Clearly it means that no one can ever propose to me, because ain’t no diamond ever replacing the bling-blangin’ butterfly hugging my ring finger.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 13:54 Wanting to bring Jillian Michaels as my date to Kara’s wedding, on the real. #
• 17:30 After getting raped at the gas station, got suckered into buying a $10 DARE shirt from Community Alliance canvassers. Disgusted with self. #
• 17:33 & I’m not even really AGAINST drugs. Guy tried to get me to buy 2 shirts for $20, I was like "Bro I just put 2 tshirts in my gas tank sry." #
• 18:55 Eleanore hits ‘send’ with so much angry force that i sometimes think she’s launching missiles to the other side of the globe. #
• 18:55 @buenomexicana she and i. SHE and I. #
• 20:34 What? I start punching ppl too when I’m losing at anything. Go Pens. #
• 22:36 horded chocolate in my pocket. felt it and it melted. #

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I got some of the film back from the photo shoot I did a few weeks ago with Blake and Sarah. Here’s a few:

Just think, this could have been a sixty-year-old crossdresser in stilettos and fishnets.

"I KNOW you’re fucking our pig-masked maid!"

I have no idea what I’m going to do with these, but I like them.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 13:21 Oh, to be in the Russian mob. #
• 13:23 The sound of frozen fingers being snipped off sure does get me every time. #
• 15:43 My ears are magnets for annoying voices, obviously. Freeze and snip THEM off, I wish the Russian mob would. #
• 16:50 eleanore just violently ripped up what seemed like an entire ream of paper. i’m frightened. #
• 21:45 there are days when i just want to sit in a forest, weaving baskets and judging competitive orgies. #
• 21:49 lol right after that last one i was added by twitter user "TopPorn". #
• 09:20 Chooch just tripped over my leg; now he’s eyeing it up like he wants to take a hacksaw to it. Someones got mommys temper.#
• 10:16 Serviceman came to fix gas meter while Chooch & I were flailing to #12 Looks Like You. He looked alarmed. #
• 10:56 Eleanore gave me a tarot kit. Soon Ill delude myself into thinking I’m good, then scam ppl so i can pay for ugly tattoos and yarn. #
• 11:58 Chooch is doing sign language on a picture of Kristen Bell’s face instead of his own. Then he said PUNCH and punched her in the mouth. #
• 12:00 I yelled NOT VERONICA MARS and flipped to a photo of Angelina Jolie for him to batter. #

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The lamest parade passes in front of my house every Memorial Day. For as lame as it is, I haven’t missed a single note from the high school marching bands, a single lopsided cartwheel from the toddler dance troupe,  a single Shriner go-cart in the eight years I’ve lived here. And then afterward, I heartily bitch about how lame it all was. I know, I know, some towns don’t have parades, so I should be grateful, blah blah blah.

I spent the majority of the parade hissing every time a patrol car passed by. Fuckin’ pigs.

Chooch is at that age where he could give a shit about waving congressmen, the Kennywood trolley, and Boy Scouts carrying tall flags; it was a feat to keep him from running away until he discovered that sometimes, people passing by might toss a little candy his way. He turned back toward the street with a crazed hunger in his eyes, interest mounted. He recruited two of the neighbors to be his candy-gathering bitches and quickly built up an impressive mound of treats. Eventually, he would just point at people until they personally handed him suckers and mini Snickers, then he’d run to the porch and proudly show me his bounty and I would steal the good stuff when he wasn’t looking.

The downside to that is that now every time we go outside, he starts spastically chanting, "Candy! Candy!" like he expects it to be a common occurance. Really not as cute as you’d think.

Our neighbor Chris watched the parade from his porch, and if I’m not mistaken, I do believe I picked up on several covert glances exchanged between him and Henry. Probably there is some sexual tension there now since they fixed a mower together on Saturday. You know how weird dudes get after they fix something together, like two chicks sharing a tampon or some shit.

My other neighbor Robin was out and about with her ragtag children and their spawn. Alarmingly, she was hooked up to an oxygen tank, yet still the perpetual cigarette dangles ever so delicately from her fingers.

Later, it rained and the Pens got slaughtered in game 2 of the Stanley Cup finals. Happy fucking Memorial Day.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 14:51 Great. Now Chooch expects candy to be showered upon him every time he goes outside. Thanks parade, you asshole. #
• 15:57 My neighbor Robin is hooked up to an oxygen tank and I really need to know why. Asking her would be too easy. #
• 17:29 Chooch is eating a bowlful of cold cavatelli noodles, cheese, pretzels and Capn Crunch. He’s getting an early start on college cuisine. #
• 19:17 My son is simultaneously fixated and horrified of eye balls. #
• 19:19 I took pics of my eye, his eye, and henrys eye with my phone and Chooch is actually shuddering. Henry is yelling at me to stop.
  buy strattera online drsirbegovic.ba/wp-includes/SimplePie/Content/Type/php/strattera.html no prescription

  #

• 20:15 I just got really pissed off about the Star Spangled Banner. Fuck that song and all the ppl who sing it. #
• 09:46 My morning so far: full of eyeballs and reciting the cast of Cars. #

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 I was sad that no one used my favorite mask during my dumb photo shoot, so while Christina was visiting over the weekend we went to this semi-rural area called Coulterville to take some pictures of her in rabbit-mode. Coulterville is one of those local areas ripe with urban legend, and while I’ve had some pretty intense experiences there in the past, it was pretty tame in the daylight.

We started out at this small abandoned church, but then a truck drove up and two old people started pulling out shovels and entire flats of flowers while I was standing precariously, and disrespectfully, on some stone ruin. We grabbed our stuff and bided our time on the nearby railroad tracks and woods.

 Christina was sure she was going to take ticks away as a souvenir, and I kept swearing that I heard small wildlife burrowing through the weeds toward us, so I ran and left her there to hack her way out of the vegetation.

 When I was fleeing the invisible rodents, the back fell off my Holga and one would have thought that it was a $1500 camera with the way I reacted. Meanwhile, the camera that is worth something was flopping against my chest like a candy necklace while I delicately pieced my toy camera back together. My priorities are a disaster.

"Would you like me to just dive in next?" Christina was getting irritated by this point, but luckily the old people were leaving the church and she seemed relieved to have a non-muddy, non-jagger-bushy setting in which to be bossed around. Unfortunately, we returned too soon, and the old people were idling in their truck at the top of the road. We tried to act inconspicuous, but they eventually pulled back down and the old man got out. I remained seated on the ground, camera in my hand, kind of frozen in confusion. I wasn’t sure if it was private property that we were on, and I wasn’t sure if this was the type of guy to tote around a sawed-off shot gun in the back of his pickup for just this sort of occasion.

We exchanged pleasantries and he explained that this was his family chapel and burial ground. I silently gulped a little and said, "Well, it’s very beautiful here. Is it ok that I’m taking pictures?" That seemed to placate him and he said it was fine that we were taking pictures, but then after glancing at Christina, Christina’s tattoos, and the animal mask and rail road tie in Christina’s hands, he added a few caveats about respect and vandalism. Then he gave us a brief history of the land, and I learned that the stone stump I was idiotically perched on when they first pulled in is all that remaIns of the original church that burnt down on that land a long time ago, and that the small shrine I was pretending to photograph when they pulled back the second time is his mother’s grave. He even said if he had more time, he’d have given us a tour of the chapel.

It was insanely awkward. I kept thinking "Please leave, Please leave" over and over again and this time we waited until the truck was completely obscured by trees before resuming our shoot.

 

Talking to that guy kind of killed it for me, because I had always been so certain that the chapel was haunted, or that skinheads were inside, roasting s’mores off  the flaming carcasses of babies and cats. Talk about dispelling a myth.

 

 

More here.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 16:52 Eleanore shared her creamer with me so I guess I’m not a stupid cracker anymore. #
• 19:52 I haven’t forgotten you, Romania. #
• 22:29 Great now I’m hearing scissors when there are no scissors. #
• 23:24 YES. Tina’s talking about when she was in basic training. #
• 23:30 This calls for a juice box. #
• 08:17 Christina brought Chooch and me a huge box of candy and had the nerve to tell Henry to ration us. #
• 10:27 Squealing over Ride the Wings of Pestilence video never gets old, not even after 4 yrs. #

One of the security guards broke the coffee maker and couldn’t get it to stop flowing. In a panic, he did what anyone else here at MSA would do, I guess, and fetched Eleanore. Her puppy Tina followed close behind. And then I followed too because things like this are endlessly entertaining to me.

When Tina procured a Halloween treat basket from beneath the sink to catch overspill, I knew it was picture time.

"Erin, you MUST be bored if you’re taking pictures of THIS," Eleanore hissed, annoyed.

Little things like this excite me.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 08:15 I’m sorry but burning oatmeal and then adding more milk is the key to a really delicious breakfast.#
• 08:41 Recently realized I had typo on MySpace profile which had been there for a year and I didn’t flip. Growth. #
• 10:14 Chooch likes bread. Chooch likes cheese. Chooch does not like cheese sandwiches.#
• 16:29 pinched thumb in belt while in restroom, held back scream lest someone think i was passing kidney stone or birthing. but fuck that hurt. #
• 19:31 Oh, Jonny Craig. Your voice rapes me. #
• 21:29 The Felix Culpa turned up high drowns out stupidity, even when its 300 miles away. #
• 22:15 how fun would it be to play hopscotch with human heads, i wonder? #
• 22:53 Reciting nursery rhymes at work never fails to titillate. #
• 23:14 Would eat bug as long as it was petrified in butterscotch. Maybe not a cockroach. Unless there was chocolate on that fuck. #
• 23:27 My eyes bleeding would be the least of my concerns at this point. #
• 08:13 When Capn Crunch calls, you answer. #

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VI: The After Show

Corey and I couldn’t think of a better way to cap off such an amazing concert than by returning to our luxury motel. Pulling into the lot at 11:30, we were greeted by several shifty denizen who chose to congregate outside their rooms with beer and cigarettes. Corey wanted to get a picture of the Pennant Night Club next door, because it was country night and this amused him to no end, but he made me go with him. It was at this point that I realized I was probably more suspicious than anyone else in that lot, what with the way I stopped dead in my tracks, hunkered over to suppress giggles, to stare at a couple across the lot.

Corey gave me this look that screamed, “What the fuck, are you crazy? You can’t just stop and STARE at the crazy townies having sex around their clothes out front of their room!”

I snapped out of it and followed him to the street.

“This place has wi-fi?” Corey asked in amazement after we reached the front of the motel. “How does a place like this have wi-fi?”

“They probably steal it,” I said, shrugging, and then we both laughed and couldn’t stop because the Giddy Sibling Bug had bit us.

Back inside our room, I called Christina to tell her that the state she was born in sucks. She was really hurt by it, and Corey shouting things like, “New Jersey is gay!” in the background only wrenched the knife further, because she actually is gay. I mean, she has a tattoo of New Jersey on her leg, that’s how proud of it she is.

“Where exactly in New Jersey are you?” she asked. I couldn’t remember the name of the town, other than the fact we got lost and ate at Pat’s Pizzeria in Gloucester, and that we saw a lot of signs for Camden.

“Um, no wonder you hate it. Camden??” That’s when I learned that Camden had replaced Detroit as the most dangerous city in the nation. “You should be OK as long as you’re not in a gang, though,” she reassured.

Meanwhile, Corey was debating whether or not he wanted to take a shower. “I mean, did you see the shower curtain? It has burn holes in it,” he whined. But he finally manned up and conquered the shower stall. He came out of the bathroom a walking cautionary tale.

“I don’t even want to think about all the dirty New Jersey sex that was in that shower before me,” he spat with disgust.

“And just so you know, the water smells like fish. Have fun with that in the morning.”

We got comfortable in our respective knife-slashed beds with the local Gloucester channel on TV. Backed with all the best soft rock hits were still-ads for the local cemetery, a middle school talent show, and a list of the honor roll students. It was a sweet surprise when the ads were pre-empted with some small-scale recording of a youth fishing competition. It was awesomely terrible and we couldn’t stop watching.

“This almost makes me want to live here,” I said. Then we laughed.

“I’m so afraid to close my eyes and sleep. This place scares me. Have you ever seen No Vacancy?” Thanks, Corey. Thanks for making that the last thought in my head before I fall asleep.

Around 1:30am, a nearby door slammed. “Oh goodie, our neighbor’s home!” Corey facetiously enthused. Then he got up and put his face up to the peep hole.

I was paranoid he was going to get shot, so with the covers pulled up to my chin, I hissed for him to get away from the door.

I woke up in the middle of the night, thinking I heard a car alarm. I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or not, but I remember thinking I should probably check to see if my car was still in the lot but I was too afraid to go out there. (The window of our room overlooked the back of the property, not the lot.)

The next morning, we gladly turned in our key and Corey snatched a covert picture of the miserable desk clerk who hated us.

VII: Cereality

Aside from seeing the Cure (and eating at Pat’s Pizzeria), the only other thing I refused to leave before doing was getting breakfast at Cereality, located on U Penn’s campus in Philly. I was proud that I finally forwent using Henry as an atlas and tapped into my Blackberry’s resources to find the place, nary a wrong turn. But first, we filled up the gas tank in Gloucester. I tried to get it myself, thinking I could get away with it, but an older Mexican swooped in and grabbed the nozzle off me. Foiled.

As soon as we crossed the threshhold, I was in my happy place. “Rock Me Amadeus” was playing when we got there and Corey, who is in AP Euro and should maybe try acting like it, said, “Huh. We had to listen to this song in my history class.  I think it’s supposed to be about someone historical?”

Siouxsie and the Banshees’ “Kiss Them For Me” came on just in time to aid me in tuning out the disgusting trucker-caliber sniffling and snot-suckering taking place behind me. Mmm, yummy — just what I want to hear while I’m trying to decide what I want to EAT. A nice bowl of bubbly snot? A mucous smoothie? There’s not enough froth on my coffee, would you mind blowing your nose in it?

Fucker.

At home, I have a healthy bowl of oatmeal every day, with a hearty handful of flax seed sprinkled in for good measure; so I decided to live large and ordered a bowl (it’s actually served in an over-sized Chinese take-out container) of The Devil Made Me Do It. Basically it was the most disgusting, stomach-turning house-blend on the menu and I was entirely too overwhelmed to come up with my own concoction without at least six months prior planning. Cereal is some serious shit.

One of the people working there was this awesome Goth chick with spiky blond hair and black lipstick. Corey and I simultaneously fanned ourselves.

“She’s like, so cool,” I enthused, and Corey concurred. It doesn’t take much to impress us. Evidently, just some bleach and a faceful of kohl.

After I paid for my container of diabetic shock, I went to the milk counter and, as if to apologize to my body for what I was about to funnel into it, I squirted skim milk onto the cavity-making mound.

Joining me at a small outside table, Corey blurted, “Guess what that Goth girl talked to me!

”

“Oh my God, LUCKY! What did she say??” Sadly, I really was jealous.

“She said, ‘Did you pay for that already?'” We squealed over that for a few seconds, and then he added, “And her name is SIMONE!”

My cereal consisted of Cocoa Puffs, Lucky Charms, malt balls, and chocolate syrup. I don’t even like malt balls, but goddamn all cereal should have them. It was the best ever, but after five spoonfuls, my belly tried to reject it. Of course I forced down almost the entire thing and got sick as soon as we hit the turnpike. Corey was smart (and boring) and got something healthy that was made of Life, strawberries and honey or some shit.

While we ate our cereal, “Just Like Heaven” played and we were like, “What the fuck, best breakfast ever.”

Five hours later, we were standing in my living room, blabbering on to Henry about our motel and the people we saw there, Pat’s Pizzeria, all the strip clubs, being lost, not understanding how to get gas.

“I feel like there should be a movie about this: When Well-To-Do Kids are Forced to Fend for Themselves.”

[Part 1][Part 2][Part 3]

Nice shot.

I had my hair done today and I was telling Henry that my stylist said she lives vicariously through my stories.

"Bi-curiously? How much have you told her?" Oh, old man ears.

Before I left for work, Chooch was watching "Blue’s Clues." Presumably it was an episode about food.

"Periwinkle can make paella, and your mom can’t even make oatmeal," Henry said to Chooch.

IV: Pre-Show

In the 3.5 miles it took us to travel across the Walt Whitman Bridge back into Philadelphia and park the car at the Wachovia Spectrum, I managed to spend $14: $3 to cross that scary-ass too-big bridge and ELEVEN DOLLARS TO PARK. I’m used to shows at small clubs, where you park on a fucking curb for free, so I felt physically ravaged after that.

There wasn’t so much of a line outside of the arena, but more like relaxed huddles of people waiting for the doors to open. We only had to wait for about 10-15 minutes before they started letting people in, and we occupied our time by people-funnin’ and inhaling clouds of clove-smoke drifting around our faces.

"There’s a lot of old people here," Corey noted, staring dead-on at two aging goth women swaying on the edge of the steps. Too much Absynth perhaps. 

Corey and I both really took a liking to a young man in tight red pants. I liked him because when he smiled, he looked like Timmy from Fairly Odd Parents. 

Tickets scanned and hips bruised on the turnstiles, we ran straight for the merch table, where I bought a bright pink shirt and joked that our motel room only cost $13 more than it. Corey almost bought a girl shirt so I made fun of him for way longer than acceptable. 

After we got situated in our seats, the real fun began. We scoped out the fans around us and Corey pointed out that we were surrounded by an alarming amount of crimson-locked women. He gave them names like Ginger and Big Red and dramatically announced their movements. 

"Ginger just got up! I wonder if she’s getting nachos?" We could only hope.

My personal favorite was the Asian man who sat down a few rows below us with a large, drooping hot dog. I fixated on him for a long time, laughing so hard I was wheezing. 

"Asian Hot Dog is getting up!" I yelled, hand on my heart. Corey and I silently followed him with our eyes, snickering inappropriately. That’s when I noticed his face was constricted in awkward spasms and his tongue seemed to wag incontrollably.

"I think there’s something wrong with him," Corey whispered, and we sat quietly in shame. But I wasn’t too ashamed to take his picture when he returned with some sort of food product wrapped in foil. 

A young couple found their seats in the row below us and Corey was entranced. "I want them to be our friends so bad!" he enthused. So I named the girl Margot and he named the man Jean-Paul. A few minutes later, Jean-Paul turned to us to make sure he had the right section and I could feel Corey cheering internally.

Corey really liked his shirt. They sat motionless through the entire show.

V: The Show

Sometime after 7:00pm, 65DaysofStatic emerged and treated us to a thirty minute set of top-notch post rock. I won’t lie — I was moved to tears a minute into the inaugural song. I have a penchant for post rock. 

"Is there a reason they’re not singing?" Corey shouted in my ear. I had to explain to him the concept of post rock, something that I’ve grown used to. A man behind us was unable to contain his disgust for lack of vocals. "Maybe the singer forgot to show up," he scoffed sarcastically. There always has to be that one person with something shitty to say. Just enjoy the music, douche! It’s fucking incredible. 

By the time they left the stage, Corey had decided he was a fan of post rock. 

A fire in the pit of my stomach ignited for the yuppie couple sitting next to Corey. Every time their tight yuppie asses rose from their seats, they hovered over top of us, imploring us with their dead yuppie eyes to let them through. The woman part of the yuppie-parade had a short black hair helmet, greased securely into a side-part. Before the Cure came on, I embarked on a spy-cam mission, pretending to take cutesy sibling love pictures of Corey to paste in my high school locker. 

"Alright you two, hand the camera over," an older man behind us demanded. My face flushed slightly, thinking I had been busted taking asshole-y pictures of strangers. "Let me get a picture of you two!" Oh. I handed him the camera, initiating the most awkward minute of the entire trip.

"Put your faces closer!" he insisted, but since we were turning around in our seats for the photo-op, it was a difficult maneuver. 

"I can’t, my neck is going to snap!" Corey whined.

The worst part for me was that people around us were intently taking it in like a circus side show, as if I don’t hate having my picture taken enough as it is. Great, now my misery is a spectator sport. And then the picture barely turned out anyway because we still had the flash off from when I was taking secret pictures.

Shortly after 8:00, the lights went out and intro music ricocheted all throughout the arena. One by one, the Cure walked out and when Robert strapped on his guitar, every voice in my mind quieted and my breath caught in my throat. Dude, it’s the fucking CURE.

Appropriately, they started with "Open" and I’m pretty sure I didn’t breathe once through the entire song. From there, they presented us with a three hour orchestral buffet of new and old, pop and gloom. I stole occasional glances at Corey, who was in the throes of having his Cure cherry popped, and his face was smothered with a look of awe.

The Cure had an amazing energy that night. This was my first time seeing Porl, now that he’s back in the line up, and I laughed every time he treated us to cutesy little dances and circle-skips. Simon has more stamina than most bass players half his age. Jason is a king atop his drum kit throne, and Robert continues to make me die. At one point, between songs, he sheepishly said, "I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing up here." You’re touching lives, dude, that’s what you’re doing up there. And having fun.

It’s amazing how no matter how much time passes, each song still takes me back to different times in my life. "Kyoto Song" plays and I’m buying a plane ticket for Australia. The opening notes of "If Only Tonight We Could Sleep" waft from the speakers and I’m laying on floor pillows in my living room, crying into a glass of black cherry Manischewitz. Robert sings "Maybe Someday" and I’m thinking of killing myself on St. Patrick’s Day in 2000, but decide to have a party instead. I’m looking for bus fare so I can run away in tenth grade, "A Strange Day" indeed.
 

Below me was a woman who was dancing for Jesus. You know the dancing I’m talking about:  the person is so wrought with the Holy Spirit that they’re moved to rock and sway like listening to someone singing the Bible atop an orchestra of bongo beats and sinner flagellations. You see this in Jesus camp all the time. ALL THE TIME. Sometimes they take their shoes off, too. Her husband remained in his seat the entire night, passing her fresh beers and sticking out one strong arm to catch her when she began to fall at the end of the night.

Toward the end of the main set, "Just Like Heaven" was played, and Jean-Paul turned excitedly to Margot. They shared a brief moment of giddiness and I thought they’d rise from their seats, but then they turned back to the stage and continued emulating statues. But one row in front of them, the yuppiest man ever to attend a rock show stood up, ran his hands down the pleats of his khaki shorts, and took the hand of his blond bobbed female companion; together the two of them rocked moves that I imagine are stored safely for really special occasions, like a Michael McDonald show on a cruise ship. The man kept his eyes closed, head back slightly, and pursed his lips like a duck, while the woman did a really disjointed hip-rock paired with car-driving arm movements. Corey kept calling her SpeedRacer. Could not take eyes off her.

The highlight for me was during the first encore, when they pulled out the big guns with "The Kiss." That song is like the most violently intense hate sex you can imagine, stuffed into a cannon and left to roil like a cat in heat, until Robert finally shouts into the mic and all that hate and fucking and frustration explodes and you have strong desires to punch the fat Goth woman simmering in Patchouli next to you.

"From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea" was amazing as usual, and I made sure to check if Corey was putting his hands in the sky upon Robert’s command. He wasn’t so I lifted his arm up by the sleeve and all was made right. I can never get Henry to abide.

The third encore was dubbed "Old School Encore" and it knocked the wind out of me. Seven straight classic Cure songs, hold me back. It was like the BMW at the end of the Sweet Sixteen party.

This was my fourth time seeing them and they still made it feel like the first time. There are not enough superlatives in the dictionary to properly convey how extraordinary this band is, and somehow after twenty+ years of doing their thing, they still manage to bring it, and bring it hard. They are the true definition of serious business. As we walked back to the car after the Cure reached the venue’s curfew, I could still feel them pulsing in my veins.

• Open
• Fascination Street
• A Strange Day
• alt.end
• The Walk
• End of the World
• Lovesong
• Kyoto Song
• Pictures of You
• Lullaby
• Maybe Someday
• The Perfect Boy
• From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea
• The Only One
• Push
• How Beautiful You Are
• Inbetween Days
• Just Like Heaven
• Primary
• Never Enough
• Wrong Number
• One Hundred Years, End

  1st encore:   If Only Tonight We Could Sleep, The Kiss
  2nd encore:  Freakshow, Close To Me, Why Can’t I Be You?
  3rd encore:  Three Imaginary Boys, Fire In Cairo, Boys Don’t Cry, Jumping Someone Else’s Train,         Grinding Halt, 10:15 Saturday Night, Killing An Arab