The other day, I found this picture of my friend Lisa and me. It’s from 1996, and we were at Denny’s before going to our friend Evan’s art show. I’m not sure why Lisa looks so tired. Maybe she was just feeling psychologically worn knowing that she had like, 5 more hours  to spend with me that day. (I was kind of hyper & annoying back then. I’m totally not like that anymore.)

Lisa was just in town over the weekend, and with her she brought her shiny brand new fiance, Matt. Because Lisa currently lives in Colorado and no one here in Pittsburgh had met Matt, there was a meet and greet at her grandma’s house Saturday afternoon. I wanted to make a good impression on Matt, so I sent Henry to Vanilla Pastry Studio that morning to pick up a quad of Congratulations, You (and everyone else) Got Engaged Before Me cupcakes.

We arrived to find Lisa in the kitchen, where a nice buffet of party food called to me like the fucking Green siren of weight gain. I kept eyeballing it around Lisa’s shoulder, and oh shit was that mango salsa? (It was.)

Lisa introduced me to her future husband by saying, “This is Erin, we’ve been friends ever since I threatened to beat her up in eighth grade.” (True story. It happened at the Halloween dance, because I was being a punk bitch.) And then I presented Lisa with the cupcakes. I was going to say something to the effect of likenening them to God’s wedding cake, because she’s a radical Christian; however, her dad was looming too close for comfort and I’ve always felt he didn’t approve of me (probably because my entire aura flashes HEATHEN in neon) so instead I was like, “Yo, here are the best cupcakes ever.”

And as she lifted the top, I stood there smugly, chest puffed out a little, waiting for her to enthuse about how beautiful they looked, almost too beautiful to eat, and if she could, she would choose one to wear atop her wedding veil.

But instead, she let out her signature goblet-shattering guffaw. (She seriously has the loudest, most startling laugh of anyone I have ever met and I pray someday it’s recorded and used in a cartoon.) And (after recoiling from the sonic blast) I’m all, “What the fuck is so funny about cup—-…..Oh.” Apparently, they had decided to have group sex in one of the corners of the box, presumably to an updated version of an old Spice Girls song,  “4 Become 1.” (That was for you, Alisha.)

And of course, the revelers had paused their conversations long enough to witness this catastrophe. (It was a catastrophe to me, OK?) I heard someone murmur, “Aw, oh no.”

Not really knowing what else to say, and feeling the burn of strange eyeball beams upon my person, I let out a monotone, “Oh, oopsies” which apparently sounded entirely more sarcastic than I intended, because Lisa laughed even harder and said, “Oh, nice reaction!”

Apparently, she thought I had known about it, possibly even done it intentionally. Then she made me say “Oh, oopsies” again and stand there awkwardly displaying the box of car-crashed cupcakes while she took a picture and EVERYONE WATCHED.

I know, I have been writing on the Internet since 2001, but I do NOT LIKE BEING FOCUSED ON IN REAL LIFE. I’m a walking study in contradiction.

Eventually, everyone ripped their eyes off my mangled mess and went back to conversing. I think half of the guest list was engaged. Lots of ring-flashing was going on, which made me glare at Henry with such intensity, I hope he could feel the bamboo sticks with which I was mentally q-tipping his dickhole.

“What?” he said defensively. “I’ll propose! When I find the right girl.” A typical Oh, Henry moment.

Later that night, Lisa called me to thank me for coming. Then she goes, “So Matt and I were reviewing the best moments of the day, and you and the cupcakes win hands down.” More raucous laughter. “What was it that you said again?”

Jesus Christ, Lisa.

To Henry, I was saying, “Why would she think I did that intentionally??” and he goes, “Uh, because she knows you very well and that’s totally something you would do.”

“Well, yeah. But not with her family there!”

Somehow, I’m sure I’ve made worse entrances, at least.

Learning About Plants & Kara

Originally posted August 21, 2007

There I was on a dreary Sunday, sitting around in just Henry’s underwear and watching instructional knitting videos, when Kara arrived to hang out. I started to get up from my filth to fetch her a particularly swiss-cheesy pair of underroos, when she stopped me. It seemed that in lieu of festering in Henry’s waste and eating freezer-burnt bonbons while watching 70s horror porn, Kara was in favor of actually leaving the house and going to that place where people go — I think it’s called the outside. Outdoors? Public? Slaughterho—no wait, I’m thinking of something else.

She seemed desperate to wile away her afternoon at Phipps Conservatory, where a riveting Chihuly glass exhibit was underway. Not wanting to get in between her and culture, I agreed. It gave me a reason to use my rainbow backpack that I bought specifically for Warped Tour but then left it hanging on the knob of the bathroom door.

Did I mention the adorable unicorn appliqué on the backpack? I hoped people would think I was a lesbian. A lesbian with an enviable collection of black light-sensitive felt unicorn posters in a day-glo array.

Flowers and non-flower plants don’t really get my fancy very tickled, but I was pleasantly pleased to discover some new species that I had never heard of.

1. Creepy Laughing Male:

Balding on the crown of his head and clad in an army jacket, this species will creep up behind you and molest your ear drum with his scandalous laughter, which feels like a big wet tongue and makes your shoulders raise to your earlobes in hopes of acting like a condom, before whipping out his camera and turning his molestational instincts onto the helpless plants. He is accompanied by his presumed paramour in a striped shirt and he will later make you recoil when he appears to be snapping perverse shots of a random baby in a carriage. Later you will learn that the baby is really his and his companion is his father, not paramour. But watching him slouch in his seat in the cafe still doesn’t make you feel like planting his seeds in your garden.

More angles of Creepy Laughing Man:

2. Witch Disguised as Pedestrian:

Slipping into a pink sweater does little to camouflage this white haired witch’s natural aura, especially when she is incapable of denying her vast knowledge of every spice and herb growing in the outside garden. Your first reaction will be to assume she’s planning on making a brew that will eradicate the entire elf population of Western Pennsylvania, and you’re ashamed when you find out that really she’s just planning on whipping up an aromatic stew for her dinner guests that evening. Way to be prejudiced. You’re probably also the kind of person who would slide over a chalice of bat juice to a witch without actually taking their beverage order, when maybe they’d have preferred a nice White Russian in a frosted high ball.

But yeah, you’re right. She does have some magical locks.

3.Thai Food Aficionado:

Can be found predominantly in the tropical gardens of Phipps’ Thailand Section, monopolizing the employee inside a kiosk displaying samples of Thai spices. He will pressure her until her eyes water in fear, demanding to know every last datum of curry until she eventually fakes the need to blow her nose continually, causing him to shrug and leave. If you have the misfortune of finding yourself ogling a lotus while he is within earshot, do not speak poorly of it, for his female companion (wife or mother, relation is unknown) will sneer at you and lambaste you about the sweet, sweet balm the lotus secretes, causing Thai Food Aficionado to radiate death waves from his robotic eyes as he brusquely chimes in that lotus root is best served as a tempura. Interaction with Thai Food Aficionado learns you that it’s about as savory as spending an afternoon under a willow reading Chaucer with some stink weed.

Here, Thai Food Aficionado is deciding if the pond fish would taste delicious with a nice curry. Later, you hear him spinning yarns of pad Thai and lemon grass.

To my delight, I also learned some new things about my friend Kara:

I had to double check my ticket to see if I was in Kara’s Haunted House.

Kara was also kind of cranky and surly. She admitted it was probably because she was hungry and in a very strange and disorienting moment, I realized that it was almost like hanging out with myself. If that’s the case, then damn, I’m annoying. Wait, don’t people tell me that all the time?

In typical Erin fashion, I ignored the fact that there was a finger print on the lens. It gives the pictures character. Charm? No? Ok.

Thingies.

Life would be worth living if these were what eyeballs looked like. Or nipples.

When penii party.

Would suck to fall on.

Kara’s fortress will protect her from all the scary flowers and sinister butterflies, but I fear she’s on her own with that foreboding sky.

Afterward, I fed Kara’s face in the cafe, where Creepy Laughing Man had been joined by his wife and kid and that dude we thought was his lover but really was his father. It was kind of comforting, even though I kept hearing him laughing and it was really like having my ear fingered, which kind of made me blush and wish I had a rosary to nuzzle.

Right before we left, Thai Food Aficionado stamped in with his mother-figure and proceeded to ask the girl behind the counter what every dessert tasted like. Kara and I tried to hold back squeals when they chose the table next to us. His companion, having fallen in love with her cake, made the life-or-death decision to go back and get another hunk, which she paid for in exact change. She then cut it right down the middle, employing an enviable steady-handed precision. I took it upon myself to imagine the dialogue exchanged was akin to her telling him that he just hadn’t lived until he prayed with the Tibetan monks, but instead it was really, you know, tasting some crappy cafeteria dessert. Thai Food Aficionado, well on his way to becoming Stale Dessert Connoisseur, speared his half with a fork and raised the entire chunk to his mouth. He gnawed off a large portion, swallowed, and then engulfed the rest.

I hope there was at least some coconut milk in it.

It was back to Cleveland on Sunday to catch Craig Owens on his solo run. I was so thankful that it was another weekend show, otherwise I probably wouldn’t have made it and then you’d all have to suffer through bitchy angst-ridden posts for at least two weeks. Another thing I was thankful for was the fact that Alisha and I dusted off our friendship earlier in the year and that she was willing to spend time with me in an enclosed space and see some bands she didn’t know much about. Thank god for Alisha!

The Drive

Before we exited Pennsylvania, we stopped at Ruby Tuesday’s for lunch, and I brought in my empty Starbucks cup in hopes of disposing it because I have issues about leaving garbage in the car, something Henry is very insensitive of, do not get me started, DO NOT. My anxiety of seeing Craig Owens was starting to make me do stupid things, like squeal a lot, squirt soap all over my arm in the restroom, and stash the empty coffee cup in my purse UPSIDE DOWN upon discovering there was no garbage can outside the restaurant, so Alisha suggested I order an adult beverage. She slid the drink menu toward me, but I go, “No, I’m good. Seriously.” I think she was relieved when I ordered water instead of more coffee, but after a few more minutes of me giggling degenerately and doing weird breathing exercises, she was all, “No really, I insist” and then I found myself getting carded over a Sangria which made me VERY HAPPY. Especially when I got to pull my ID out of my iCarly purse.

After we left, I realized that when I retardedly stashed the empty coffee cup upside down in my purse, the remnants spilled out right onto the painting I made for Craig. Henry had painstakingly (not really, but he did act put-out that I asked him to do it) wrapped it for me that morning  and it was completely stained on one side. “I can’t give him something that looks like it was fished from a dumpster, what the fuck am I going to do?” and I could tell that Alisha was preparing to pull over and have me sedated, but I was OK once I peeled the painting out and saw that it remained untainted. The envelope to the card, however, was also stained. So I outlined it and turned it into a dumb little creature and prayed for the best.

There was a rogue diaper strewn across the backseat, and I considered wrapping the painting in that, you know, to keep it safe and give it some pizzazz. “I can guarantee he’s never received anything wrapped in a diaper,” Alisha said. And it would soften the blow when I lost my nerve to hand it to him, and ended up chucking it at his head and bolting. But ultimately, I decided that messing with it any further would likely turn into a disaster, so I stashed the painting in the backseat and tried very hard to forget about it.

And then I was fine, really fucking fine, until we made it to Cedar Road, which was the third to the last street we needed before reaching the Grog Shop. That’s when I started getting all stupid and dizzy-feeling and Alisha began tensing up because my anxiety was contagious and then I fucked up the directions and she cried a little. It was an amazing 15 mile track of emotional roller coaster. And it only got better after we parked and began walking the street, looking for a place to pee, only to settle on a grocery store in which I accidentally locked myself in the restroom and then BROKE MY ICARLY PURSE trying to break out. It was awful. Who was going to take me seriously without a purse that says “LOL” on the zipper pull?

In Line

Because I’m not normal, I really enjoy standing in line before doors open. It’s a great opportunity to people watch and make enemies, which almost always is inevitable. This time it was immediate, so that was fucking lovely. I overheard a girl behind me mention she had seen Chiodos last year at Club Zoo, so I excused myself for butting in, and then asked, “Are you from Pittsburgh? We’re from Pittsburgh,” you know, just trying to make convo with someone to kill time. Well, this dumb ginger bitch was all, “Um, yeah, kind of, but not really” but the way she said it? It came out like a word-encapsulated scoff dipped in a vat of holy attitude jam and wrapped in pretension and I swear to god I wanted to punch it right back into her crooked-toothed maw. It was like a hobo having the audacity to speak to Paris Hilton, is exactly what she made me feel like. My hate bell was ding dang RUNG, bitches.

A few minutes later, I heard her complain about there being so many scene kids there and my palms were instantly half-mooned. Seriously? What did she think SHE was with her Stay Positive hoodie, day-glo t-shirt and seam-popping skinny jeans? And you all know how deep my scene kid love runs, so she was really stirring my pot. And she had hideous lime green eye liner on and I wanted to spit on her eyeballs and scrub it off with a Brillo pad, that dumb whore. You are in line with a bunch of people who share the same love of music as you do, so put a fucking hat on the hate, Jesus Christ. I wouldn’t even be making fun of her right now if she hadn’t opened up the ignorance spout. I can’t stand that shit.

Oh, and she thought she was a regular Chelsea Handler too, with her dead-panned commentary of every fucker who walked past us. I kept making faces at Alisha and hissing, “SHE IS SO NOT FUNNY WTF??” And unbeknownst to me, one of her minions heard me talking shit on her and ratted me out. Alisha knew of this, and was wise enough to not tell me until much later when we were inside because she didn’t feel like dealing with a fight. But evidently the girl was all, “I don’t care!” and Alisha said something else non-threatening was said but it wasn’t bad enough for her to remember I guess. And when she told me this, we were sitting at the bar, and I found myself scanning the room looking for that douchebarrel so I could kill her. Alisha reminded me that she was underage. I DON’T CARE.

So no, I guess that pickled tampon really wasn’t a scene kid; she wasn’t awesome enough.

Aside from that. the wait in line was cold yet entertaining. We got to watch some boys in front of act like assholes with a half-full bottle of Vitamin Water and Alisha was braced to call 911. It ended up bursting at one point, the contents splashing right past my feet. I cried, “I so knew that was going to happen!” and they were genuinely apologetic, which I was NOT expecting. They kept asking, “Are you sure it didn’t get on your shoes? I’m so sorry!” and then the one boy was all, “And those are really cool shoes, too, by the way” and I was like, “OMG a scene kid accepted me!” and I was so happy and Alisha was like, “You are so pathetic” but I could NOT STOP SMILING even though it was like 40 degrees and I wasn’t wearing a coat. I seriously smile like a mentally incapacitated farm hand the entire time. When I later relayed to Henry that for once people were approaching me left and right, I hypothesized that it must be my darker hair. But Henry goes, “No, it’s because you didn’t have a 44-year-old man standing next to you.” Touche, Henry.

There was also this crazy phenomenon where, no matter where we stood, passers-by trying to get into the neighboring sports bar or Chipotle would always cut in front of us. But not without a warm “Excuse me” and a smile. Alisha was getting annoyed, and finally deduced that it was because of me, not her, because she was not wearing an inviting expression like I was. “I’m like, the golden entrance,” I said with a shrug, and then decided that sounded like a porno so it became even more apropos. Alisha’s final straw was when some guy said, “Chinese cut!” before squeezing past us. I couldn’t stop laughing. Two of the guys from VersaEmerge — the fantastic opening band — chose me to squeeze past as well, and they were both very gentlemanly and friendly about it. Especially the drummer, with whom I wound up dancing  in my effort to step out of his way when he tried to enter the Grog Shop, and we shared a laugh over that so you know, we’re bros now obviously. And every time this would happen, I would turn to Alisha and laugh and she would roll her eyes.

The Show

Inside, the doorman was all taken aback that I was ready to greet him with my ID, because apparently we were the first people over-21 he had encountered in line so far. It was hilarious, but once the room started filling up, I was shocked at how many older people had turned out to support Craig. It was a beautiful thing. Especially since we sat at the bar most of the night and I proceeded to get drunk off cider and walk into the men’s room two fucking times in a row, like it was my first time in a fucking bar.

VersaEmerge and The Color Fred preceded Craig, and both had excellent sets, although Fred’s went on a little longer than we liked. It had a little to do with the fact that he broke a string, twice, and only had one guitar. Both times that happened, he allowed people to go on stage and tell a joke while he rushed to restring. One of my Vitamin Water friends went up and told a joke and I was like, “OMG YES!” and clapped and screamed real loud, and Alisha was all, “STFU.” But that was our BOY Tony, I said to her! And then I wondered aloud if he still had a price sticker on his ass, which Alisha prevented me from telling him about in line because it would be too “mom-like.”

But VersaEmerge were incredible, and not just because the singer was a really hot chick with magnificent scene hair. Alisha ran off to buy their EP but swore it had nothing to do with her fast-developing crush. And later, we chatted with their bassist Devin, when he came over to the bar for a drink and I had to rub my eyes because that boy did not look 21. He was very down-to-earth and personable, and seemed genuinely humbled when he saw Alisha’s copy of their EP resting on the bar in front of her. After he retreated with his drinks, the bartender paused to talk to us about how  nice he was, and how she’s much more willing to cater to bands who are kind.

“The boys in Agnostic Front? Some of the nicest guys I have ever dealt with, no lie,” and that was when she noticed that I was drinking Woodchuck. “Ever tried Strongbow?” she asked, and then proceeded to sell me the perks of the English import. She gave me a sample in a plastic cup, and when I agreed that it was really so much better than Woodchuck, she set a tall glass of it in front of me and said, “That one’s on me.”

I really love the fucking Grog Shop.

But what I didn’t really fucking love was the texts I was getting from Henry, keeping me abreast of the Pens game, which they lost. It nearly ruined my night. I’m sure Alisha thought that I was reading a text alerting me to a horrible accident at the homefront, but when I tilted my phone her way and she saw that I was just reading the score to the hockey game, she was like, “Oh” and then quickly added, “That sucks.”

 By the time Craig walked past us, I was feeling REALLY FUCKING good. So good, in fact, that I was able to enjoy the entire set without bawling, sobbing, shaking, or obsessing over giving him that fucking painting. I just remember smiling so big and feeling happy and lucky to be sitting there with Craig singing a few feet away.

He started with “Letter From Janelle” and I was all, “Oh yay!” and next thing I knew my fingers were involuntarily curving into heart-formation, and Alisha was happy too because she likes that song, and it was just good, so so so good. He did a Bright Eyes cover, two Cinematic Sunrise tracks (I thought of my friend Jessa when he busted out “You Told Me You Loved Me”), and the most beautifully heart-stopping acoustic version of “Baby, You Wouldn’t Last a Minute on the Creek” that I ever could have imagined possible and I know I was beaming like a five-year-old getting a unicorn and a Mogwai all on the same Christmas. And maybe also like Henry when he was getting a hand job, the Vick’s VapoRub edition, from a Thai hooker.  OK, maybe my grin was not so sleazy. I hope, anyway.

But then today I watched a video of it that s0meone posted and since I no longer have hard cider acting as a dam for my emotions, I got all emotional band-y and cried a little. But seriously, this song has some prime fucking real estate staked out on my heart.

(Original version here.)

Craig was happy and full of humor and stories. I didn’t expect to go to this show and laugh! He said “J/K” for some reason, and some girl up front mocked him. He was all, “Did you just mock me? I’ll punch you in your face, little girl” and I started to think, “Wow, he could punch me in my face anyday!” but then I remembered that I don’t like anyone that much to receive a fisted gift in the grill. Not even my own son, but he still does it anyway.

So, Craig admitted that the reason he was so happy was because he’s in love now, and like any good fangirl, I already knew about his girlfriend (who is so freaking cute, by the way). He wrote a song for her, tentatively titled “Song For Joanna” and before he played it, he had everyone sit on the floor, and then he, Brian (Isles & Glaciers, ex-Receiving End of Sirens) and Nick (of Underminded, Cinematic Sunrise, Isles & Glaciers) all sat at the edge of the stage, sans microphones, and Craig proceeded to serenade the room campfire-style. It was intimate and absolutely beautiful. They played the rest of the set like that, including “Vacation to Hell” which he wrote when he was 16, and “Intensity in Ten Cities” (one of my favorite songs off Bone Palace Ballet and Chiodos never plays it live). It was like nothing I had ever experienced at a show before. That alone was worth it.

He is so beautiful, in a myriad of ways, and I could barely stand it.

After the show, we ran back to the car so I could grab the painting, and then spent the next 30 minutes or so standing in a small group of anxious fans eager to say hello to him. I realized there was a half-assed line forming, and Alisha and I were sort of off to the side of it. A young couple heard me mention it and turned around to say it probably wasn’t a big deal.

“I’m not trying to cut in line and take away anyone’s time with Craig. In fact, I don’t even want to talk to him. I just need to hand him this painting and then run away.” So then we started chatting a bit (I almost said “for a spell” because apparently I’m an eighty-year-old now) and the boy member of the couple reached out to touch my arm (this is according to Alisha, as I was kind of hammered) as a means to console me since I was probably blubbering on about how I’m a social reject. Alisha said his girlfriend seemed angered by the physical contact and that was the end of that convo.

While standing around, I was thinking about how awesome it was that there was such a large turn-out of older people; but then I saw one of those older people (a ginger around my age, I guess) who was so drunk she was laying on the floor and being a general nuisance, and suddenly I remembered why I enjoy shows that have a primarily under-age attendance. Alisha thought she was hot.

Eventually, my bartender friend emerged from the back and gave us the bad news that Craig wasn’t feeling well and therefore was not going to be able to come and talk to us. I was disappointed for about .000005 seconds until I realized, “Hey, now I don’t have to unravel into an overzealous and embarrassing display of verbal impotence.” Spotting Nick Martin coiling up some wire on the stage, I decided to just pawn it off on him, but felt like an absolute heel in doing so. It’s like, “Hey faceless boy who plays guitar with Craig, this token of appreciation is NOT for, can you please give it to Craig? Wait, what did you say your name was?” But really, I love Nick. I think he’s amazingly talented and I tried to convey that as eloquently as possible as a preface to my request, but unfotunately it sounded more like, “Oh wow, you were awesome. You guys were awesome. What an awesome show. Would be awesome  to see you in Pittsburgh. How ’bout the awesome weather. I’m upchucking the awesome. Oh, and can you give this to Craig thanks see ya.” I felt awful about it, but he was so sweet and said, “I promise you this will be in his hands tonight.”

I know, wow, fan art. How fucking precious. But, you know. Craig’s lyrics are what inspired a lot of my paintings. So what better way to say thanks than to give him one that’s made especially for him. I trust that Nick gave it to him, and I feel content and even a little relieved, to know that maybe, in some small way, I might have been able to touch Craig’s life like he has touched mine. And I don’t care how cornville that sounds, motherfucker.

 ***

On the way home, I stared out the window at the dark, malignant expanse of forest next to the highway and asked, “Do you ever wonder if someone, right now as we drive by, is getting murdered in those woods?”

In a horrified tone, Alisha answered, “Um no. But now I am, thanks.”

The Suckers:

• Janna
• Blake
• Collin
• Corey
• Kaycee
• Dyanna*
• Justin*
• Jessi*
• Bill*
• Alisha*

(* all new to the horror of my game nights.)

When I sent out the Evite for game night, I apparently excluded the words “game” and “night” from the invitation. I wondered why Blake’s RSVP was all, “Yes but will there be games?” I guess Henry probably clarified that for him, though, so he wouldn’t think he was walking into a lingerie party. Because that would probably suck for a sixteen year old dude.

So this Game Night was special because finally, after including him on every Evite, my Michigan friend Bill was finally like, “OK FINE YOU WIN” and attended, along with his lovely girlfriend Jessi. I was worried that even after spending the entire day with me, once they saw my true colors (because game night brings them out in fucking prism-style, trust) they’d be all, “Yeah, let’s never come back here. Ever. Except for those cupcakes.” But they still like me! Even after I introduced them to a crowded room as “Bill & Jessi, sometimes they talk funny.”

We started off with Catchphrase as usual because that’s the best game to get everyone acclimated with the screaming that is bound to escalate as I imbibe more and more Woodchuck. Unfortunately, my two mouthpieces – Kara & Rhonda – were unable to attend so I had to actually be a hostess and explain the game to the people who had never played it. And then I had to start it too. It was really upsetting, not having anyone to do it for me. I like it better when someone else takes the reins and I sit around lollygagging, which is something that I truly excel at.

I like this picture because that’s pretty much how Collin looked the entire eight months we worked together.

Kaycee’s default clue is usually, “Oh my God, shit. I don’t know! He’s like an actor I think!” Somehow she is always on my team and somehow, we always figure out what the fuck she’s getting at. Also, this is one of two expressions typically found on my brother’s face at game night. The other is utter boredom.

My friend Alisha and I recently reconnected and I can tell by this photo that she is supremely thrilled to be sucked back into the maddening vortex that is my pathetically retarded social gatherings. I think the last party she came to, I threw a fit during wiffle ball because Henry called me out when I was quite clearly SAFE ON FIRST but he is dumb cooze with crooked glasses and was trying to look all badass in front of his big shot friend Randy. But lookie, she came back for more!

Bill and Jessi are serious game-players. I’m surprised Bill didn’t issue tickets when people on his team fucked up (like Janna, but that’s just her nature and I think Bill realized and accepted that, so she was kind of written off as the retarded person at the institution who cuts the grass behind someone else with a mower). She even forgot to give her team a point after one round and if she had been on my team, I’d have cold-cocked her and then turned her into a drug mule.  Just throwing that out there.

I can’t remember what Blake was trying to describe, but I remember he was super happy when Dyanna took this picture (I dumped my camera on her for the night, and she didn’t seem to mind, but that  unfortunately means that there is only like, one picture with her in it, shit). If it was just me and Blake on a team, we’d have won. Unfortunately we were saddled with Collin and he can bring down even the best team.

I covet Blake’s scarf.

After Catchphrase, Alisha cried uncle as she ran out the door so we switched to Apples and Apples, which Jessi explained so I could sit back and stew in my drunkeness. Henry didn’t play at all, he just stood there wearing a DARE shirt that I bought off some man at a gas station last year because I felt bad for him. I feel like this shirt gave Henry some unwritten license to puff out his chest all night and it was really kind of making me sick. Every time someone arrived that night, I would make the proper introductions and then slip in a, “Look at how gay Henry’s shirt is” to which he would haughtily mumble, “It was the only clean shirt I had.” I really wish he had worn his Vietnam belt buckle with it.

I think this was the first time anyone had played Apples to Apples, and naturally I won. There was no competition, I was practically playing alone. (Like when I play Boggle.) But I particularly enjoyed playing judge. It made me feel powerful, like I could smite the entire room with a bolt of cyborg semen from my metal-ensconced fist. Which I don’t really have, by the way, but now I feel I need to. Dyanna totally kept trying to make me cheat for her. She’s a sneaky one, that girl.

After two or three rounds, much to Collin’s chagrin, we dusted off good old Scattergories. Everyone had to pair up, and Blake immediately sidled on over to me and I’ll tell you why: It’s because I’m a winner and if you want to win, you join forces with the masteress of win. Henry was a little disturbed at the answers we came up with and reminded me after everyone had left that Blake is only sixteen and I shouldn’t be answering movie title categories with Candy Can’t Cum or putting “candied cunts” as a disease (when meanwhile Henry was finishing that thought with, “now that’s a disease I’D like to treat.”) Then he mumbled something about how annoying it is when Blake and I are together because suddenly I’m sixteen too, and I go, “Well, maybe it’s more that Blake is 29, too.”

After a fleeting pause Henry reiterated, “No, you’re sixteen.”

Bill mentioned the next day that there came a point when he was less concerned with winning and more amused by Collin’s visible agitation with my answers.

I think everyone officially left around 1:30am or so, and I sure hope Dyanna’s boyfriend Justin doesn’t think I’m a complete loudmouthed lunatic. I only yelled, “FUCK YOU” once out the window to random bypassers.

Since last weekend was all about cucpakes and game night, I find it apropos to repost an old LiveJournal post about the same subjects. And hopefully sometime Capn’ Cusspants will let Mommy have a fucking minute to sit down and write about the recent game night. If not, Doctor Nyquil might have to make an appearance. (KIDDING.)

Originally posted January 21, 2007

 Bathing in a tub of warmed pistachio pudding with buoyant sponge caked-rubber duckies.

These are the sensations I imagined would wash over me while I tackled the cupcakes last week. I did not feel any of these things. Instead, I felt tired, bored, agitated. All the things I normally feel when spending time with Henry.

First, he quickly talked me out of the “from scratch” mindset and set me free in the baking aisle of Giant Eagle, where I bought three boxes of cake mix and decorative thingies and neon food coloring. There was so much more I wanted to buy but I don’t know where to go to get the good baking stuff. I wanted to encrust my cakes with edible diamonds and sugared seaweed, but time was fleeting.

My cupcake-baking enthusiasm quickly waned as I struggled to mix the batter, but interest was regained when Henry took the blending-reins and set me free with a kitchen-full of ingredients to plop into each pocket. He lingered close-by, though, to make sure that everything I used was edible. Just because I had hoped to fill the innards with mud, grass, thumb tacks and soiled baby wipes, I guess. Henry was disgusted and even remarked that I have the audacity to wonder why I can’t keep friends. And here I thought it was because of my wicked mood swings and inability to trust!

Here is what I learned:

• Cheerios shrivel and get very hard when baked
• Fruit snacks don’t melt; they still stick to your teeth even after being baked into batter
• Fistfuls of marshmallows should not be allowed inside a cupcake because then Henry has to use a knife to cut the finished product out of the pan. And then your guests think that one was nibbled on by your cats. And then you feel like shit because people think your house is unsanitary and they start holding cupcakes up to the light to inspect further.
  
• Maraschino cherry sauce sinks and congeals at the bottom for a bloody good-looking finished product
• Janna will eat her weight in cupcakes flavored with blueberry preserves, and won’t even notice that a well-concealed olive is awaiting her beneath a cap of green icing
• Chopped dates blend into cake batter and come out the other end of the baking process undetected. Seriously, who ate the one with the dates? No one knows
• When Henry urges me to only fill each baking cup halfway, I should listen

The next morning, Henry and I stood in the kitchen staring at two dozen un-iced cupcakes. We marveled over their non-uniformity and I grabbed the next box of mix.

“Whoa! Oh no. You are not making anymore. Are we looking at the same cupcakes here? You got two dozen disgusting cupcakes sitting here and let me tell you something: once your little friends find out what’s in them, ain’t no one going to be eating them. We don’t need any more cupcakes going to waste.”

I was enraged, yet relieved. Baking is tiring business, you guys. It’s not fun like it looks like on TV. I couldn’t even read the directions on my own. I tried, but words blended together and it started to look like a word problem which angered me because numbers just don’t belong in sentences with words because it makes my brain seize up a little. But I ate a lot (a lot) of batter and felt like it might have been my last day on earth.

So instead of boarding the baking train, we (read: Henry) whipped up some butter cream icing which was then separated into several bowls so I could get all Picasso with my food coloring.

“Just put like, two drops in,” Henry advised as I meat-fisted the small vial and sent at least fifteen droplets splattering into the icing.

We made purple (regular flavored), pink (amaretto), lime (almond), blue (marshmallow) and then I got bored and ditched Henry. He used this quiet time to concoct his own icing: bright green flavored with a hint of red pepper, which left a pleasant warmth in the mouth. It was my favorite, but none of the game night attendees noticed and had to be told what was happening. Sometimes I wonder if Janna’s mommy has to accompany her to the potty since Janna seems to need dialogue added to her every action.

“Now you’re passing a corn-studded turd through your anus. Here it comes! Plunk! That was the sound of it dropping into the toilet water! Now wipe yourself good, Janna. Front to back!”

Honestly. She probably didn’t notice the olive because I wasn’t giving her a play-by-play.

After I finished slathering my disfigured cupcakes, it was finally time to decorate them! Except that I didn’t give a shit anymore! I half-heartedly dusted each one with sprinkles and plopped a cherry on some of them. I was kind of over it. I mustered enough energy to impale two of them with toothpicks in order to create a two-story cupcake shanty.

It’s a shame really, because I had big plans of desecrating each iced dome with obscenities and unmentionables and maybe even using a piping bag to scrawl out some of Janna’s dirty secrets, but my belly ached from the fingerfuls of icing I had scooped out–behind Henry’s back–and jammed into the back of my throat like an orphan eating porridge. (I’ve been obsessed with porridge all weekend.)

I guess baking wasn’t the worst thing for me to find out I don’t mesh with. It could have been something dangerous, like knife-fighting. (Which isn’t to say that’s not a hobby I’ve flirted with in my head.)

For some reason, my guests actually ate all but five or six, forcing Henry to eat his words. There were several murmurings of “What is that sticking to my tooth?” but I really think that Henry’s delicious icing (ugh) overpowered my misuse of creative baking license.

Granted, two of my guests were stoned, but hey–I’ll take it.

Hung out with these freaks all weekend. I’ve known Bill there for about five years now, thanks to LiveJournal. In Internet years, that’s pretty much long enough to qualify for kidney donorship. He lives out near Chiodostown (i.e. Detroit, and I swear that’s not the only reason I like him) but we’ve never met in person until this weekend. And not to take anything away from Bill,  but recently I started talking to his girlfriend Jessi and she is just the total package of awesome, smart, pretty and fun, professionally wrapped with those curly ribbons that I always end up shredding when I try to curl them myself. Luckily, I kept my scissor blades away from her.

Chooch is absolutely obsessed with them, thanks to Bill giving him piggy back rides, Jessi allowing him to punch her boob so long as he prefaced it with “Give me my money”, and the fact that they brought him a puzzle, a Mr. Noisy book (apropos) and a Benjamin Franklin book (seriously, the kid really likes him).

However, about an hour after they left today, Chooch seemed in a zone. I assume he was having some sort of sentimental montage of the weekend, because he adoringly cooed, “Bill and Jessi…” but then he followed it up with, “Ha-ha, those assholes.”

I couldn’t have been happier with how much fun and comfortable it was with them. And we spent A LOT of time together! And not once did I feel smothered or bored or agitated, not even when Bill carelessly let a REALLY HEAVY wooden door slam into me. Not even when they dragged me into a STEELERS MEMORABILIA store. (You know I like a bitch when I suffer through a claustrophobic tomb of Sixburgh t-shirts, as I did the last time they won the SuperGayBowl and my good friend Alyson came to visit and wanted swag. Sometimes it is exhausting being such a great friend.)

(I hope you know my tongue is in my cheek right now.)

There are more stories to come featuring these guys. And then hopefully even more after that, since I begged them to move to Pittsburgh and naturally that means they’ll be quitting their jobs this week.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 14:06 OMG turn fucking 18 already, kid!!!! #
• 14:44 Henry’s giving me a lesson in confidence. #
• 17:22 chooch poured glue in Henry’s hair while he was laying in bed, and it was 24carat awesomeness. #
• 18:21 If you ask my kid who his grandma is, he not surprisingly only mentions Henry’s mom. #
• 00:48 Double Shot of Love has shown me that LOVE IS REAL and EVERLASTING. Thank you, Ikki Twins. #
• 00:49 And why is the girl so shocked she didn’t get picked at the end? THEYRE NOT REAL LESBIANS. #

• 09:15 Officially do not believe in the idea of bff. #
• 10:01 Lying to me must be some sick sport, because people sure love to do it. #
• 14:11 Henry just tried to have intellectual discourse with Manwich on his face #
• 17:27 One door closes and another opens. #
• 21:12 Funny, I didn’t realize that when I said “wish I could stay home!” b4 I left for work, that I’d actually get my wish! #
• 21:23 Oh universe, you sly devil. #
• 23:00 Oh hay, this is the first time I’ve been involuntarily unemployed. #

• 08:49 Oh shit. That wasn’t just a bad dream. #
• 12:25 I might have to learn how to cook. #
• 12:31 How I managed to snag such a patient and supportive man is mind-boggling. #
• 09:08 How Long Do You Ignore a Tantrum Before It Stops: a forthcoming essay on toddler (& personal) histrionics by Erin R Kelly #

• 13:25 I bet I could be a Sunday School teacher. Don’t you just need a Laura Ashley dress and some Jesus sandles? #
• 13:49 I’m starting to think karma lost my number. #
• 14:17 Srsly looking into starting Hank’s Dirty Cupcakes. I want the shop to have an awning made from Dickie’s with a big mustache on it. #
• 14:31 There is something to be said of my mental maturity when I squeal over new episodes of The Mighty B and iCarly. #
• 15:21 I could spend an entire day overthinking children’s jokes. #
• 18:41 My almost-to-be-ex-boss just gave me 2 valentine cookies so I will leave with a good taste in my mouth. He’s cute. #
• 20:51 HAHA Henry is buying STEEL NIPPLES at Home Depot. #

• 14:00 twitpic.com/1dj9d – Waiting for Alice to start. Glorified high school play up in here. #
• 15:03 Dyanna and I are totally the only ppl here w/o kids. #
• 15:21 I could be a dancing flower. #
• 15:23 Just enjoyed a lovely cookie and juice box. Thanks Dyanna!! #
• 15:48 twitpic.com/1dlzu – Best frog in a play award goes to that girl #
• 18:36 Henry’s going thru a really awkward monochrome phase. #
• 19:05 There’s a table of washed up strippers here at McD’s PlayLand and one of their daughters is 7 & totally not wearing underwear. #
• 19:37 Chooch just kissed some girl’s babydoll. Very odd. #
• 22:35 drawing juice boxes, yo. #

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Things I wish to remember about Alice in Wonderland:

1. The introductory light show that had Dyanna concerned. “Is this the whole show?” she asked, and I think she was only half-kidding. And trust me, if you were there, you would have only half-kid about that too.
2. The curtained doorway that looked like a celery stalk’s vagina, which all the characters kept running through, and later the Cheshire Cat poked his face through for drawn-out periods of time.
3. When we got up to get our pre-school refeshments during intermission, one elderly woman said to her friend, “And Alice is black, can you imagine?”
4. The man who sat next to Dyanna, making her feel extra comfortable.
5. Dyanna giving me a dollar so I wouldn’t have to purchase my snacks with a handful of coins. THAT MEANS WE WERE ON A DATE.
6. The 70-year-old man playing the King, who I just know was back stage goosing all the teenaged girls.
7. Laughing because we only went since I got some random flier in the mail, making us the only random people there.
8. Realizing that there were tons of worse entertainment we could have purchased for $5 (dollar off for us flier-holders!)
9. The way the Cheshire Cat sleazed around the stage (he was played by a girl) and kept rubbing up on Alice almost sort of kind of made me blush a little.
10. The narrator’s fabulous glittery starred vest that would have made Liberace burst into a jazz-handed fireworks display if ever the two were in the same room.
11. Dyanna’s juice box incompetence.

In summary: it was a good to get my mind off things for an afternoon, so thank you  to Dyanna for accompanying me!

Two weeks ago, I went over a friend’s house to attempt my hand at Spades. Before any cards were dealt, I forewarned everyone that I was pretty much card-retarded, and that it would probably take me awhile to catch on. I was wrong:  it was ridiculously confusing and frustrating, and I never really did catch on. We were even showing our hands and every time it was my turn to announce how many tricks (hoes? whores?) I had, I would swallow nervously and ask my partner to do it for me because I just didn’t understand it. Suffice to say, it was not very fun. (Well, until we switched to Uno Attack, which was designed for the braindead, like me.) Still, I left that night hating cards.

The next day, I dwelled on it. I remembered how my old friend Allison (aka Cinn) used to come over and we’d play Gin. Even though I always had to be retaught as the cards were being shuffled, I always associate that game to lots of laughter and good times. And wine, I associate it with bottles of wine and purple-stained lips.

I haven’t seen Allison in three years. We speak sporadically on the phone, but my invitations to her are usually awkwardly ignored. I know she has weird feelings toward kids, and I figured she was being avoidant. But when she said she and her boyfriend would come over that following Saturday to play cards, I couldn’t help but feel excited. Henry frowned and voiced his uncertainty, but I just felt like maybe this was it, maybe this would be the invitation she would follow through on.

I emailed her during the week to see if she was still coming, but she didn’t reply. I called her twice and texted her once the day of, and still nothing. I started sulking, feeling sorry for myself, and Henry was all, “After all this time, you would think it wouldn’t bother you anymore.” And I know it seems like she’s a shitty friend, but the truth is that she was always more than a friend to me, more like the sister I never had. When I really need her, she’s there, and that includes rushing me to the hospital when the occasion calls. Our history is bizarre, abnormal, sometimes laden with distrust and resentment, but I believe that we have a fierce loyalty for each other. I can’t explain it, and I know my other friends don’t understand it. My best friend Christina, who has never met Allison, has admitted that Allison will always be a mystery to her. And really, I  guess she is to me, as well.

So last Saturday, I whined about it, I sent out bitter tweets, I cursed and spit at the entire fucked up institution of friendship. And then she called me to tell me that she and her boyfriend Bill were going to be here around 8:30. I know I lit up like a kid whose deadbeat dad had remembered her birthday for the first time in six years.

Chooch was still up when they arrive. He took to her immediately. She teased him mercilessly and he seemed to eat it up. After he went to bed, she admitted that she was nervous to meet him. I know that’s a big reason why she hasn’t been around these past few years, and I hope that will change now that she sees he’s a pretty alright kid.

When we sat down to start playing cards, it was like nothing had ever changed. Cinn started laughing for no reason while I was dealing, prompting me to yell, “What? What did I do? Meanwhile, Cinn is crying from laughing so hard, and I still don’t know why, but this is just how it is when we’re together. I do nothing and she laughs her way to a stomachache.

“Every picture you have of me, I’m either eating, or crying from laughing!” she cried.

Sitting there with her, listening to synthpop, drinking wine from spider glasses, it was like no time had passed. It was like we had just gone to the Dracula’s Ball last week, not ten years ago; it was as though she had just kicked an unwanted Canadian out of my house last month, not eight years ago. (I am not anti-Canada. This was an isolated incident.)

Henry was annoyed because I kept winning. And because I kept taking breaks during hands to play the “remember when” game, and to swivel in my chair to put a different song on, and to continuously splash wine down my gullet until I was so giddy (see also: drunk)  I couldn’t see the cards in the discard pile.

“I thought you didn’t know how to play this,” Henry scoffed at one point. My motto was: I don’t care who wins, as long as Henry loses.

And he lost, alright. In so many ways.

After they left that night, I went through that awful whirlwind of emotions that often strikes after a bittersweet encounter. I feel like, even though we let so much time lapse in card-playing and  friendship, that it all came back so easily.  It always does, every time. I’m trying not to get too excited about it, though, because I don’t want to be let down.

Seeing Cinn again made me realize how badly I miss having a good friend here in this city; someone I can call up just to talk about the day I had, meet up for coffee, or just hang out at each others houses. I haven’t had that in a very long time.

And while I was sorting through all these mixed emotions, Henry informed me that we were actually playing 500, so I got to add “deceived” to the frothy feelings cocktail.

I must be getting old. It used to be there was nothing more fun to me than attempting to cram my house near capacity with friends, bounty hunters, and random strangers from the street and Internet, fill them up with Jello shots and proceed to piss off most of the block. Sometimes I’d cap off the night by pulling on my roller skates and having guests whirl a frisbee at me as I coasted up and down the street.

But now I just want to hunker down with some family-friendly board games, maybe wrap myself in a shawl, perhaps  nibble on some Melba toast.

OK fine, maybe I still like to drink a little and get sort of kind of a lot too loud. But now I almost can’t imagine having a party without games. Games bring people together, ya’ll. Or, in the case of Henry and me, push people apart.

The guest list for Game Night #1 of ’09:

• Corey & his not-girlfriend-but-should-be-girlfriend KC
• Blake
• Niffer and Weird Paul, who brought Pretzels and only the most fascinating board game of all time
• Collin and a lovely bottle of wine for me for me for me
• Rhonda & her wonderful Jill, who brought a cute hippo for Chooch and delicious baked goods for me
• Brenna

It was unusual not having Janna there, but I guess it’s my fault for not keeping better tabs on her, otherwise I’d have known not to schedule game night on the same weekend she was out of town.  She’s the only person besides Henry who I feel I can physically assault when a round of Scattergories gets particularly tense and heated. Her absence also meant no homemade guacamole or platter of fancy cookies, which is really the only reason I invite her anyway. Surely it has nothing to do with her game-playing braun.

Rhonda filled Kara's position of Game Night Rule Nazi

In my Evite, I swore that, unlike Game Nights past, we would not be fixating solely on Catchphrase. I was dying to play Last Word, which was veto’d at the last game night, so I plopped it down in Jill’s lap and said, “Here, you do it.” She looked like someone who might enjoy reading and relaying directions, I don’t know. She quickly deemed it confusing, as did Rhonda, so Last Word was kicked away like a pissing puppy.

Instead, we played the Pop-Up Video game that came with Rhonda and Jill, but it was kind of obscure and Collin kept whimperingabout not wanting to sing (meanwhile KC was begging to sing – I will never again be able to hear Tracy Chapman singing “Fast Car” – even if it wasn’t her turn, and then she’d catch herself and slap her hand over her mouth. That girl would be my bff if I wasn’t an old lady!) so we switched to Catchphrase, which erupted into a near-lethal debate over button-pushing right from the start. If Kara had been there, she’d probably have started shanking people. She is very serious about her Catchphrase.

My favorite moment of Catchphrase was one of Blake’s turns. He kept shouting out clues like: “What I would say when I’m really excited to go somewhere! I’m in the car and can’t wait to get there!” So his team is shouting things like, “Are we there yet? Shotgun?” and Blake, he’s getting real frustrated now, and has taken to accentuating his clues with a series of wild gesticulations, pumping his arms and pulling faces. “I’m so excited to be going somewhere and this is what I say!” he shouted one last time before the buzzer went off. No one could guess it, and he exasperatedly said, “Away we go!”

“I’d like to see a video of you saying that in the car,” Collin said, sulking because his gay team lost a point, boo-hoo. And then I couldn’t stop picturing Blake – with his plethora of piercings, tattoos, and gauges large enough to stuff with bratwurst – skipping to the car, swinging his arms, and cheering, “Away we go!” Corey and KC left during Catchphrase. It was simply too fast-paced for them.

Niffer, bracing herself for some wild Uncle Wiggily gameage

Paul brought with him an old board game called Uncle Wiggily. I found myself gawking at it, ogling it even, from across the room. I’d find reasons to go to the dining room so I could slowly walk past it, dropping hints here and there about how, gee whiz, that game sure looked swell. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that it intrigued me nearly as much as the time in ninth grade when I walked in on Jameelah and her brother smoking pot from a crushed can of Cherokee Red.

This game demands to be played harder than a hooker with a whipped-creamed checker board on her tits.

Paul regales us with details of Uncle Wiggily's journey.

The Uncle Wiggily game referenced odd-sounding herbs (Niffer, who is wiser than the rest of us, had to educate) and name-dropped characters who had names stranger than the ones I make up. Collin goes at one point, “What the fuck, was this shit written in the ’20s?” Apparently the books it’s based on was. Jill laughingly said, “Whoever made this game was high,” to which Blake retorted with, “Yeah, high on vocabulary.” Do not underestimate the power of a sixteen year old’s comedic timing.

Brenna readz0rz for the win.

Team Brenna&Collin won. It’s true, they were more skillful at card-drawing than the rest of us thought. I thought Brenna was going to get up on the table and do the Big Shoe Dance, she was so pumped up. Collin funneled his enthusiasm onto a pink balloon.

Those two got so cozy, I wouldn't have been surprised if one of them birthed baby pink condoms at the end of the night.

I decided to suggest one last time. Paul and Niffer hadn’t yet arrived the first time I begged to play it, and Paul made the mistake of admitting that he had played that game before. I pawned it off on him and he proceeded to freshen up on the instructions.

Jill's just as confused when OTHER people have the instructions. I will say that she got further than I did, which was the third line.

Up until this point, I feel that I was pretty well-behaved. I hadn’t been punching Henry or engaging in loudly slurred conversation, even though I had been quietly sipping vodka. But when a game is centered around having the last word? I don’t know, I could have been imbibing Shirley Temples laced with the essence of Sunday School all day long and I still would have been an out of control, must win at all costs, token person you want to coldcock at the party. Besides, games with timers have a certain urgency that make me shout my words to compensate for the rising panic.

Henry sucks so bad, he's the caboose of Last Word

When I sat back down, Brenna goes, “Calm down” and patted my thigh or some shit, as I recall, but that’s what game night is all about! Getting the blood pressure up! Being the best! BEING A WINNER. Besides, I was having all the fun.

Speaking of winning, I won that game even when Henry vetoed my last word of “fang” for the “Things That Are Metal” category, even though I stamped my feet and screeched what would he know, he’s never been to Dracula’s Ball? And then he said, “But then the letter would have had to have been ‘m’ for ‘metal fang'” and I was all, “Are you a fucking retard?”

Blake considers enrolling in Camp Cool Like Erin so he can be a WINNER.

Everyone was exhausted after having their minds obliterated by my genius, so game night came to a satisfying close.

Two concluding thoughts:

• I should have these more often
• I am not proofreading this
• I would like to hang out with Rhonda more than just once a year

(Pretend 3 is the new 2.)

After being stuck in that hallway for an hour and breathing in the subtle aroma of Clearasil (I think I witnessed some of those kids reaching puberty, even), they finally opened the door to all of us non-skaters. We had our hands stamped and claimed our spot by the stage. Naturally, Pink Sleeves and Pot Belly in Stripes (the adolescent bimbos who never stopped flitting back and forth on the heels of the roadies) beat us there.

Waiting for Emarosa to come on, I killed time by analyzing the scene kids before me, wondering which of them were in it for the music, and which were just pretentious retards who have to rip off other people’s styles to look cool.  Christina and I deduced that probably it was mainly just the boys who were real underneath the assymetric coifs and skinny jeans. Don’t get me wrong! I love me some scene kids at the post hardcore show, but some of them are just ridiculous. (And I know, it’s like that no matter what the scene is. Posers never die out.) And then I make the mistake of getting close enough to hear their oral banality and I’m reminded that at the core, most of these kids are just obnoxious teenagers. It’s going to be hard weeding through the fake ones to find the good ones, like Blake, if I ever get off my ass and put that book together.

The cool thing about this venue was that, if I got bored with kid-watching, I could pivot to the left and take in some skateboarders on the ramps. There was this one guy, he looked older than the rest (like, he could have been TWENTY, OMG), who was riding his bike on the ramps. In true asshole fashion, I cried out “OH MY GOD BE CAREFUL!” in mock-concern. I guess he took that as the mating call of a new fan, because when he reached the top of the ramp closest to me, he got off his bike and rested there, smiling goofily at me. Stewing in discomfort, I quickly slid behind the pillar I was leaning against. But every time I peeked around, he went back to grinning at me. Christina thought this was hilarious and was practically passing out wedding invitations.

But then I became distracted by this bitch who was totally stealing my gimmick of being the plain, older girl at the show. I glared at the back of her ugly head and shouted to Christina, “This broad’s usurping my demographic and I hate her!” She stood so close in front of me that I could smell the product wafting from her too-shiny black hair, which was unacceptable considering the show hadn’t yet started and there was around, oh I don’t know, 678765 cubic feet of empty space around the stage.

In the middle of thinking thoughts generally reserved for the minds of the criminally insane, Emarosa took the stage and I went from being a homicidal head case to a teary-eyed girl with a melting heart.

Jonny, I love you long time.

Many times I have attempted to explain how I feel at these shows, and I know fail miserably. It’s like when you get a tooth ache and you swish with scalding hot tea, letting it seep into the nerve pocket. That’s how it is for me at these shows — I derive some sort of sick pleasure from the pain I feel in my heart. It’s like passionate torture and part of me wants to run out the door but the other part is like, “No, this feels good. Let’s break out the nail-studded dildo now.”

I didn’t pay  much attention to the people around me during Emarosa’s set, but there was one incident involving a scene kid who, when you factored in the height of his Robert Smith back-combed hair-scraper, towered at least six feet and planted himself right in front of me. Then his puny little girlfriend joined him and they dove into an impromptu reunion-slash-lovefest of sorts with the kids next to them. There was a lot of hugging and before I knew it, I lost track of whose jelly-braceleted wrist belonged to whom.

There’s good old Pink Sleeves, probably devising a plan to get on the band’s RV and dole out statutory blow jobs.

While Jonny sang, I forgot about the cocksucker who wrecked his Hummer, leaving me with wet bangs. I forgot about Christina directing me to the wrong Holiday Inn because she’s an idiot who couldn’t remember where she made reservations. I forgot about the fight I had with my mom. I forgot about making a grooming appointment for my cat Marcy. All the shittiness got pushed aside and I was able to just relax and breathe for a little while. I never realize just how much stress is building up in my muscles until I go to show and the thundering bass releases it all from my body. Thank you, thundering bass. Mama’s neck was so TIGHT. (I can’t stop calling myself Mama lately and it’s freaking me out.)

Since Emarosa was the opening band, their set was very short. I caught myself putting my hands to my heart a few times though so it was probably best that they left the stage when they did, before I ended up on the floor in a piteous puddle. I knew seeing them live was going to fuck with my emotions. Just listening to them in the car has forced me to pull over and bury my face in my hands on occasion – I WON’T LIE. Thankfully, they didn’t perform any of the songs that leave me vulnerable to a razor’s edge.  I know, it sounds lame, but aside from my kid, this is all I got.

(Part three: Making underage friends with near-Canadian accents, meeting Jonny against my will, and what hair looks like after a chick fight.)

Burning a hole in my wallet were some free zoo passes, given to me by my co-worker Lindsay at my last job. Henry came home from work early yesterday morning and we decided to take advantage of the seventy degree sun, even though it had only been a few months since I last spat ire at strangers at the zoo. And really. is it ever too soon to go on another hate-mongering rampage, am I right? I swear, every time I go to the zoo, the majority of the people there looked like they were born from a white wine-influenced one night stand between the LL Bean catalogue and Ann Taylor Loft outlet store. I bet their Cabela-bought backpacks are stcoked with Evian and organic cheese sandwiches. I bet their kids don’t swear.

Immediately, I disliked this one broad with two kids (one of which plays hockey; I know this because we parked next to her hockey league-decal’d $50,000 Mom Van). She hogged the view of a young playing tiger from the rest of us peasants while she took shot after shot with her obscenely gigantic lens through a finger-print streaked glass window, like she was some fucking safari journalist. Then just as she was about to leave, some douche in a STEELER jersey (nauseating) took her place with his equally ridiculous camera and I just stood, mouth agape, and said to Henry, “Seriously? This is the Pittsburgh Zoo, not the fucking Outback. They’re taking pictures through GLASS. Snot-smeared GLASS. Go take your John Holmes lens to the goddamn STEELER game where it belongs, Hometown Hero.”

All I wanted to do was see a fucking tiger gnaw on his rubber chew toy. OK?? 

Chooch seemed more aware of what he was spectating this time and spent less time trying to climb under fences and pick up rocks. He ooh’d and ahhh’d at the lions and tigers and at one point was so overwhelmed and amazed at what he was witnessing, that he let out a wonder-tinged “oh shit” in hushed tones.

Luckily, none of the LL Beaners were around.

In the Elepehant House, Henry attempted to play the role of Educator by saying things like, “Look at the big ears on those elephants, son! And wow, what big eyes!” which was only negated moments later when I laughed, “Holy shit, Chooch, look at their BIG POOP!” Of course, that’s what Chooch chose to repeat. “Big poop?! EW!” he screamed, wrinkling his nose. “BIG POOP, MOMMY, LOOK, BIG POOP!”

“OK, let’s move on,” Henry mumbled.

Chooch highly enjoyed the monkey house this time around. laying on his stomach at each exhibit to get a better view.

While it’s awesome that Chooch is shaping up to be so independent, it takes twice as long to walk when a two-and-a-half year old insists on pushing his own stroller. And god forbid you should tell him which way to go. We ended up side-by-side with a couple whose young daughter was trying to push her sister’s stroller, as well. Her mother pointed to Chooch and said, “See how he’s pushing the stroller all over the place and running into people? That’s what you’re doing too.” Fortunately for her, her daugher quickly dropped the reins when she saw how out-of-control she must have looked. Thanks for using my reckless son as your example, Fellow Mother. Asshole.

Chooch took this picture himself, when the camera was resting on the dirty, flu-dispensing table. His pink-painted nails are so shiny.

I have to eat every hour or else I’ll die. Unfortunately, the only food place there that served something without meat products was closed, so my only option was french fries in a Dixie Cup. Supposedly they had salads, but they must have been tossed with that new lettuce from Argentina.

You know, the invisible kind. Because I didn’t see it. So while Henry and Chooch chowed down on chicken tenders and a cheeseburger, I sulked at the sticky blue table and ranted loudly for all to hear about how absurd it is, in the year 2008, for a ZOO, a fucking piece of shit ZOO, to not have any herbivore-friendly sustenance. FRENCH FRIES ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGH. I swear to God, the place that supposedly vends pizza has not been open once in the last six times I have gone to the zoo.

I AM WRITING A LETTER.

“I’ll buy you some Dip’n Dots,” Henry offered, trying to talk me down from the roof I was about to mount with my rifle. Fuck a Dip’n Dot, Mustache. I want LUNCH.

Henry gets nervous when I’m angry, and even more anxious when I’m hungry on top of that, so he ate without chewing and we quickly left for Denny’s, where I enjoyed a veggie burger and cottage cheese.

I might go back to the zoo in five years. MAYBE.

“When are we going? Hello? When are we going? The carnival, when can it expect us?” For three days, I hounded Henry about some wimpy-assed fucking church carnival after we saw a sign for it.

“You know this is going to be a small thing, right? Probably not very many rides, if any,” Henry kept reminding me, probably hoping to change my mind. But my mind is unchangeable without something of equal or greater awesomeness to replace the void. And no one came knocking on my door, inviting me out to play with moon boots, so I remained fixated on the Saint Sylvester church carnival.

We got there around 6:30 and I immediately became aware that what this was, right here, this carnival, was really goddamn lame, a real sad affair. The rides weren’t running yet, so we cautiously followed the signs that promised us CRAFTS and FLEA MARKET, and led us into the church basement.

The CRAFTS were sparsely strewn amongst tables forming a small horse shoe on one side of the room. Taking over the rest of the room was a fucking holy picnic of some sort, with people straddling tables and shoveling haluski and other church food into there religious maws. We awkwardly circled around the crafts, not even pretending to admire, me saying something obnoxious, before returning to the Little Church Carnival That (Possibly) Could (If Father Would Go ‘Head and Order Those Belly-Dancing Pygmies).

After two seconds of taking in my surroundings, I realized that this wasn’t a carnival so much as an asshole parade. All the moms strutted around, haughtily greeting each other, their mauve eye shadow caked on in thirteen layers and pooling in their crow’s feet. I of course did not fit in. Especially when you consider the fact that I am not a parishioner of this or any church, other than the church whose bell tolls in my head.

There were three of them that I especially hated:

• a tall corn-fed hoe with tightly-wound brassy curls that were clumped and heavy-hanging with Dippity Do, probably semen.  She really looked out of place without the plow she should have been pushing on the farm, that dumb bitch. I bet she was a Majorette in high school.
• some haggard broad in an ugly pink shirt (not the awesome hue of pink that MY shirt was) who was friends with Olga the Plow Pusher. She had the worst eye makeup of them all and stood right in front of me with her saggy-assed chinos and pleather fucking fanny pack and the two of them dove right into a nauseating display of waving. It’s a sport for those people, you know. Church people? They wave for entrance to Heaven. And it’s phony, too. Their “hellos” are so nasal, like they’re playing Operator with their toy phones, and they stand there with their fists on the waistbands of their flood jeans, fluttering their costume-ringed fingers in their pretentious little waves and you know what? Go home and bake me some pumpkin bread, you assholes.
• rounding out the iron arc of pretentiousness was some bitch that was younger than those two, and it was clear, so so so clear to me that she only fraternized with them because they made her feel like the token spunky young mom with the poorly executed tattoos and too-skinny husband who I think I might have went to school with. I was glaring at her about the time Janna arrived and I didn’t even say hi, just pounced right into a hateful tirade that started with, “There’s a bunch of cunts here that I want to kill, Janna.”

And the rides! Oh, my brothers and sisters, please don’t get me started on the rides. There were only four of them: a rickety ferris wheel whose too-fast revolutions made me clutch my heart while watching from the ground, stupid ass helicopters, a tiny carousel that appeared to be fashioned from orphaned horses, and some dumb little kid spinny thing.

EACH RIDE WAS TWO FUCKING DOLLARS. Two dollars that would be better off tucked into a g-string. But Chooch seemed to enjoy the helicopters, and Henry reminded me several times that that was really all that mattered. I guess.

We stopped and bought three fried Oreos. They were pathetic. I ate half of one and begged Henry to take the rest. He was angry that I was complaining and reminded me that they only cost a dollar so what did I expect.

I DON’T KNOW. Perhaps for them to be drizzled with a nice ganache? Some kind of delicate rum sauce? LACED WITH COCAINE?

We walked over to the petting zoo, figuring Chooch could at least meet his animal manhandling quota for the month, but there was an extra fee for that.

“WHAT A RIP!” I yelled, purposely, hoping to be heard. “THIS CARNIVAL BLOWS.” Just then, the priest walked past me and Henry grabbed my arm, grabbed it the way a father does to an out-of-line child, the way my step-dad used to when I would spit YOU ARENT MY REAL DAD in his scruffy face.  So Henry grabbed my arm and squeezed, hissing, “This is a CHURCH CARNIVAL. It’s to raise money FOR THE CHURCH.”

WELL. For someone who was so against Chooch being baptized, Henry sure seemed intent on defending the carnival. The holy fucking ghost must have anally entered him when I was busy looking for scene kids.  Probably why he was walking like he had chronic jock itch. Meanwhile, we were going to sit at table but some undulating diseased genitalia stole it right from underneath us, an entire table just for her and her fucking hot dog.

  I was tirading all over this side of Pittsburgh by this point, pushing Henry to tersely say, “OK, that’s it. We’re leaving.”

I had sinful desires to jack this truck. I have a lot of things I could use it for. And I’m not just talking about carting crates of chickens around town.

On the way home,  Henry lectured me about being hateful and that no one there gave me a reason to be so angry. IT IS HOW I AM WIRED. CANNOT, WILL NOT, CHANGE. it’s how my mama made me. And sometimes I don’t mind people. Like today, on my walk to the post office, I said hello to ONE ENTIRE PERSON and even exchanged weather-related pleasantries with a  crossing guard. Granted, I considered changing my route home so I wouldn’t have to talk  to her again, but I didn’t scowl at a single soul. And I walked, like, eight blocks or something! (Actually, I don’t really know how to count blocks when they’re not obvious.)

Janna didn’t seem to mind the carnival. I bet she went home and wrote about it in her diary.

Dear Diary,

Jeepers, I went to a carnival up at Saint Sylvester’s tonight and it sure was swell. They even had fried ice cream! Can you imagine, Diary? It was so dreamy, like really tremendous! Fried ice cream outside of a Mexican restaurant!

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Almost better than a malt in a frothy glass with a spiral straw! And pony rides! I ought to have straddled one of those ponies, Diary, if only I had the courage. Gosh, it was the craziest scene! Real life ponies! And people sporting their fanny packs, no shame whatsoever! I totally ought to have worn mine! And my best cuffed plow-pushers! My only regret is not bringing enough money to buy a macrame tissue box holder from the craft table. But overall, what a night! I mean, it was really the limit!

I guess the Westmoreland County Fair spoiled me after all.

Today, I got to hang out with Lisa. She’s visiting from Colorado and I was lucky to rank high enough on her social ladder to score a visit with her. Over iced Chai tea and strawberry cake, we talked about how I should have one more kid (Lisa’s suggestion, and it made me laugh myself to death), we talked about the varying hues of menstrual blood, about how she couldn’t taste the strawberries in her cake yet mine was bursting with succulence, and we talked about how we’re going to party like heathens when she moves back to Pittsburgh in hopefully less than a year. (OK, that was mainly my suggestion, at which Lisa laughed herself to death.)

I birthed an entire being made of joy and g-spots when I saw an announcement for the upcoming Chiodos show in one our city papers. Lisa, annoyed that I interrupted our grown-up conversation with a fan-girly shriek straight from the pages of Teen Beat, was like, “OK. I don’t know who that is.” I hated her for a little while after that, but then she distracted me with, “Hey, you look good, by the way,” which opened the gates for an ecstatic sermon on the Gospel of Jump Rope. I seriously might die without that fucking rope. Or WITH it, due to my jumping mania and fury.

Lisa and I have drifted apart several times over the years, mostly because we consistently choose different paths. She chose “graduate”; I chose “drop out”. She chose “Christianity”; I chose “none.” She chose “abstinance”; I chose “like rabbits”. Our lifestyles have clashed at times. She left my nineteenth birthday party marathon because it was lewd, debacherous, drug-laden, and overpopulated with underage drinking. I rarely visited her at Bible College because happy people would try to hold my hand and I couldn’t smoke anywhere on campus.

But through the past few years, we’ve come closer to meeting in the middle. I thought she would have freaked at the idea of me having a bastard son, but she never once criticized me, or judged me. She loves my Chooch and is a huge Henry advocate.

Between sips of her latte, she was telling me today about an issue she had with some guy she met, how she emailed him and prefaced it with, “As your sister in Christ…” followed by a dissertation on faith. A few years ago, I might have once laughed at her for being such a God homo. But today, I have a greater respect for her as a person and for all that she’s accomplished, so I just laughed inside my head.

I love Lisa.  I love her so much that I use a song she absolutely abhors as her personalized ring  tone on my Blackberry. And THAT is how you know I love you – through torture.

To commemorate my day with Lisa:

 My favorite Lisa memory is circa 1997, during the spring of my senior year of high school. I was tooling around town with my friends Jon and Justin, killing time before meeting up with the rest of our motley crew later that night.  Justin came to a realization.

“Shit! ICP is playing at Laga tonight. We should go.”

Being a yo-girl at heart, I had no objections to his spontaneous suggestion, until our previous engagements crept into mind.

“But we’re supposed to go over Melissa’s tonight and watch movies with her and Lisa, remember?” A far cry from the havoc we could potentially wreak at a concert, but an obligation nonetheless.

“We’ll just get everyone to meet us at Laga instead.” Jon’s solution seemed so simple, but he was forgetting something very important.

“Lisa’s not going to go for that,” I sighed. The aforementioned Lisa was, and still is, a Christian who just could not get down with the likes of ICP. Becoming a juggalo was not something Jesus would do. (Maybe not her Jesus. My Jesus would have helped pen some of their rhymes.)

 “I have a plan,” Justin said. He dialed Lisa’s number and confidently urged her to put movie night on hold in favor of what could potentially go down in the annals of Very Special High School Moments.

“What is an ICP?” Lisa asked suspiciously.

“They’re a band. It stands for…Intensely Christian…Punks.” Lisa, having a soft spot for non-secular punk bands, called everyone else and informed them of the changed plans.

There were six of us that night, all sardined into Jon’s car. Half of us were giddy to be going to a concert; the other half were giddy because we got away with a lie in order to go to the concert in the first place.

As soon as ICP took the stage, Lisa was chagrinned. “They don’t look like punks…?” she yelled above the crowd of undulating and rioting juggalos. Once they started rapping and she heard their lyrics, she edged back from the stage. Once they started spraying the crowd with Faygo, accompanied by lewd and suggestive gestures, she migrated back some more until a wall prevented her from retreating further. She probably had quite a few dialogues with God that evening.

When the show was over, we all tiptoed over the puddles of Faygo left to coagulate into sugary stains. Lisa, the bottom of her Vans slick with the liquid, slipped and fell down the steps.

Best night ever.

The weather forecast for Saturday was rain, rain and more rain. I asked Henry, “Do you still want to go on that fantastically awesome scenic train ride, even in the rain?” and he said yes. At this point, my memory forbade me to remember all the other scenic train rides I had been on in my life time, and how extremely boring they truly are. (Unless, you know, you’re into that scenery shit.)

Schenely, PA is about an hour away and I was sulking for the majority of the ride. Just part of my nature. But then Henry stopped at a Sunoco and returned with a bag of mint M&Ms. I acted all ambivalent about it, but still drank down half the bag. Mood instantly lifted.

As soon as we boarded the train, it began pouring. Like any other sensible person, I chose the open-sided car so we could be treated to a natural shower and then simultaneously bitch about it for the hour long ride. There were about twenty other people who had the same idea.

While we were waiting for the 2:00 departure time to roll around, someone pointed out that one of the cars in the lot had an open window. It was the car right next to us, so Henry shouted out to the woman who owned it and then was thanked profusely by her and her husband. He sat there with a smug grin on his face, like he was some kind of fucking hero. I bet he did heroic shit like that all the time when he was in The Service, helping hookers climb out of vats of penii.

Imagine how tickled I was when the train kicked into motion and a woman’s voice filled the car from a speaker. Wow, a scenic railroad excursion paired with a guide enlightening us with local flavored fun facts? What a treat. Unfortunately, there was so much commotion on the train that her commentary came off sounding like the teacher from Peanuts. Every time I asked Henry what she said, it was always the same: “Something about the river. I don’t know.”

Chooch was really great for most of the first leg of the trip. He sat on my lap to avoid the torrential downfall that was attacking us from the sides. But then he had the itch to roam, and it all unraveled from there. Once he had his feet on the floor, it was like an open invitation for the other children on the train to come out and play. Chooch procured the four cars he brought in his backpack, and suddenly I had a horde of small children surrounding me: a one-year-old, another two-year-old (Sioux, like the tribe!!!!) and her six-year-old sister (Cheyenne, like the tribe!!!!), whose grandma was wearing a Kermit t-shirt and would not stop chatting with me the entire time and I was so nervous that I was physically clenching. And you know, with kids come parents. I really hate socializing with parents. Chooch was doling out his cars, only to confiscate them at his will. He seemed to take an immediate liking to the six-year-old, and was adament on giving her all the cars.

The one-year-old’s dad was wearing a Penguins hat, and I couldn’t help but notice Henry didn’t scoff, “Hockey season’s over” to him, like he does to me anytime I mention them.

At this point, I was unable to take in any of the trees and shit that we were passing, because I had to fulfill Mom duty and make sure that my son didn’t come to blows with anyone over a couple of fucking plastic cars. I hate this part of parenting. And you know what else I hate? Having to acknowledge other people’s kids. That Cheyenne chick kept standing in front of me and flapping her arms like a bird. “Oh. Uh, pretty,” I would try to placate her, instead of shoving her off on another parent like I really wanted. Another mother, though, she heartily exclaimed, “WOW! What are you, a bird?? OH COOL! You are so COOL! I LOVE KIDS! HAHAHAHA ZOLOFT!” Who the fuck gives a shit? Not me. Flap all you want, little girl. I’ll continue looking through you like you’re invisible to me. Because you are.

Chooch made me especially nervous around the one-year-old boy. I kept praying he wouldn’t push him off the train or choke him. (I had just taught Chooch that morning how to pretend-choke himself and quickly started to realize that I might wind up seeing repercussions to that act real quick.)

This guy told me what his purpose was when we first sat down. Something about doing something with the brakes? Who the hell really cares what his purpose is when he’s wearing some hot-assed overalls, though? Basically, he mopped us all off with towels and repeatedly noted that, “There are a lot of kids playing on this car!” and thank God for that play-by-play, because I really hadn’t noticed that my crazy kid was dominating over a trio of weaker-willed children.

After about an hour, I was stoked to see the station looming ahead. My hope was dashed as we turned around though, and headed in another direction. Apparently, you just can’t visit Schenely and not teeter precariously on a railroad bridge for fifty thousand minutes while a guide gives you muffled commentary about trout. And who would want to miss out on that?

It all looks so pretty, but on closer inspection below and to the left, I noticed that the camp site was dotted with Deliverance cast offs, who brought their laundry lines, rusted out pick up trucks, and large jugs to use as yard ornamentation; I’m pretty sure I smelled some hot incest from behind the jagger bushes, too. I can only hope Henry takes me there one day on our honeymoon.

Finally we got to leave and now I’m determined to remind myself every day that train rides are boring as fuck. I’m just glad Chooch didn’t call anyone an asshole.

When Henry and I arrived at Club Zoo last night, one of the doormen cracked a big smile and called out, “Hey! How ya doin’, buddy?” in Henry’s face. Henry has no friends, so of course I was a little suspicious. And amazed. I whispered, “How do you know him?” After puffing out his chest a little and grunting, Henry informed me that they became fast friends at the Chiodos show, when he was outside pouting because there was too much gutteral screaming emanating from within. I wonder what they talked about that night? Bandannas? Judas Priest? Sixteen-year-old girls in tight jeans?

The crowd at this show was a little older than what we’re used to, with only a handful of scene kids scattered in the mix. I pointed this out to Henry, hoping he would feel less sore-thumbish, but he countered with the fact that he still had a good twenty years on the majority of the fans. And he was right. And I laughed.

Henry and I hung out upstairs for awhile, pretending to like each other. Then I got upset because he wouldn’t look at me when I was talking to him. Because I’m ugly, that’s why!

Before long, the opening band, the post-hardcore Pelican, took the stage. I was curious to see them live after hearing some of their stuff over the years, and made sure to remind Henry that they don’t sing, so that I wouldn’t have to field his predictable questions once they started. For the next thirty minutes, the venue was blanketed with the intense droning that could easily be mistaken for murder’s soundtrack, or Armageddon’s dinner bell. It was loud, dramatic, powerful and I loved it. It made me feel a lot of hatred in my heart though. Henry complained at one point that they sounded like a slowed-down Black Sabbath, that he felt like he was on downers, that it all sounded the same.

But Henry is also a thousand years old and really lame.

We went down to the floor after their set to prepare for Circa Survive. “When they come on, can we at least go a little closer?” I begged Henry, who doesn’t like bumping bodies with people half his age. (Though that’s how Chooch was made, oh!)

“You’re going to throw me right into the middle of that crowd, aren’t you?” he grumbled, but obligingly followed me a little closer to the stage.

My view was gloriously unobstructed until halfway through the first Circa Survive song. First, a midget meandered over and stopped a few feet in front of me. Then, his tall female friend with a mushroom-shaped head of blond curls planted herself right in front of me. She looked old from the back, like she was his mother. I kept calling her Penelope Ann Miller, even after she turned around and I learned she was really just a teenager. Some other guy who was with them took her place obscuring my line of sight with his ultra-thick neck and proceeded to drink his water like it was a can of beer. I hated him, too. Times like this call for a sickle.

I was able to see enough to know that Anthony Green was definitely fucked up and I desperately wanted whatever it was he was on. It was like he was possessed up there, he was arching his back, undulating, and throwing up his arms; it was almost like watching someone have sex with air. It’s like his body is going to blow up with emotion. I don’t know how you could stand there and witness that, and still walk away not liking Circa Survive. It just scares me, because every time I’ve seen them, Anthony has seemed so wasted and unpredictable (not always in a good way); the first time I saw them, he spent the majority of the time singing from a supine position on the stage. I just worry that something terrible will inevitably happen. (I’m looking at you too, Jonny Craig.)

My throat closed up as soon as those first words left his mouth, my eyes burned with tears, and I thought I was going to die. I guess this is how fanatical God people feel when they’re doing that gospel shit.

They  mostly did material from their latest album, but when they treated us with songs from Juturna, everyone went crazy. They played two of my favorites, “Great Golden Baby” and “In Fear and Faith,” and my heart felt so battered. I used to hole up in the cemetery and listen to that song over and over back in 2005.

I’m sure Henry enjoyed standing behind me through their set. He still doesn’t like them, but at least he doesn’t hate them anymore. (He doesn’t like Anthony’s voice, at all, and he’s not alone. People either love it or hate it. Personally, it’s like a drug to me.)

When they left the stage, I momentarily yearned to kill myself, and then we hung out by the merch table and made fun of people. I caught Henry texting his work boyfriend, Dave, and I was all, “Ooooooh, Henry’s work boyfriend, Dave!” and it made him angry. I kept trying to see what he was texting, but he shrugged me off and took a few steps away. I’m sure whatever it was, it was spelled wrong.

I think Henry was hoping we could bail after Circa Survive, but I was really anticipating Thrice, too. I’ve liked them for a really long time and have managed to miss them every time they come through Pittsburgh. My kid is essentially named after their drummer, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t think Henry would mind Thrice too much, because their new material is on the mellow side, and even their old stuff is less screamo, more rock.

They started off quietly, softly; I’m sure Henry was thinking, “This isn’t too bad. It’s ok,” but then it was like BAM! Bright orange lights flashed on and the band just fucking exploded. It was INCREDIBLE. Their guitarist, Teppei, is one of the most talented and distinctive guitarists ever. They kept a good balance between new and old, mellow and heavy, but the highlights for me was definitely when they pummeled through material from their album The Artist In the Ambulance. That album helped me block out a lot of idiocy when I was working at Weiss Meats.

Toward the end of their set, a young boy ran up to me and very excitedly whispered in my face. He had his hood up over his head and I’m pretty sure he was high. It really freaked me out because:

• I don’t like it when strangers talk to me
• What if he had a bomb in his backpack?
• I felt like he was going to stab me
• Or OD at my feet
• I’m pretty sure he was like, 12

Evidently, what he was saying was, “I’m hiding!” because before he had the chance to repeat it a third time, security swooped in and chased him out the door. I have no idea what he did, but I’m glad he didn’t get the chance to involve me further.

The show ended shortly after that potentially dangerous episode. We walked past Henry’s doorman friend on the way out, and he was all, “Hey! Have a good night, buddy!” and Henry smiled all big and goofily and stammered, “You too.” I allowed us to get a few feet out of earshot before I started teasing him.

“Stop it! This is why I don’t have friends, because you get so annoying.”