One thing that drives me nuts about my kid is that he has this wanton need to monopolize everything in the house.

Spongebob is on TV, yet he wants to play games on my phone.

So I turn the channel, which flips his internal asshole switch and makes him scream, “I WAS WATCHING THAT!

“

“You can’t do both!” I’ll yell, snatching my phone from him.

A few minutes ago, he attempted to pickpocket my phone. When I started to protest, he pointed from the hockey game on the TV back to my phone and said, “You can’t do both.

One or the other!”

Well played, kid.

I had waited so long for this night. Henry and I were both sick and he tried various ways to use this as his out, but his cries of “I have a fever!” fell on finger-plugged ears. And after the vehicular imblowlio en route to the show, it was pretty much all downhill for Henry.

Arriving at the Altar Bar around 6:30, we went straight upstairs to the bar where a prime location against the railing was secured, directly facing the stage, and Henry would only allow me to have one drink. (Perhaps this was because of the sixteen times I mentioned my urge to fight someone on the way to the show.) There was no way I was standing on the floor for this show. I’m too old, bones too brittle to become some fucked up casualty of a testosterone-steeped nightmare pit. And ain’t no way I’m relying on that big doof named Henry to have my back.

I liked our spot upstairs just fine.

Especially since it was right next to the steps and I got to watch a post-detox Jonny Craig get denied by the bouncer because he didn’t have on a wristband. I laughed way harder than necessary and then immediately tweeted about it, even though it wasn’t a big deal at all. Especially when he came back less than a minute later, wrist properly encircled with a 21+ paper bracelet.

My dislike for him is so fiery that I will grasp on to any pathetic chance to ridicule him, like any other good twelve-year-old would. The first time I spotted him that night, my stomach clenched up and I had all these latent desires to spit in his face for being such a dick, for making me subconsciously care about him and then worry myself to sleep every night when he was shipped away to detox, like he’s my fucking son, my fucking responsibility. He is not any of those things. But still, beneath the layers of rotting resentment and decayed disgust, I have this stupid, pudgy, soft mound of love for the fucking kid. Because he is Jonny Craig goddammit; fan-swindling, heroin-binging aside, he makes the music that soundtracks my stupid life, from the pinnacle of the Christina Chronicles to now.

Jonny spent most of the night situated at the bar right behind us and I was acutely aware of his presence the entire time. At one point, Henry girlishly spazzed because, “OMG Jonny touched my arm, sort of!” Henry acts like he hates all music affiliated with Jonny Craig, but deep down he’s been choreographing our wedding dance to one of his songs, I just know it. I JUST KNOW IT. He also wishes he had a tiny diamond embedded beneath his eye, just like Jonny.

We had to endure four other bands before Dance Gavin Dance, which was a slow torture. Not that I disliked any of them, but it seemed especially cruel on this night when I was sick and internally combusted with anticipation.

Quick run-down of the openers:

• Just Like Vinyl: They didn’t even need to announce that they’re from Seattle. It was pretty obvious. They brought with them some brand of modern grunge, I guess you could call it, though Henry pointed out that each one of them seemed to be playing a different genre. “It’s like if Blake started a garage band,” Henry scoffed. I can’t say I disliked it, it kept me interested and it was definitely not what I was expecting, considering the other bands on the tour. They kind of helped clear my sinuses momentarily, so I was into it. “We’re completely DIY,” the singer yelled into the mic. “We have no label, no management—-” “No kidding,” Henry mumbled. He really wasn’t impressed. Funny how he got all giggly when the singer was standing near us later on in the night.

• Close to Home: Pretty much my new favorite band, but mostly because I am now secretly (and psychotically) betrothed to the singer. HE IS COMPLETELY MY TYPE. I made sure to remind Henry of that constantly throughout their set and every time he walked past us after that, I squeezed Henry’s bicep and sighed dreamily. He wasn’t very impressed with them either, but that’s mostly because of his insane jealousy.

• In Fear & Faith: Not my first time seeing them, and while I love their music, they just don’t enrapture me when I see them live. I was really bothered by the singer’s attire, which I guess is a good sign that I’m getting kind of old. I’ve yet to see a man who looks good in burgundy pants. I would have been screwed if I was I was trying to find a date in the ’70s I guess.

• Iwrestledabearonce: With the exception of DGD, they were my favorite of the night. They brought so much energy and as a female, how can I not love a band that has a chick screamer. Siphon some elements from the Locust and MSI, pump it into a broad with perky boobs and exploding ‘nodes, cap it off with a sonic cowboy hat and that is what you get when Iwrestledabearonce are raping your ear drums. And if you would have seen the look on Henry’s face throughout their set, that’s exactly what he looked like: a big stupid rape victim. I’m not sure if he ever hated his life more than during that half hour, and I think he even mentioned that it rivaled the nine years he spent with his ex as far as weener-tucking is concerned. I would be lying if I tried to say that I didn’t cry at least once during their set. It was also the first time of the night that the kids below us looked alive. Some hippie fuck that Henry hated all night long got thrown out during their set, so surely that will provide some positive connotations.

All night, I was blessed with normal people next to me. But after Iwrestledabearonce, the people next to me were replaced with some Screech-looking motherfucker, his equally-nerdy bro and a drunk girl who was definitely out of their league until she started talking and I realized she had very little going for her aside from a decent body and average face.

I guess it was my payback, since Henry had to endure the hawk-ish screechings of Iwrestledabearonce. This bitch was the equivalent of my aural hell, with her pinched-nose falsetto voice that was definitely half past normal speaking voice, more toward 12-year-old Fran Drescher whine. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t drone out her nasal panderings about who her friends are cheating on and how she blew her chance to talk to Jonny earlier in the night.

“I’m kind of obsessed with him!” she screamed over her plastic cup of booze to these dorky boys panting in her presence. “I heard he has a serious girlfriend and I respect that, but I think I’d have a shot!” she slurred, grazing her pointy elbow against my arm as she reached for her straw.

And I laughed so hard. Bitch, if you’re at the BAR, you’re already too old for Jonny Craig. Don’t you know he has a predilection for underage scene girls?

She left to use the bathroom and her two guys immediately started talking about how annoying she is.

Finally, Dance Gavin Dance came out and that stopped the dumb bitch from talking. Granted, it was replaced with shrill screaming but she seemed to get tired after a little while so most of the set she was pretty quiet.

I’m not sure how much I breathed during their set. I kept catching myself holding my breath and wiping away tears, because I had waited so long for this moment that up until a few months ago I was sure was never going to happen. I’ve seen them twice in their post-Jonny Craig carnation and I can appreciate the music they made without him, but it wasn’t the same for me. It lacked that raw emotion and didn’t really move me like the original Dance Gavin Dance did. And the return of Jon Mess was icing on the cake. The camaraderie and chemistry he and Jonny have on stage together is infectious and I couldn’t stop smiling. Every time they hugged each other in between songs, I almost felt inspired to hug Henry, but that’s toeing the PDA line for me. However, there were moments where I was so overwhelmed, had so many emotions caught in my throat, that I’d place my head on Henry’s arm and sigh heavily.

“Lemon Meringue Tie” was played and my heart ached so badly, like hot bourbon swished over a toothache. That was the first song I ever heard by them, on my way home from seeing a Xiu Xiu show in Cincinnati with Christina, so many years ago now that it seems almost like a memory from someone else’s life; things are just so different now without Christina, without a true best friend. But for a few minutes, I was taken back to a really great time in my life.

And when Jonny sang “I don’t know why, I don’t know why I fight for you this way” the entire place erupted. My entire heart erupted.

“Backwards Pumpkin Song,” are you kidding me? The Screech kid next to me was like, “OMG I can’t believe they’re playing this!” and I almost wanted to knuckle-bump him because OMG I COULDN’T BELIEVE THEY WERE PLAYING THIS EITHER!

I’m about to start crying just from reliving this.

If E was administered aurally, and was called Dance Gavin Dance, I’d probably have more kids than the Duggans right now.

“Don’t they make you want to have sex?” I yelled in Henry’s ear.

His answer was a mixture of raw pain, boredom and disbelief.  “Nope. Not at all.”

Their encore was “And Then I Told Them I Invented Times New Roman,” during the entirety of which I let myself cry freely. It’s just so anthemic to me.

***

As we walked to the car after the show, I rambled on and on about all the times I’d sit at the computer and watch live performances of that song on YouTube, thinking that I would never get to see it for real, and that I couldn’t believe I had just seen and heard it in person that night. Henry looked at me, then did a double take when he realized that I was legitimately sobbing and not just pretending which I guess is what he initially assumed. My face was soaked with tears.

It’s amazing how someone can fuck up as much as Jonny, yet his fans are so forgiving, time and time again. No matter where he was on the stage, the crowd shuffled after him, a sea of arms outstretched, ebbing and flowing beneath a brilliant full-faced moon. The kid has some kind of charisma, and apparently enough of it to cancel out his douche factor, because anytime I see him on stage I find that my heart is softening like Ben and Jerry’s in August and I’m falling in love all over again.

It’s sadomasochism. Because I know he’s going to fuck up again, do something stupid to make me lose that respect which makes it so hard for me to continue appreciating someone’s music. But then he’s going to sing some fucking siren song and pull me right back into the thick of it with needles and hooks in my skin. And it feels so fucking good.

Two analysts were standing next to my desk here at work the other night and I realized that they both seem to have a pretty skewed perception of me.

“You’d never be able to hang out with Erin,” the one analyst said to the other.

“Why? Just because I don’t like scary movies?” she asked.

He gave her an exasperated sigh. “Everything Erin likes is scary, though.”

I’m sitting here, trying to butt in to this thoroughly engaging conversation about me, but they ignored me.

“We both like hockey,” she remembered. “We could go to a Pens game!”

“Yeah, but then she’d kill you afterward,” he said, and she reluctantly agreed that no, we would never be able to hang out outside of work.

***

In office sea monkey news, I ordered some accessories for the guys a few weeks ago. Frighteningly, I had to literally cut out an order form and send a check to some ambiguous-sounding company in Maryland. This was after I spent nearly an entire night at work scouring the Internet in search of easier, more legit-sounding ways to purchase Sea Diamonds and Banana Treat.

I just checked my bank statement online and the check was cashed on March 14th and if I don’t get my shit soon I’m going to freak the fuck out. And then my SEA MONKEYS are going to freak the fuck out.  And then my co-workers are going to say, “Wait…we have sea monkeys? Oh shit, I forgot about those fuckers!”

I’m not sure if it’s comforting or terrifying to know that this was the same way I had to order supplies for my sea monkeys when I was 12.

In 1992.

It is now 2011. The term mail order should be a page in a history book by now.

Spending the afternoon watching the hockey game and messing around with old pictures. The one with the barn was taken in Lancaster.

Tonight is Soul Skate and I’m still (still!) not feeling 100%, but I’m going to try my best not to collapse while on skates.

I doubt I can count on Henry for any support tonight. That might give away the fact that we’re a COUPLE.

We were driving along peacefully, me talking a mile a minute about how excited I was to see Jonny Craig and Henry rolling his eyes accordingly, when it happened: Henry merged into the left lane in front of a black Lexus. This action was directly connected with the unleashing of a hornets nest into the Lexus owner’s asshole, which set off a murderous display of horn-honking and violently exaggerated swerving.

Henry was nowhere even close to cutting this guy off, and normally he would have let it go, but on this night he was already agitated. He was sick, going against his will to see five bands he hates, and now some rich bastard is having the nerve to spit testosterone balls at our meager Ford Focus.

So Henry started shouting (really lame and vanilla) insults back at this guy. With the windows down. It was embarrassing for me, because I like to think I’m pretty excelsior at the game of road rage. I felt like Henry took something away from me that night as he shat all over the art of vehicular war fare.

A few seconds later, the Lexus was passing us to the right. I swiveled in my seat to get a better view of the driver—who turned out to be a super old man—just as he raised the velvet curtain on his vulgar highway play.

He stretched out his mouth into a large, flapping “O” and then began pantomiming the most aggressive blow job I have ever seen, AND I HAVE SEEN A LOT OF BLOW JOBS. His eyes bulged out as if he was gagging himself on nothing but the sheer satisfaction of finally being provided with an opportunity to gesticulate something that he hasn’t had since that ‘Nam bullshit was going on.

Imagine there was an outtake from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure where someone gave Large Marge ecstasy and all she wanted to do was fellate fire hydrants.

That’s what it looked like. But you know, if Large Marge was your grandfather. Some little girl is probably sitting in his lap right now, completely unaware that her grandfather gesticulates lewdly to innocent drivers.

Go ahead, ask for that pony. But you should know that grandpa wants to lodge his weener in its mouth.

And while this old man’s mouth was practically being pried open with invisible speculum, his hand was pumping with such frenetic force—harder than the broads in the Shake Weight infomercials—like he was trying to paddle a canoe into his mouth. I don’t know how he wasn’t punching himself in the face. I really wanted to see him punch himself in the face.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. And I also couldn’t stop pointing and laughing. What else could I do? Feign cunnilingus? He probably would have wrecked.

We watched as he nearly took out two other cars in an attempt to merge into the right lane.

Henry was still swearing and saying things like, “HE’S PROBABLY ONE OF YOUR IDIOT LAWYERS!” (Because I own all of the lawyers at the Law Firm. And they’re obviously idiots for letting that happen.) This was making me laugh even harder, and my face was slick with giddy sweat tears.

“I bet he even took his dentures out for that!” I squealed through my crying giggles.

Henry made some agitated vocal-twist and bristled his moustache.

At a red light, Henry was checking his phone and saw one of my tweets about the debacle. “What’s the ‘universal sign of fellatio’?” he asked.

Are you fucking kidding me? This goddamn forty-five-year-old dumb ass was being serious. I had to act it out for him, which I guess isn’t too surprising because it is Henry after all, and we all know he hasn’t had much action of the adult variety in his life. Like, who would actually ever suggest something like that to him?

“Is that what he was doing? I didn’t even see.” He looked thoughtful for a second. “So, what…that guy wanted to blow me?” he asked, working out this difficult xxx Rubik’s Cube in his head.

Sure, that’s exactly it. He’s probably laying in a hospital bed right now, still thinking of blowing that big flanneled dick in the red Focus.

I predict Henry’s going to start cutting people off in traffic more often now.

I can’t tell you how many times I have sat in front of my computer, watching this video, wishing I had the chance to see Dance Gavin Dance during the Jonny Craig/Jon Mess era, trying to accept the fact that it was never going to happen since Jonny was kicked out.

But then last night my dream came true.

I was so happy that I cried. SO HAPPY THAT I CRIED.

I have so much to say about last night, but right now, I’m just going to watch this video another 87 times.

I can’t stop smiling.

Henry is sick now. And when Henry is sick, it’s all, “Just leave me alone! I need to rest!” and then he barricades himself in the bedroom and leaves the rest of us incompetent beings to stumble repeatedly into the wall like dying wind-up toys.

He came home from work early yesterday with preconceived notions of “resting,” but too bad I was having major blog issues (it was basically BROKEN-DOWN).

“Get down here and fix this!” I yelled up to him. “You can rest when you’re done.” And I said it in such a way that sent ice-cold claws grating down his back, so even though he acted all haughty when he stomped down the stairs, it was obvious that his manhood was cowering underneath his feverish flesh.

It’s sort of better now, back to its original jacked-up state, at least. My blog, not Henry. Last I bothered to check, he was still a suffering mess of chills and aches.

He better get stoked though, because tonight is the Dance Gavin Dance show, which I had scheduled off work for two months in advance. He was nasally complaining about this yesterday, because not only is he sick, but he absolutely abhors Dance Gavin Dance.

“This is so unfair how you do this to me,” he bitched in a way that immediately lopped two inches off his dick measurement.

“I’m going to wait until you’re sick and then make you go see someone you hate.”

“Go ahead,” I taunted, knowing this threat will never come to fruition because it involves spending money which Henry doesn’t enjoy doing unless it’s on bottles of Mountain Dew, computer parts and socks.

“Katy Perry!” he yelled, practically clapping his hands in delight. “I’m making you go see Katy Perry.

Front row seats.”

I couldn’t stop laughing at the ridiculousness of this. Erin Rachelle Kelly at a Katy Perry “concert.”

“That’s fine,” I played along. “I’ll start a fight and get kicked out.”

“Ooh, Katy Perry and PINK!” Henry went on, dreaming up some stupid scenario in his stupid head. “A night of positivity.” (I’m constantly ranting about how I hate Pink because she’s so fucking positive. Just what women need, more anthems.)

My luck, they’ll probably be on tour together this summer and Henry will win tickets from whatever pathetic radio station he guiltily listens to when I’m not in the car with him.

We were on our way to take family photos in Mingo Park when Blake told me.

“Craig was kicked out of Chiodos,” he said from the backseat.

I laughed.

“No seriously, my friend Gavin just read it on MySpace.”

“No,” I said with firm disbelief, but I doubted my tone, like a wife being told her husband is cheating with the 17-year-old nanny.

It was hard to imagine a Chiodos without their charismatic singer, but I’ve had since September 24th, 2009 to prepare for what was to come. Chiodos have since acquired a new singer, Brandon Bolmer, and released a new album (Illuminaudio, which I reviewed here with all the emotion of a girl being stood up for prom). Craig has moved on to front and release an album with a veritable super group of sorts, Destroy Rebuild Until God Shows (D.R.U.G.S.). Both parties have seemingly moved on (“seemingly” being the operative word), so I knew I should, too, yet I kept finding reasons to avoid seeing this neo-Chiodos every time they rolled into Pittsburgh since that fateful fall.

“Oh, they’re with The Used. I just saw The Used last month.” (Weak.)

“Yeah, but it’s a week night. I’d have to call off work and I don’t have PTO yet.” (Lame.)

But then Chiodos announced their tour with Emarosa and the Pittsburgh date happened to be on a Sunday night in February. There were no excuses. I had to get this over with.

Then the D.R.U.G.S. album was released, so I had been listening to that pretty much ad nauseum in the days preceding the Chiodos show. Overwrought with guilt because of this, I began to cry in the car.

“You’re allowed to like both bands, you know,” Henry said, knowing exactly why I was crying. “It’s not cheating.” I’ll keep that in mind when I start seeing other people.

In a weepy little girl whine, I cried, “But it just feels so wrong! Craig belongs with Chiodos! THINGS WILL NEVER BE THE SAME!”

***

Watching Chiodos that night in February at the Rex Theater proved that. I was already perplexed, a little off-balance even, after watching Emarosa take the stage beforehand without Jonny Craig, (a scenario which I only had a few hours to prepare for). Now I was watching another of my favorite bands with some impostor at the helm. And that guilt came back, because I was there to give Brandon a chance. I loved the new album, so why was my heart leaking poison into my veins? Why was I acting like one of those pernicious, fickle scene kids who turned their backs on Chiodos the moment Craig was gone? I was better than that, I was there for the music, not politics.

At least, that’s what I tried to convince myself.

I tried to fixate on Bradley lurching about like a crazed Frankenstein’s monster behind his keyboard, and the perpetually shoeless Jason in his spot stage-right, hoping that this would bring me some comfort and familiarity, but it wasn’t the same now that they were flanking some other guy at center stage.  I kept turning around and making sad eyes at Henry, who shrugged and gave me sympathetic smiles.

And the crowd! Smallest crowd of any Chiodos show I have ever been to. Scene girls were ominously scant at this Owens-less Chiodos show. Although I did see one that looked like Snookie.

And then they would play old songs, like “Baby, You Wouldn’t Last a Minute On the Creek,” and my chest hurt like it was being wrenched open by screamo dwarves and flooded with the memories of the last six years. Memories of being pregnant and listening to “Baby…”,  of the first time I saw Chiodos with Christina at Taste of Chaos, of Chiodos asking Chooch to be their mascot in Columbus. Warped Tour. Mr. Small’s. The Basement. Club Zoo. So many memories they’ve turkey-basted into my heart over these last short six years.

I didn’t want Brandon singing those songs. I didn’t want to hear him sing the words on my arm, words that aren’t his.

It was like walking in on your mom having sex with her ceramics instructor. You can’t undo it, you can’t unsee it, you can’t unHEAR it, and you know nothing will ever be the same again. But you’re torn, because part of you likes the ceramic instructor. She helped you make that shitty jack o’lantern when you were in fifth grade, after all.

Shitty jack o’lantern be damned, it filled me with aggression, this intense desire to start a fight. I set my sights on the fat screamer from the shitty local band that opened the show, but Henry kept giving me chastising head shakes.

“But I hate that fucker!” I yelled.

“Stop,” Henry kept calmly saying, until eventually, I did. Mostly because I was afraid he wouldn’t buy me a hoodie after the show if I kept acting out. And also because that screamer-fuck could have potentially killed me with one swift plow-drive.

I’ll be fair, Brandon did kill it up there with Chiodos. He’s got a fierce, solid voice and was just on. I’ll continue to support them, I still love every track on Illuminaudio, but that doesn’t mean it’s not going to feel like a cavity being drilled every time he sings one of Craig’s songs.

It was pouring down rain when we left the Rex that night, and I inadvertently stepped in a shin-deep puddle, which seemed eerily apropos.

***

For the next week and a half, I experienced a post-show depression worse even than what past Warped Tours have inflicted upon me. I felt somewhat traumatized, like an orphan being taunted with the promise of adoption only to have her face coated with laugh-induced spittle. “We shouldn’t have gone,” I said over and over to Henry. “We just shouldn’t have gone at all.” I moped around listlessly for days, sliming everything I touched with my malaise.

I’ve had since September 24th, 2009 to prepare myself for this. But I guess it wasn’t enough time.

“You can take more medicine now,” Henry said, joining me in bed where I am currently melting into the mattress with Extreme Sickness.

“Oh good. Go get me some,” I mumbled, Kleenex plugging up both nostrils.

“What are your symptoms now?”

“Watery eyes. Major facial wetness. Like if you peel the flesh from my skull, duck sauce will come flooding out,” I answered matter-of-factly.

Henry’s head exploded into a brilliant puff of gyrating question marks.

“The only way I could ever find medicine for you is if you were the person who wrote the symptoms on the box.”

I guess I’m not getting new medicine.

I want to be writing in my blog even though I’m sick. Henry is like, “GO LAY DOWN AND REST!” but I’m too stubborn. Resting is fucking boring, I’m sorry.

I’m so sick that I left work on Friday after an hour, bringing an end to my perfect attendance streak. (Seriously, I’m such a freak that I have not once called off sick since I started working there last April. With the exception of when I took off to go to Warped Tour in July, but I still neurotically gave like, two months notice.) Barb says that my streak was protected by the fact that I came to work in the first place on Friday and didn’t technically call off, but I feel as though I’d be living a lie if I accepted this loophole, and then we’d have to change the name of my blog to Oh 99.9% Honestly, Erin.

And now Chooch, who we thought was on the mend, is sick again, this time with an ear ache. Chooch has never had an ear ache before, not even when he was a baby (miraculously), so he has been sobbing intermittently about it. I’m sure it’s probably very scary, but he’s totally eclipsing my whining and I can’t help but feel that Henry is more concerned with taking care of him than me (even though he’s made four trips to the store in the last 12 hours for me).

We discovered Chooch’s new symptoms yesterday when we stupidly kept our plans in spite of my sickness to meet my sister Amy, her boyfriend Dick and her daughter Brooke at the Pancake Skate n Whirl yesterday afternoon. It’s a rink we’ve never been to, but it’s halfway between us in Pittsburgh and them in Wheeling, so we figured it was worth checking out.

I had grand visions of this rink being adjacent to some outstanding pancake shack, where patrons would be fork-fed fluffy bites of syrup-bloated pancakes by pony-tailed rink girls while some flour-dusted granny cooked up unlimited batches in the kitchen, some with blueberries, some with angel-dusted chocolate chips. (And I do mean the drug, not celestial dandruff.)

Then I learned that the town itself was called Pancake. There were suspiciously zero pancakes to be found.

The snack bar and arcade games were way superior to that of the Neville Roller Drome, so I was feeling optimistic.

But then I saw the rink. The floor was uneven, painted a pale blue, and had a surprise dip in the center that gave me rollercoaster-stomach when I unknowingly skated across it. I think it may have been the first roller rink in all of the world. I’m pretty sure one of the nicks in the floor that I stumbled across was a souvenir from polio leg braces and in one of the darkened corners, I felt the presence of small pox’ed ghosts.

I can feel things like this now since I am a member of a ghost-hunting team. I also suddenly excel at science.

The size of the rink was about half that of the Roller Drome and the wheels on everyone’s skates were so tight that you could basically just walk clunkily around the rink. Chooch didn’t even need his hand held.

Amy’s back wheel completely locked up at one point and some old broad had to come to the rescue with her skate tools. There were even people walking on the rink IN THEIR SHOES. Roller DJ would have been on his big boy mic in a hot second if he had seen that.

On my first lap around, I had the impeccable timing to be right behind Dick as he lost his balance and began windmilling his arms. His left fist hit me square in the face. My surroundings faded away and all I could see was a 4th of July display at Disney World. I was vaguely aware of Dick apologizing profusely and asking me if I was alright. That’s when I realized that my sinuses were clear (temporarily, anyway) so instead of pressing charges, I found myself thanking him. Then I congratulated him for being the first man to ever punch me in the face (surprisingly). Henry was not pleased that those honors went to someone other than him. That’s OK baby, you punch my dead-end future in the crotch on the daily.

I didn’t manage to skate much. I was overheated after the first three laps, had a sick sweat dotting my upper lip that screamed FEVER ALERT, even though the skates prevented me from maneuvering with my patented velocity. We all spent more time sitting on the benches, I think, until after about an hour and a half, Chooch started whining. This isn’t really like Chooch to whine in public. We thought it was because he had been playing air hockey and got his fingers smashed, but then his whining turned into sobbing and after staring at him for a few minutes, like he was a ticking bomb in a plexi-glass box, our parental bulbs lit up and we deduced that, “Hey, maybe Chooch is really sick.”

Chooch tries to tell us he’s dying while Henry unsuccessfully attempts to bring the page-boy back in vogue.

Which, obviously, he is. Because he is a four-year-old, not actually a pet, and is able to communicate his ailments to us. Sometimes it just takes us a good hour to process what he’s telling us before accepting it as truth.

We cut the afternoon short, which sucks because the last time we tried to hang out with them, we were at the Washington County Fair and it began storming. I hope they don’t think we have an aversion to them. Chooch sobbed the whole way home in the car while I openly wept about my sinuses and Henry considered driving the car into a ditch.

Chooch and I spent the rest of the day being miserable while Henry begged us to just take a nap. So I did, and he let me sleep until 9:30 last night, what the fuck, Henry?? So then I was up most of the night, watching Fuse’s Sexiest Video countdown. #1 was a huge disappointment. So was #2. I woke up this morning feeling as though I was smashed in the face with a frying pan, which would explain that “dream” I had of Henry cooking breakfast in the bedroom.

If you find that you’re getting a little mucky trying to find the pearls hidden in the midst of stale throwaway tracks, then just keep sitting there because I’ve found some nacreous delights for you.

Captain Midnite’s debut EP “Purple Heart Vendetta” delivers five tracks akin to a stroll through Epcot: Diverse, memorable and most refreshingly foreign to anything you’re going to hear on your local alternative stations. Captain Midnite blends together a precise formula of hip hop and electro beats, post-hardcore stylings, a dash of Gothic-tinged vocal pandering that recall a neo-Voltaire in a less toe-tapping mood (“Coldly Tuned,” “Garnett”). Top it off with appropriately-timed screams packed with an aching ferocity that would make Vic Fuente’s (Pierce the Veil) heart swell with the pride of a pimp watching his prized whore give her first Congressional blowjob, and you have one aural recipe daring Warped Tour to take a swig.

Every last beat and dark lyric of revenge and tattered hearts come directly from the brain and fingertips of Joe Symanski, the crackerjack behind Captain Midnite’s sonic sundry. Joe was awesome and agreed to sit down and be interrogated by me. (I’m assuming he was sitting. He might have been squatting. I couldn’t see him all the way from Pittsburgh.)

1. In today’s scene, rarely do you run across a band labeling themselves as just “alternative” or “rock” or “metal.” People want the music they love to be stuffed into specific packaging and lately these gift boxes don’t seem complete unless they have the “-core” tag dangling from them as well; we’re seeing everything from metalcore to noodlecore to christcore. Each song on your EP varies so much, I imagine it must be near impossible to pigeon-hole yourself into one genre. How do you respond when asked to slap a label on your music?

I’m fine with whatever tag people want to throw on my music because it is all about how they want to interpret it. You’re right, the music I make ranges from Post-Hardcore to Hip-Hop to Alternative Rock to Pop to Electro. So people can make what they want of it, but I just throw together what sounds right to me at the time. It helps having been a beat maker for so long working with so many different styles. I am able to understand pretty much every genre out there and how that particular music works or doesn’t work. Having been featured in Alternative Press recently (AP) has been a blessing too because it has helped people that love that “style” of Purple Heart Vendetta start to follow my work.

2. How would your best friend describe you?

A relaxed person with a dark sense of humor and intelligent swagggggg ;)

3. You’ve performed with your other group The Let Go, but have you had the chance to take the stage as Captain Midnite? And since every instrument on the record is played by you, quite incredibly, do you perform (or plan to perform) as a solo artist or employ a band to take on the road with you?

I’ve performed a few times with my solo stuff and my favorite time was with my buddy Nima drumming. My plan is to continue to do the solo music but also start a full band on top of that. In my upcoming shows I’ll have a band with me playing guitar/drums/bass and I’ll be singing and playing keyboard and maybe some guitar.

4. More pressing than the chicken/egg question, what came first: making your own music or producing hip hop beats?

Making beats for hip-hop artists came first before anything. It was what I was feeling at the time when I was 16 and so I stuck with just that for a while and I’ve now found a kind of music I like to make on my own as well with me singing. I’ll continue to do my work with hip hop artists, and my group The Let Go, and continue to release music with Kyle Lucas as well. I don’t mind working between genres at all. It’s actually super fun. Kyle Lucas and my new hip-hop EP “The Sky Is Falling And I’m Fine” is almost finished up and I’m so pumped about it!

I think it crazy how much better we have both gotten since “I Brought Dead Flowers to a FUNeral.” And I love our record “…Dead Flowers” so it’s a good feeling to feel like we outdid that one!

5. Best show you’ve ever attended, the sort that makes your heart seize up and gives you a major post-show hangover?

I went on a road-trip with my girlfriend about a year ago down to San Diego and we ended up catching back-to-back night Pierce The Veil shows in their hometown. One show was full electric, the other was all acoustic. I’d never seen anything like it. Seeing a band with that much passion, love for music and love for their fans in their hometown was absolutely incredible. I’ll never forget it. Plus Vic is one of the most phenomenal live vocalists out there, so it’s hard to lose with someone like that on your team!

6. What would you be doing if making music wasn’t an option?

I’d probably be either involved in film or graphic design. I’m just a very artsy person, but I like to think I am also very grounded. It’s important for artists to not forget about real life sometimes. Can’t always have your head in the clouds.

7. I feel that what a person listens to often says a lot about them, so I ask everyone from co-workers to hobos under the pier. Here is the obligatory “What are your favorite bands?” question.

Well, Pierce The Veil as I said before. And I love Thrice and Brand New. I have to throw Sade in there because technically she has a band and everything. She might be my favorite artist period. Her harmonies are not human. So beautiful. And I know Cee Lo Green isn’t a band, but I could never deny how much his music inspires me. It is insane. Also, lately I’ve been really into the new Chiodos record with their new singer and also the new Destroy Rebuild Until God Shows with the old Chiodos singer. Funny how those two albums I think are the best albums I think Chiodos has done and also Craig Owens (DRUGS) has done. Annnnd I can’t leave out Bring Me The Horizon because they are so awesome to see live. Energy like no other.

8. Warped Tour is pretty much the zenith of today’s alternative music scene but there seems to be a perpetual debate about it.

What does Warped Tour mean to you, as a fan and an artist?

I think the reason Warped is able to stay so huge is because of like you said; them incorporating many different genres. If it were just straight punk bands playing it wouldn’t do nearly as well. Kids like these hybrid and pop bands more and more these days. Artists can’t complain about it. Either deal with it or adapt.

9. I’m a sucker for male/female collabs, like the Lights cameo on the latest Bring Me the Horizon album. If you were given the chance to work with any female singer of your choice, who would it be?

The Lights feature on BMTH’s album WAS EARTH-SHATTERING! If I were to work with any female singer it would be Sade as stated before. I think it’s even more awesome that she is like 30 years older than me! I couldn’t picture a more beautiful collaboration than that, I would feel beyond blessed.

10. What does Captain Midnite have planned for the future?

A lot more shows this upcoming summer. I got a free song coming out this Wednesday March 16th called “Gateway Love” coming out with my buddy Grumps, so snag that! I’m working on a follow up EP to Purple Heart Vendetta at the moment too, but before that is dropped I’m going to drop some singles and some free DLs!

And now I leave you with some essential links where Captain Midnite can be found:

Facebook

Twitter

Grab a Free Song!

Purple Heart Vendetta on iTunes (I bought it after only hearing one song. You won’t regret it. When have I ever lied to you? I mean, other than that one time.)

Henry is on the road today with one of the drivers, making sweet Faygo deliveries together. Normally, I’d be whatever about this, but on THIS day, I am sick.

Not terribly sick, but enough that I feel compelled to whine about it every 3 minutes. So yeah, I guess terribly sick.

I keep making copious calls to Henry, wanting to whine and pout and have him baby me (which would never happen anyway) but instead of indulging me, he adopts this stiff and business-like tone, like he is EMBARRASSED that his sick woman has the nerve to call him, looking for sympathy.

I mean, if he’d rather me take my sympathy-search down to the corner bar, I CAN DO THAT.

Instead, I turned to Twitter, because my friends over there don’t know exactly how extreme my whininess actually is, so some of them will pander to my ego and make me feel whole again. Henry does not approve of this enabling.

Anyway, one of my twitter friends, David, suggested that this would be a prime opportunity for Manual to call Henry. So he did!

Connecting…….
Registering…
Placing call…
Connected at Mar 17, 2011 12:31:15 PM
IP RELAY RO80027M
PLS HD DIALING
412 605 2143
RING 1
2
3
(M)

please leave message for me? GA

hello
(CALL ENDED)
(ANOTHER CALL QQ) GA

please call back leave message? GA

(thank you redialing)
RING 1
2
3
4
5

Papi it is me Manual. I am quite ill and I need medicine GA

6
(Still ringing, would you like to continue q GA)
(ANS MACH)
(LEAVING MSG)

please bring it to me this afternoon GA
along with your pink blanket and sexy arms to wrap around me GA
that always make me feel good GA
have a bueno day, papi GA
kiss kiss GA

that is all thank u so much I am sick GA

(you’re welcome)
————-

I love that Henry actually answered, realized who it was, then hung up. Also, I think it’s rude that the operator didn’t cry for me (or even ACKNOWLEDGE) when I said I was sick.

Just another person to hate today.

But then, I started to get angrier. So I called back.

———-
Connecting…….
Registering…
Placing call…
Connected at Mar 17, 2011 12:52:10 PM
IP RELAY RO80811M
PLS HD DIALING
412 605 2143RING 1
2

please leave a message for me? GA

(ANS MACH)
(what message would you like to leave please Q ) GA

i know you are with Miguel! GA

(THK U REDIALING PLS HOLD)
RING 1
2
(ANS MACH)

that is no excuse to hang up on me! you know that I am ill on this day GA
and you choose to be with another senor GA
this is unacceptable. GA
I will be leaving your belongings on the porch. GA
I can’t find your butt plug so you will need to buy a new one GA
and I will not bathe your mami anymore GA

(MSG LEFT)
(ANOTHER CALL QQ) GA

I was not finished, but thank u. GA

(please clarify instructions) GA
(you’re welcome)
———-
I didn’t bother removing Henry’s cell # from the transcript. Feel free to text and call him as much as you see fit.

Today, we received two checks in the mail from the ratings company that has us wearing their stupid personal meters.

My check was for $60. Henry’s was only for $10. Of course, I took a moment to fold in half with laughter, and then I promptly called him at work to gloat.

“WHAT THE?!” he stammered upon receiving the news.

“[Obnoxious throaty laughter that alarmed the neighbors],” I contributed to the phone conversation.

“This is bullshit!” Henry shouted. “You don’t even WEAR yours half the time!

” Truth. More often that not, one can overhear me outbursting that, “Fuck! I left my fucking pager-thing at home again.” Or it’s been banished to my purse after a co-worker spots it on my waistband and exclaims, “Oh my god, is that a PAGER?” I learned very quickly that hiding it in my purse under my desk doesn’t constitute as “keeping it on my person,” so I accumulate no points for that.

“I’m going to have to do something about this,” Henry threatened, mostly to himself.

I was still rolling around on the floor in a puddle of merriment when he hung up on me.