craig’s vocals. He sings with heart and conviction; he brings with him an urgency that’s perfectly synced with the tight music chugging out behind him. This album is twelve songs sung by a man who has something to prove, backed by the intense post-hardcore metallics of a band who have something to prove.

One listen was all it took to make me a believer in Chiodos v.2.

This is a brand new Chiodos. This is a finely aged Chiodos.

So there’s a new singer. Bummer city. But this is still your Chiodos, bare-footed Jason Hale, keyboard-lurching Bradley Bell and all, who practically bled out in a studio to make a record for you. Don’t turn your backs on them. I have a feeling they might even recruit some of those vitriolic, Absolute Punk-trolling bashers of Craig Owens’ love-it-or-hate-it falsetto. Change is hard, I know. But if we all stay strong and braid each others hair, I promise you we can survive a line-up change.

Still can’t justify giving your Chiodos boycott a reprieve? Then you’re depriving yourself of a fucking anthemic, brilliantly accomplished album that segues with flawless cohesion between the scourgingly heavy (“Modern Wolf Hair”) and the shimmering melodic (“Notes in Constellations”). You’re missing out on the earworm-breeding (“Caves” – have you heardthis song? I challenge you to listen and not get it lodged in your cochlea. It’s hypnotic.)And with Mr. T’s ferocity I pity the fool who passes up a guest spot that will make all the scene girls squeal* (Pierce the Veil’s Vic Fuentes in the tongue-in-cheek “Love Is a Cat From Hell”). Sucks to be you. If you need me, I’ll just be over here in the corner, blissed out on Illuminaudio. And soon I’ll add the product of Craig’s new band, D.R.U.G.S., to the rotation. I guess I’m just greedy like that.

*Fine. I’m one of those squealing scene girls.

I really do live for fucking with Marcy. Deep down, she loves it. Just like Henry does, too.

Neon ketchup bottles, the Warhol Museum, monuments for Mister Rogers, Mount Washington, inclines, and enough Steelers memorabilia to make any visiting eyeballs hemorrhage black and gold – all pretty standard tourism fare for Pittsburgh. Where’s a person to go if they have a penchant for human remains in jars, taxidermy mash-ups, and enough antique murder weapons to arm a small colony?

Trundle Manor, Pittsburgh’s own little Wunderkammer.

Thank god for Roadside America for alerting me to such a wondrous haven in my own town. My fingers had barely given my eyes a chance to  jog over the description of “House of Oddities” before they were impatiently clicking over to the website.

Four seconds later, I was already trying to figure out when I was going and with whom. I texted my brother Corey the link and he immediately replied with a confident “Ya I’ll go.” We planned for Sunday, September 26th, since he would be in town that day from college. The website says to call or text Mr. ARM for an appointment. I was glad for the texting option.

“Um, I’m gonna guess it’s that house,” Corey said as we stood cluelessly in the middle of Juniata Street in Swissvale; he pointed to a house with an eerie green spotlight on top of a small hill. There was a definite sense of apprehension. Trundle Manor is an actual residence, not a for-profit museum. And since it was relatively late on a Sunday night, something told me we wouldn’t be taking a tour of the place huddled safely in the center of a traveling group of fanny-packed septuagenarians.

A coffin leaning against the house was the first thing we saw after climbing the steps to the porch.

I rang the doorbell (or maybe I knocked; I know these details matter to you) and we waited. Not knowing what we were walking into gave me the same bladder-molesting apprehension that occurs while waiting in line for a haunted house; I half-expected something to spring forth from that coffin. But nothing ever did, because Trundle Manor isn’t some dime a dozen haunted attraction.

It’s much better than that.

Before we could change our minds and flee from the house like two school children attempting to corral their lost ball from the neighborhood witch’s back yard, the heavy wooden door pulled open and we were greeted by a pretty, corseted blond in heels. She introduced herself as Rachel and explained that Mr. ARM would be out momentarily. We stood nervously in the foyer, which Rachel said is also known as the game room.

“Because there’s a dart board on the back of the door,” she explained, closing the door behind us. And it was officially too late to back out.

Rachel led us into the dining room, where Mr. ARM emerged with a flourish from the back side of red velvet curtains. He passed off one of the two rock glasses in his hand to Rachel and apologized for not greeting us at the door. “You can’t stop in the middle of mixing a good drink,” he explained, and Corey and I laughed nervously. And the tour commenced.

The dining room had cabinets displaying old medical mementos – scalpels, syringes, barbaric relics of dentistry which Rachel joked could be impregnating us with cancer at that very moment. There was a mannequin fitted with a vintage mourning jacket, and Mr. ARM gave us a brief history lesson on professional mourners, which sounds like something my funeral will definitely need.

Mr. ARM, who has lived in Pittsburgh his whole life and has a lot to say to the haters, has been collecting these oddities since he was seven. In addition to residing in a veritable Arcadia of artifacts, Mr. ARM is a talented steampunk artist with a remarkable moustache. (He keeps his first moustache framed in the foyer.) And Rachel is no schlep -in addition to being Mr. ARM’s muse, she’s also a talented artist with a flair for costumery.

Mr. ARM’s talking Lilliputian.

Back in the foyer (and next to the framed moustache), Mr. ARM revealed what I considered to be the pièce de résistance of the house: Olivia’s Tumor. It’s a real tumor gifted to Mr. ARM by his bellydancer friend Olivia, straight from her uterus. (I mean, it may have been fondled by some doctors first, but that’s besides the point.) Olivia said he could have it only if he gave it a proper display case. At this point in the story, Mr. ARM whipped the cover off the dome to reveal the tumor, and music began playing from the two little horns. It was sensational.

(The tumor was benign and Olivia is OK, which made me feel less of an asshole for enjoying the sight of a singing neoplasm.)

The final leg of the tour was held in the parlor, which had low, ambient lighting, an antique organ and a cornucopia of suspended death in jars. Antlers jutted from the walls and a zebra-striped rug covered the center of the floor.

And there was a jackalope.

“That’s everyone’s favorite piece,” Mr. ARM noted, referring to a taxidermied duckling perched atop a turtle; placed on a tall table in the middle of the room, they served as the parlor’s focal point. “The tagline is ‘All I did was drill a hole in a turtle?'” Mr. ARM said with a shrug. For some reason I didn’t get the punchline until later that night, at which point I laughed out loud.

The atmosphere of Trundle Manor was full of minutia which pandered perfectly to each one of the senses: the music of Henry Hall wafting from the rafters was accentuated by the clinking of ice swirling in properly mixed drinks; a musky aroma filled the room each time Mr. ARM puffed on his cigar, the smoke of which undulated around his impeccably coiffed hair. It was easy to forget that the year was 2010 not 1920.

Corey and I sat on a couch while Rachel and Mr. ARM wowed us with stories of their collections and future projects they’re planning.

“He asked me if I wanted to cut up squirrels,” Rachel said, recalling how she won the title of Mr. ARM’s muse. “So that’s what we did for our first date.” All I can say is thank god she said yes, because they’re a creative force to be reckoned with and, on top of curating a house of oddities, they’re also afficionadoes of the art of villainy.

Rachel dug out a photo of them from last year’s Zombie Fest in which Mr. ARM was the villain and she was the girl tied to the railroad tracks. I think that might have been the point where I blurted out, “You guys are my heroes.”

Hanging along the bottom of a cabinet was a row of old, rusty, and quite well-used cleavers. “This one is  my favorite,” Mr. ARM said, taking one off  and passing it over to us. It was heavy and misshapen; I had immediate red-tinged visions of using it.

“I always say, anything that can fit down my pants is free to take,” Mr. ARM said, after admitting to stealing some of the cleavers.

“What’s in that up there?” Corey asked, pointing to a large jug half-full of murky, sanguine fluid.

“Squirrels,” Rachel answered. “We had so many squirrels in the freezer that I couldn’t fit in any groceries, so I made him move them,” she explained with nonchalance. (It should be noted that Rachel and Mr. ARM do not harm living animals.)

Despite the sensory overload on the eyeballs, my favorite part of the night was – honestly – just sitting around with the ingenious Trundle Manor residents, talking about Pittsburgh and listening to their ideas and philosophies. They seemed genuinely interested in learning about Corey and me, as well, so we felt less lame about ourselves. (“Jesus Christ, I walked in there wearing a DC hoodie and Nikes,” Corey laughed on the way home, after I commented on how plain and boring we look on the outside.) There is not a single drop of pretentiousness in their blood; they’re down to Earth eccentrics with a willingness to share their work with the public and I left their abode feeling intellectually fulfilled. They even invited us back for their Victorian Sideshow Circus Halloween party, which I tried to tell Henry about when I came home that night, but I’m not sure he was able to decipher that from all my high-pitched squealing.

Visiting Trundle Manor was perhaps one of the best ideas I’ve had in awhile. If you’re ever passing through Pittsburgh and want to spend an hour or so examining creepy artifacts and perhaps even stepping outside of your comfort zone, I urge you to check it out. Just don’t forget to bring a dime if you want to see the 10 Cent Attraction.

About a year and a half ago, I drew a heart for Alisha.

Yesterday, she had it tattooed on her arm. Might just be the greatest compliment ever.

Hoo boy, it’s that time of year again.  Henry the Work Horse has set up his station at the dining room table and has already been churning out Christmas cards. So before he has a chance to take a breather, I figured I’d remind the rest of the Internet that serial killer holiday cards do in fact exist.

In addition to the ones pictured above, I’m working on some new cards for the 2010 season. Be on the look out for some jolly H.H. Holmes action and a mistletoe-thrusting Aileen Wuornos.

And for a limited time, just for you Oh Honestly, Erin readers, I’m offering a BOGO promotion. Just leave me a “message to seller” on Etsy upon check out and include the code THREE PIEROGIES, then let me know which card you’ve selected as the freebie.

Don’t see your favorite murderer pictured above? Leave a comment and tell me who should be on the next card!