My little creeper. Sometimes he makes those faces when I’m least expecting it and I just die. Especially when we’re in public, like the mall, and I look over and realize that my son is now Igor.

I hate using the flash on my phone, because I have to look away and then I’m seeing blinking penii for an unlimited collection of minutes. But anyway, this was my Friday face last week. I was wearing Rabid Weasel from the My Pretty Zombie collection, which I had forgotten about because I have so many jars of Andrea’s amazing eyelid decorators. This is a very underrated shade and it makes me want to start flaunting the sparklies again.

Today, I’m wearing Goth Mary Poppins. No pictures though. Ain’t nobody wanna see that much of my mug. I try to limit myself to posting two-to-five self-portraits a month on the blog.

Maybe I should get Henry to model one MPZ shade a week.

Ever since the Art Festival last June, Chooch has been hounding me to get him pottery classes. I made the mistake of leaving this up to Henry, since everything I found was on a weeknight and I work a sucky evening shift, so it would be up to Henry to take him. Of course, Henry dropped the ball and missed the enrollment for summer classes. So, as a Christmas present, I signed Chooch up for the winter session. God, I really have to do it all!

I worked a half day yesterday so that I could go to the first class and it was totally worth it. Even though it was only an hour. The class size was small and the kids were pretty inoffensive for the most part, which is saying a lot because usually it only takes a kid to glance in my general direction before I’m getting all huffy and designing anti-kid brigade t-shirts.

All the other moms (and one dad in the official uniform of Portland*) stayed too, but no one bugged me. But I think I was too distracted by all OF THE CLAY! THAT SWEET, BEAUTIFUL CLAY!

*(Stylishly ragged Urban Outfitters olive-green cableknit sweater; dirty pegged stonewashed jeans; boots; a modest hipster beard just brillo-y enough to tuck inside a Crayon or two in case he decided to doodle some owls on his Pabst-spotted napkin at the Wavves show; and thick-framed glasses — but I hope you already knew that he was wearing thick-framed glasses.)

Chooch and Portlandia’s spawn were the only boys in the class, so Chooch was being especially lippy because that is what he does around other girls his age. I think he especially liked this one girl with long brown hair in pigtails. She was pretty exotic-looking and I just have a feeling Dad is a doctor or high-powered businessman with stock in some wildly lucrative Japanese pornography market, so I approve.  Her mom sat next to me and knitted the whole time. I was surprisingly OK with that.

The parents at those cooking classes from 2011 were WAY more offensive than this lot, but Henry was still totally out of place and squirmed a lot. Mostly because they appeared to be NPR-listening hybrid-drivers* and Henry is one of those Blue-Collareds. He is bound to be out of place any place we go that isn’t a truck stop or Pep Boys.

*(I am OK with these kinds of people as long as they’re not snobby motherfuckers. It’s the snobby motherfuckers I hate, like the parents from Chooch’s old Catholic school. They thought they were so fucking hot.)

The instructor was this super cute artist girl with baby gauges that I desperately want to be friends with (the girl, not her gauges) because I bet she’d go to a Xiu Xiu show with me. I admired her patience and also her ability to answer the children sarcastically and not sound like a total d-bag doing it.

I forgot her name.

Anyway, the kids got to make a bird in a nest with an egg for their first project and I desperately wanted to not only make my own, but also stick my hands in there and fix everyone else’s because they were all doing it wrong. They will all be fired and ready to take home next week. Chooch said, “Yay! I can’t wait to give it to my teacher.”

WHAT THE FUCK!?  I’m sorry, but that fucking nest is going on Mommy’s desk, son.

I expected Gotye to be playing for the entire hour, but only one Gotye song came on, proving my pottery prejudices mostly wrong.

Willie, totally enrapt with watching the Pope leave Rome in a helicopter. This is fascinating to me because in the 14 years Willie has co-existed with me, I have never known her to show interest in anything other than not peeing in litter boxes.

Peace out, Pope!

4 comments

“Everyone at work said there’s nowhere to get good fruit downtown,” I told Henry in a sneering voice.

“Everyone? Everyone who?” Henry smirked.

“The whole department*! They all said ‘tell Henry to go fuck himself!’ So go fuck yourself,” I said, patting him on the stomach.

“Do I have to prove all you fuckers wrong?” he said, beginning to get all up in arms.

“Even Barb said so, and she’s well-versed in Things That Are Downtown,” I said, but Henry had already enlisted his phone to solve the problem.

“Rosebud!” Henry shouted, the glow of his cellphone screen spotlighting his tired, yet smug, face.

“It’s on the corner of [streets I don’t know]!” He gloated about this for a few more seconds before mumbling, “Oh. Never mind. It’s closed.”

*(4 people.)

2 comments

My friend Jessi shared this today on Facebook and at first I was like, “Oh. This video is over 7 minutes long. I don’t have time to watch that.

” But it had already started playing and just like that, I found myself making the time to watch it to the end and I am so glad that I did. This video is amazing. This man is an inspiration.

School was fucked up when I was a kid, but it is so much worse now — I worry all the time, is Chooch going to get shot at? is Chooch going to get bullied? is Chooch going to BULLY? We talk about that subject all of the time, and I always make him stop what he’s doing when anti-bullying commercials come on TV. There are things that were said to me when I was a kid that have become some ugly, fucked up accessory that I feel like I almost flaunt to a fault.

I could weigh 100 pounds and still find fat that I want to cleave off.

But most of it came from home. I will take this fucking inferiority complex to the grave, but I’ll be damned if my son is going to have one and I’ll be doubly-damned if my kid’s going to give some other kid one.

You should definitely make the time to watch this. And pass it on. It’s fucking beautiful.

1 comment

Yesterday, Henry made me take the trolley to work, resulting in me having to walk fifteen minutes in ten degree weather. You might think, “Oh here it comes. Yet another predictable blog post berating and emasculating Henry while somehow finding a way to mention for the 87th time that he dropped a bowling ball on her foot.” But no! This blog post is actually thanking him for making me take the trolley, because I ended up having a Unicorn Moment^TM.

(Although the severe coldness nearly made my already half-dead bowling ball toes turn into grape-colored freezepops.)

I was standing alone on the trolley platform when I noticed a man dressed entirely in an olive-palette mountain climbing ensemble approach the ramp. He brandished a blind person stick, which pendulated in jerky arcs across the pavement.

“Oh god, please don’t come up here,” I thought in a mild panic. What if he needed help getting on the trolley and I was the only one there? What if he fell over into the tracks and I was too stupid to remember the number for 911? What if I tried to help him off the tracks and then my foot got caught and holy shit I don’t want to die like that! What if his blindness heightened his ability to feel the hellfire of my aura and he started shouting in Latin about me being a demon and the Sam and Dean Winchester pulled up and shanked me over top of some AC/DC joint? What if he was only pretending to be blind so that he could find gullible broads like me to pity-rape* in a storm cellar? LITERALLY ANY OF THESE THINGS COULD HAPPEN.

(*This has only happened to me once, when I took pity on a Canadian with a gigantic head.)

And then he was at the top of the ramp, three feet away from me. I considered standing stock-still, hoping he wouldn’t smell my panicked perspiration or sense the heat waves of fear emanating from my body.

But then I thought, if I were a blind person, I would want to know if someone was around in case I started doing weird calisthenics or an X-rated hand jive routine. So, in a voice that sounded like a 20-year-old orgasm finally expulsed from a nun, the word “hello!!!!” shot from my mouth and kind of just levitated awkwardly in the cold winter air while the blind man rotated slowly to face the direction of my voice.

And then we exchanged weather-pleasantries and laughed about Good Ol’ Pittsburgh for a minute before I went back to nervously counting and re-counting my trolley fare and he went back to being blind.

If I was blind, I would probably just use that blank screen to play imaginary Dr. Mario 24:7.

Before I could spend any more time in blind man fantasy land, another person joined us on the platform.

A goddamn motherfucking Asian midget, are you fucking kidding me. Best day ever!

Unicorn Moment^TM in full effect!

But then the trolley pulled up and  I went back to fixating on the blind man, who had overshot where the trolley would stop.

I wondered if I would have to walk over and be his guide dog (I don’t have many “guiding” qualifications, but I’ve been called a dog by plenty of middle school boys), but the whoosh of the trolley door opening was enough to steer him back toward me and the Asian midget.

“After you, sir,” I said to him. Seriously! I said that! (When I told Barb at work, I think she thought I was lying.) Then I had to watch him struggle with the toll machine, which kept rejecting his dollar bills. I was going to offer assistance but please, I’m a card-carrying Trolley Dunce. There was one time when it wouldn’t take my dollar and the driver completely lost his shit and screamed, “THIS FUCKING THING! JUST GO SIT DOWN! I MIGHT AS WELL JUST LET EVERYONE RIDE FOR FREE TODAY, FOR FUCKS’ SAKE!

” and then gave the toll machine a swift blow with the heel of his hand. I almost cried.

Meanwhile, it wasn’t the toll machine’s fault. The dollar I was trying to use had been laundered numerous times and by this point in its sad life resembled a thin, transparent sheet of cotton.

(I don’t know that it’s really called a Toll Machine.)

Anyway, the other reason I didn’t try to help was because what if this guy was one of those Handicapable Crusaders who hiss in the general direction of kind and helping hands? I didn’t want to get hissed at. Just being on the trolley in and of itself was like being hissed at by the Universe. How much more could I bear.

Meanwhile, Asian Midget had made himself at home in the front seat and was savagely gnashing his way through some sort of giant, hot stinky meat sandwich the size of his own wobbly head. So where do I choose to sit? Right behind him. He kept getting up to talk to the trolley driver (seriously, one of THOSE busy bodies) which afforded me ample opportunity to realize that he looked like a stunted version of the Hoobastank motherfucker dressed in a long (but probably normal for the rest of us) trenchcoat and chinos and he walked with an obnoxious self-confidant swagger.  He pulled off his knit cap to shake and fluff a thick bouffant of 1990’s skater hair—which I was honestly not expecting to be under there— and then re-scarfed himself, almost whipping me in the face with one end of it.

God only knows what they possibly had to talk about.

And then some guy came on and asked the driver something about trolley stops, so Asian Midget interjected and started schooling him in the art of Which Stop To Get Off. He even hit the “Stop Requested” strip for him!

I guess he was just trying to prove that he could reach it.

———-

I had to ride it again today. This time I was the only person with a disability (I have a disabled personality) who was waiting, but I’m pretty sure two of the broads with me were off-duty strippers.

And not the fancy kinds, either.

Some older man in a Steelers coat started asking me questions about the trolley, like: “Does the Red Line come out here from the North Shore?”

I don’t know, does it? Why does everyone come to me with their public transportation questions when I look like a frightened Farmer’s Daughter taking a trip to the City to get her ailing grandma some Medicine? In my head,  everyone on the trolley is flicking a switchblade beneath their seat.

Sometimes I think people must look at me and mistakenly think they saw me on TV, winning it all on the Port Authority question on Final Jeopardy.

God, go ask the Asian Midget.

7 comments

Yesterday I went to castle blood for their valentine show and there were a lot of pop-up monsters and Janna’s fortune didn’t love her and daddy peed his pants! Daddy got yelled at for not turning off his phone and mommy was not awesome the whole time. I was awesome the whole time and I got to rip a heart out of a monster and it said I never loved you any way! Katelyn (my frenemy) gave me cookies and love potion.

Today Mommy had to get her dumb fruit and Daddy acted like a idiot who is at work and he knows everything about the weird Asian market and it smells like fish in there

They still won’t let me get a durian!!!!!

2 comments

I got a splinter and blah blah Daddy hurt it really bad. i wish i never had a splinter…it felt really bad…daddy had to use a pin and tweezers…he was torchering me.

—————————–

Erin’s 2 cents:

My favorite part was at the very beginning of this incident, where Chooch learned that he had a splinter in his foot. He very casually said, “Huh. My foot kind of hurts. Did I step on something?” As soon as I said the “s” word, he fucking FLIPPED HIS SHIT. He’s never had a splinter before so I’m not sure how he knew that this was going to turn from mildly irritating to OMG I’M BEING KILLED. Maybe it was a lunch table topic one day at school.

He just stood there yelling in front of me, so I said, “Um….go upstairs and tell daddy.”

Which loosely translates into “Tell your dad to deal with this shit.”

Moments later I heard this ungodly, high-pitched shriek so I ran upstairs to spectate. I mean, Chooch + Splinter + a tweezer-wielding Henry = Must See TV.

What I found was a red-faced child flailing on my bed. Henry, ignoring the melodrama, held him in one place with one hand clamped around his ankle, the other hand scraping away at the dead skin around the splinter. He looked so patient, his mouth pursed in quiet concentration. I don’t know Henry does it!

Meanwhile, Chooch’s head was tossed back, one hand draped across his forehead, and he was screaming, “I HATE YOU DADDY! I WISH THIS NEVER HAPPENED! DADDY YOU’RE HURTING ME!!!” It was the performance of a lifetime.

I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you that we live in a duplex and our neighbors were very much home. I had to counter with my own yells: “IT’S JUST A SPLINTER! DADDY IS JUST TRYING TO HELP! PLEASE NEIGHBORS DON’T CALL THE POLICE!”

Moments later, the splinter had been extracted and Chooch’s tear ducts miraculously plugged themselves. After all that. Life went on.

An hour later, we were watching a man writhing in pain post-zombie attack on The Walking Dead. “He looks just like me after I got a splinter,” Chooch observed sadly, without an ounce of sarcasm.

The next morning, we were walking to school. I still had a limp from the Big Bowling Ball Boo-Boo, which Chooch noted and scoffed, “My limp is worse than your limp.”

“It totally is not!” I cried.

“Yeah, it is. My foot injury is way worse than yours,” he argued.

“You had a splinter. I had a BOWLING BALL DROPPED ON MY FOOT!!”

“Yeah,” he replied smugly. “And the splinter was worse.”

Yeah well….I wrote more sentences than him!

3 comments

THIS IS REALLY HOW IT HAPPENED.

I have vowed to mention Henry’s brutal bowling blunder at least once a day on the Internet for an entire week. I have one day left. Maybe I’ll recreate the crime using Homies.

Happy Valentines’s Day, Henry, you brute.

3 comments

After Henry killed all chances of Saturday Night Intimacy when he murdered my foot with a bowling ball, we left Chooch with his Aunt Kelly and went to visit Henry’s mom Judy, who has been in the hospital since Thursday morning, recovering from a liver surgery. (She is OK, but has to stay in the hospital for a week, which sucks!)

As soon as we got to her room, she started questioning me about my foot (Henry had told her over the phone). You should know that Judy LOVES HER SON. I mean, you want to talk about Golden Boys? In her eyes, he can do no wrong. However, even Judy knew that Henry done FUCKED UP this time. I sat there with my arms crossed, shooting smug looks at Henry while his mom, the actual patient, fussed over my foot.

She wanted me to go to the ER in the worst way, and now I kind of wish that I had, if only to watch Henry’s face blanche as I told all of the nurses and doctors about the abuse that had befallen me that day.

Son of the Year Henry ate Judy’s hospital dinner. Mmm, beef tips over noodles.

Before we left, I pulled Henry into the hospital chapel. I poked my head around the corner first to make sure there weren’t any sobbing family members or bereavement clubs going on, and then I began exploring while Henry stood off to the back, making disapproving sighs.

I signed the chapel prayer book (even though I kept calling it the guest book) and Henry was bracing himself. Jesus Christ, I didn’t write anything bad! Do you think THAT poorly of me, Henry?

Moments later, I swiped some chapel souvenirs. I have big plans for that cross. It involves pink spraypaint, a tiny plastic babydoll and the essence of Satan.

In the parking garage, Henry opened the car door for me. OH, HOW GALLANT.

1 comment

We were on our way to the petting zoo when my life changed forever.

“You girls want a free keychain?” An old man in suspenders and a trucker cap was hunched over arthritically beneath a tent, dangling a beaded keychain. He could have been dribbling an atomic bomb and I would have approached him; the declaration of something being “free” gets me every time. Plus, he was only wearing suspenders and a trucker cap, remember. I love eldernudes.

The keychain wasn’t yet in my hand when Alisha became painfully aware of what was really happening.

“Oh OK, yeah. No thanks,” she said haughtily, veering abruptly away from the tent.

He was church people. Inside the small tent, other church people had stuffed innocent fair-goers into folding chairs and were working Jesus-spells upon their wallets. I turned around and found that Alisha had already been swallowed to safety by the 4H tent.

“Would you like to learn the meaning behind the keychain?” the old man asked in a voice quaking with age.

No, I didn’t really want to. But I still found myself saying, “Yes, please.” Old people. The men ones especially. They goddamn get me every time! Plus, he was from the Living Word Evangelical Free Church, and I didn’t think I’d ever had my Evangelical cherry popped. Hey Mormons, you don’t own me, OK?

So I stood there under this low tent, sweat rolling down my back, feigning interest in these plastic beads that are supposed to represent various parts of Jesus’s anatomy or something, I don’t know. He went slowly through each colored bead, taking the time to explain things like “purity” because it doesn’t take much more than a cursory glance to see that I’m missing that in my life.

I had a feeling the black bead was going to represent “sin,” so when he gripped it between his thumb and forefinger I interrupted him with an obnoxious “Ooooh, ooooh!” hand raise, and he reluctantly let me guess. And I was right! Obviously that’s something I know a lot about.

“Do you have religion in your life?” he asked, eying me up behind his dirty bi-focals.

I can’t remember the exact lie I blurted out, but I know it was strung together with anxious stutters and guilty eye-flickering, like it was God himself in front of me and not some half-crippled liver-spotted church recruiter.

“Well, do you believe you’re going to Heaven?” he asked.

“Um, I hope so?”

“You better KNOW so!” and his laugh was served on a bed of gooey death-phlegm.

He gave me some literature and showed me a picture of a waterfall. “Would you jump off that for $1000?” he asked.

“I mean, I’m a sucker, but no. No, I don’t think I would,” I said, hoping it was the right answer and that I wasn’t going to have to listen to him read aloud from the Bible while shoving snakes in my face.

“I wouldn’t either!” And he laughed that sick, hospice laugh again and clapped me on the arm with his bony hand. It stung a bit. “Well, I’mma let you catch up with your friend. It was very nice talking with you and I hope you enjoy your day at the fair!”

And he sent me off with my keychain which was probably made by the collective fingers of a scared and abused Bible camp, and my God brochure, which I used to jot down all the mean things Alisha said to me throughout the day. For instance: when I wanted to get my caricature done and she said they probably couldn’t make my head any bigger than it already is. I acted mad, but it’s actually kind of true.

I found Alisha inside the 4H tent, pretending to have a heart by cooing at goats.

“I’m religious now,” I panted with excitement.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she muttered.

***

A few hours later, I was waiting outside the restrooms for Alisha, who was inside a stall adjusting her prosthetic leg. There was a tractor-pull going on in the field behind the restrooms, and I was trying to peer around a pole to see it better.

“Why do you always look so creepy?

” Alisha said, exiting the bathroom behind me. “It looks like you’re trying to pole dance.”

“I was just trying to see what’s going on behind the fence!” I explained defensively.

“Well, why don’t we actually over there and watch so you can stop looking like a creep,” Alisha suggested. She’s always trying to make sure I don’t get mistaken for a prostitute, that’s why I like her.

The stands were full so we found a patch of grass surrounded on three sides by a collection of exposed ass cracks.

“I’ve never seen a tractor pull before,” I said, full of the excited naivete of someone who had just left the porn shop for the farm.

“Trust me, it’s not that exciting,” Alisha warned.

“I’ll be the judge of that!” I yelled.

It was not that exciting.

Sitting there with a cigarette in her hand, Alisha got real serious. “Can I tell you a secret?” she asked. I love secrets, but no one ever really tells me any, something about me telling the Internet or something?

“I don’t like blond people,” she said quietly. I waited for her to follow up by saying she’s left a towheaded body count from Arkansas to Pittsburgh. “I just don’t trust them.” There was a young blond guy standing off to her left, and she pointed at him. “Mostly guys though.”

Alisha delved deeper, telling me personal experiences which have shaped her distaste of blond men.

I considered this. On cue, a blond douchebag in an Abercrombie shirt, wrists adorned with hemp, walked past in sandals. In my mind, I ran through a list all the blond guys I know. “Yeah,” I agreed. “Most blond guys are cocky.”

I thought about it some more. “To be honest though, I’m thinking of past cast members from The Real World.” Like that Ryan dickhead who’s on the current New Orleans season, what a prick, am I right?

Alisha sighed. “I love how I share something personal with you and you ruin it with your stupid Real World references.”

She was just bitter that I got an awesome keychain and she didn’t.

No comments

Laying in bed just now, I thought to myself, “I think in my last post, I used ‘prologue’ instead of ‘epilogue’.”

And then of course I couldn’t rest until I made sure. And I was right. But who even cares? That totally could have waited until the morning, but no—I had to check RIGHT NOW, and for what? For another reason to delay bedtime.

I just can’t get my mind to shut off and stop thinking about the same things, over and over. And then when I do finally fall asleep, my dreams have been so vivid and upsetting that I wake up completely restless and exhausted.

And then I spend the rest of the day feeling disoriented and emotionally frustrated.

Something is off; I can’t figure it out and it is driving me fucking nuts.

I do not like this winter very much at all.

3 comments

Went to Goodwill in search of a cake pedestal for tomorrow’s photo shoot & weren’t in there for more than 30 seconds (maybe even less) before Cat Lady Chooch spotted a book about cats. He almost knocked some broad over when he lunged to grab it. I have no idea how he even saw it on the bookshelf amongst 61719304 other books.

3 comments

My job is wonderful and gives us the day off for Martin Luther King Day, so since Chooch didn’t have school and Henry came home from work early, we went to the Carnegie Museum.  Henry spent most of time acting like he personally dug up the dinosaur bones.

OMG my favorite part! FRUIT! #4 is a sapodilla, which my friend Kevin recently flaunted at me on Facebook because he lives in Miami and can easily acquire these elusive temptresses that supposedly taste of brown sugar and root beer and why can’t they be in my mouth right now!?

#8 is a cherimoya (though the museum has it listed as its alias, the custard apple), which is currently my favorite fruit and deserves its own blog post, but I have not had the mental braun to do anything about that lately. This happens every January.

Looks like I’ll be making Henry a pot of mushroom soup for Valentine’s Day.

There was some lady there who kept trying to insist that Chooch stick around for all the family photos she was taking of her totally out-of-control children. You know it’s bad when even Chooch is like, “Um, this is awkward.”

It was practically blizzarding by the time we left.

The rest of the weekend was spent amassing tea cups from Goodwill, working on the totally classy 1970s Porn Stars card series, barking orders at Henry, and eating sushi and watching “Sinister” with Laura. And then promptly having nightmares. (Because of the movie, not Laura.)

I’ve been neglecting this blog, I know. I’ve just been so preoccupied with designing new greeting cards and getting things together for a photo shoot idea that Chooch and I have for this weekend, and I think I might start painting monsters again for a creepy craft show I’m going to be vending at in March. Keeping busy: the best way to beat the Winter Sads.

4 comments

This is my most-viewed photo of all time on Flickr, for some reason. Henry, reenacting Andrew Borden after getting 40 whacks from his daughter Lizzie.

Interesting.

2 comments

Stumbled across this photo I took with my Holga at the 2008 Warped Tour. This was the first time I got to see Pierce the Veil live and I of course sobbed through the whole thing.

Plus, my friend Maya is making a Vic Fuentes companion to my Jonny Craig doll, complete with a tiny embroidered Jaws t-shirt, just like the one he was wearing at that year’s Warped Tour. I went back and re-read that post this morning and felt so happy. God, that was such a good day, and an overall fantastic year. I feel compelled to re-share that Warped Tour post, so now you have to read it! Even if it’s just for the picture of Henry eating nachos. (This might have been Henry’s least favorite Warped Tour of all time. I imagine it was a huge shock to his system.)

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

This year, Henry had the pleasure of taking his two favorite kids to Warped Tour: his son Blake, and, well…me. I kept ducking while we were stuck in concert traffic because I didn’t want the surrounding carfuls of scene kids to laugh and say, “Oh god, that girl is going with her dad, how lame.” When we entered the parking lot, we drove past the drop-off area and Henry said, “God, those parents are so lucky that they don’t have to go in.” Then he tried to murder me with a look of disgust and resentment.

It was nearly noon by the time we managed to park the car. Blake didn’t have a ticket yet so he and I stood around idly outside the entrance to Post Gazette Pavilion while Henry went and bought his ticket. We were approached by the singer and guitarist of Uh-Oh Explosion, who were toting around a box of their CDs. Making small talk, the singer asked if Blake and I were “together.” Instinctively, we both took a step apart and emphatically answered “NO.” Trying to figure it out, he squinted his eyes and guessed, “Brother and sister?” We shook our heads. I saw Henry lingering a few yards away, knowing better than to walk over and lame-up the convo. I pointed to Henry and said, “OK, see that guy? That’s his dad, and my boyfriend.”

This kid (he was only 17) thought this was so fucking fantastico for some reason. “That’s so awesome! Like, talk about closeness. And you guys all came to Warped together!” He paused for a second, before sending my stomach to the meat grinder. “So do you guys have threesomes too?”

RECORD SCRATCH.

I was ready to whistle for the cement mixer to come and seal up my sex organs for real. So disturbing and awkward. I still bought their CD though, because what I heard sounded good and proceeds went to the animals. And what’s a little quasi-incest discourse in the name of stray cats, am I right.

Once we got inside, I was like a kid on Christmas. My eyes had a veritable scene kid feast as we weaved our way to the main stage, where Sky Eats Airplane was playing. Blake and I have the same taste in music — the more scream-y the better. Henry, however, shits himself when he hears hateful bellows, so he took this as an opportunity to go and find a set schedule and then conveniently lose us. Sky Eats Airplane was a good way to start the day.

In between bands, I got to ogle more scene kids. I was wondering why I was so fascinated with them when it dawned on me: If that scene was around when I was a teen, I’d totally have been the first on board. I used to make fun of them,  but now I want to like, write a book about them or something. I’ll start with Blake.

Averting the Hare Krishnas, we went to the Highway 1 Stage to catch From First To Last. Henry was all, “I’m perfectly fine standing all the way back here” and sent Blake and I into the crowd to get pummeled without adult supervision. Anyway, FFTL’s singer Sonny left two years ago and it was a little strange watching them perform without him. Their new material is a little too easy-to-digest and mainstream for my liking, but they ended the set with “Ride the Wings of Pestilence” which always makes me want to sacrifice a shack of Mexican prostitutes. And drink some of Henry’s blood.

Not interested in any bands playing right after FFTL, we walked around and looked at t-shirts and other merch for awhile. Henry, who had bragged on  the way there that he NEVER gets sunburned, started complaining about his nose getting burnt. He kept trying to sneak away and pose under trees in his signature old man-stance. Blake and I would pause and hunker down over the schedule, trying to determine which bands were must-sees and which ones we could skip without losing sleep that night. I kept trying to include Henry, but he would grumble, “I don’t know, does that band actually SING? Then NO, I don’t want to see them.” Perhaps Henry should have just went to that twanged-out Jamboree with Tina instead. Fuck.

 

1. The Bronx: I almost got trampled trying to push my way to the stage to see them, only to leave after ten minutes to run to another stage far away to see Alesana. They were really good and made me want to continually punch Henry in the balls. I always forget how much aggression I have until I go to shows like this. I just found out that they’re going on a tour of LA Mexican restaurants as a mariachi band and oh, who I wouldn’t kill to see that.
2. Alesana: They were playing on the main stage, and Henry was like, “Thank god, now I can sit my weary bones down!” So Blake and I begrudgingly sat down too. I realize that I enjoy bands less when I’m sitting, because I become too distracted with people-watching. Because of this, I don’t remember if I liked Alesana live or not. All I remember is that Blake picked up an Underoath CD release poster from the ground and gave it to me, making me  think he wanted me to keep it, so I ended up lugging it around all day in my backpack only to wind up throwing it away the next day.
3. Human Abstract: Another main stage band, but at least this time Henry allowed himself to be dragged down to the floor by the stage. I had never heard their music before, only seen the ads in Alternative Press for their new CD, so I really wasn’t sure if I was going to like them. Even aside from the immediate crush I developed on the keyboard player, I ended up liking them a lot. They were nice and heavy, but had an interesting melodic side as well. Blake thought they were just alright and stayed sitting down next to his old man for their entire set. This was also around the time that I considered slamming my camera to the pavement because it was taking such shitty pictures, but after Henry inspected it for three seconds, he deduced it was because I had a giant finger print on the lens. I didn’t hate my camera after that.

After the Human Abstract, it was nearly time for Pierce the Veil. They were the main reason I was there and all day it felt like butterflies were fornicating in my belly. It was either Pierce the Veil anticipation or the residual side effects of being asked if my vagina is friendly with both generations of Robbins. Henry once again stood in the sidelines, but I weaved my way as close to the stage as I could get. Which was fairly close since they were still sound-checking.

To show his unwavering adoration, Vic vowed to wear his Jaws shirt every day for the duration of Shark Week. He kept going on and on about sharks and I know this is going to make me look bad but I’m going to be honest: all I could think about was Tina’s vagina, gnashing against flailing legs. Thank God they started playing right after that because fuck — my mind disgusts me sometimes. And holy shit, their set was fucking fantastic. It was so good, that I didn’t even mind the heat or having two bitches dropped on me (thank God for Blake, else they’d have hit the pavement). They basically just play a blend of alternative rock, with some screamo-lite thrown in for scene cred, but what makes them stand apart for me is their lyrics. They’re smart, morbid, sad, and just overall clever. At the end of one of their songs, they segued right into a thirty second cover of “Bleeding Love” which was a million times better than the original we’re guaranteed to hear every time we walk into a grocery store. They also threw in a cover “Beat It” which was energenic and really fun to watch, and they ended the set with “Party Like a Rock Star” gone metal.

I did NOT want that set to end. Even Blake admitted that he was surprised how good they were live, and Henry was like, “Yes, fine, I liked what I heard all the back there in Parent Alley.” It was one of those moments where you want to call everyone you know and give them a hyper review in a shrill voice, but you know no one will give a shit. So then you’re just depressed.

We had a lot of time to kill after Pierce the Veil, so I bought a five dollar soft pretzel while wishing for once I ate meat so I could get a corn dog for $3.50 — the cheapest foodstuff there. Henry got nachos which looked like slop. Henry’s demeanor seemed to uncurdle a bit while he was coating his ‘stache with cheese sauce. He even smiled a few times and I think he laughed once.

While we were chilling out at the picnic table, Blake proposed that he move in with us. Maybe it was just the contact high of being with someone who actually gave a shit about music, but I declared that this was the best idea I had ever heard in all of my life, even better than my idea to direct porn, so now he might be moving in with us. It would make my scene kid research easier, for sure.

Blake was so sad that we missed Katy Perry while we were foraging for discounted sustenance. He even pulled his hat down low to hide the tears. But maybe it was because he saw kids he knew and was embarrassed of Henry.

• Evergreen Terrace: I liked them alright but there was nothing mind-blowing that made me want to scour Ebay for rare memorabilia. However, during one of their songs, they chanted “I want you dead” and maybe there’s something wrong with me, but I thought that would be such a romantic sentiment to have engraved on wedding bands.
• Classic Crime: Another band that sounds good in stereo, but didn’t hold my attention live. Instead, I stared at this really surly girl who was like an overweight scene Sami Brady from Days of Our LIves. She was climbing over rows of seats and even though she was struggling to swing her trunk-legs over, she didn’t let it deter her from scaling the next row, until eventually she lost her momentum and wound up clotheslining her crotch. It brought me joy, lots of joy.
• 3OH!3: I wouldn’t have sought this band out normally, but we wanted to see the band that was coming on right after them, so we hung out for their set. I thought I was going to hate them at first, because that wave of white boy rap-rock-electronica kind of annoys me. But they ended up being so fucking fun and there was a really hot blond chick dancing on the side of the stage, so they kept my attention for sure. During their last song, it basically turned into a chaotic dance party on stage, and even Blake’s girlfriend Katy Perry was up there dancing with her man Travis from Gym Class Heroes (who I walked past earlier and wanted to say, “Your gf is a gaybo” but I wasn’t feeling assholey enough. Plus, I like Travis.). Anyway, I’m going to have 3Oh!3 play at my Sweet Thirtieth Birthday Orgy Masquerade. It’s gonna be tight.
• Bring Me the Horizon: Blake ran into some of his friends right as they came on, so we were officially ditched. Henry and I hung around for a few songs, but Henry looked like he wanted to call out for his mommy, so I spared him. I really liked BMTH though — they made me want to fillet a cop.
• The Devil Wears Prada: Sans Blake, things were pretty lame. I wanted to get closer to the stage but Henry was all OH HELL NAH so I was like, “Fuck this then” and went to buy a shirt instead. Henry, you pussy.

The day was coming to an end by this point, and Blake had re-joined us in time for Dr. Manhattan. I was torn, because they were playing at the same time as Norma Jean, side-by-side. And I love Norma Jean. Norma Jean blocked out Eleanore’s nerve-prickling coupon-cutting many a night for me. But I chose Dr. Manhattan, along with fifteen other people. It was sad! But you know a band is good when there are OTHER bands in the crowd watching them. And they were good — they were quirky and fun and energenic and they made me laugh out loud a few times. Unfortunately, Norma Jean was one stage over, luring people into their crowd. They had gigantic black beach balls and I won’t lie — I’m a sucker for a beach ball. At one point, I yelled to Henry, “Hey, do you want to go over and watch Norma Jean for the rest of their set?” but right then, two people left Dr. Manhattan’s crowd and the singer — in the middle of a song — stopped and yelled, “Hey! Where are you guys going??” It was so sad/cute/scary that I looked at Henry and said, “Never mind!”

At the end of their show, some of the bands in the crowd started chanting, “One more song!” but they weren’t allowed because of time constraints. So the singer started chanting back, “One more crowd!”, the retardedness of which made me laugh. I was also dehydrated, though. Overall, I was glad I stayed loyal to Dr. Manhattan, because their set was rewarding.

And that was it. We walked back to the car and already I started to feel the body-dragging effects of post-show depression. Then I thought about how all day long I had been talking about all the bands I wanted to see, but by the end of the night, all I wanted to see was Chooch.

No comments

The blogosphere makes me feel obligated to play this game every year.

So…here it is.

2012 was OK! No, it was better than OK, but it was also the year that my cat Don had to get put to sleep and some lunatic called CPS on us. But it was actually a pretty good year with a lot of positive changes at home and at work, and it was also the year I reunited with my best friend (my most-viewed post of the year, even) and learned that just because a girl spells out her swear words does not mean she’s an angel. Faaar from it!

I’d say that I learned I need to be less trusting, but let’s face it: I am who I am.

Sometimes I let in the wrong people, but those are my lessons to learn. And I’m more than OK with that because I will never let another person knock me down.

So anyway, here are my 12 best moments of 2012 off the top of my head.

1. The Law Firm Walking Challenge: Or, When Erin R Kelly Turned Into a Monster

Part 1 // Part 2

2. I Baked a Cake!

3. I Survived a Trolley Ride

4. I Rollerskated with Deaf People!

5. I Stole an Orange Ball

Part 1 / Part 2

6. Henry Wore Makeup (Wasn’t the first time, and won’t be the last)

7. I Was Almost Raped By An Elderly Man (No, Not Henry)

8. Henry, Kitten Crusader

9. Henry Went to Warped Tour

10. Andrea Got Dressed Up

11. Ross’s Blackberry

Part 1 / Part 2

12. Chooch’s Secret Friend

Honorable Mention: Eating With the Hare Krishnas

Happy New Year, Internet! Please keep reading this in 2013, thanks and good night!

7 comments