For Andrea.

I wonder how many souls of children this “joyful clown” has stolen over the years.

This guy has been the same age since 1805.

Waiting for the Blue Streak attendant to finish his cigarette. No, seriously. Every other time we walked past, he was hanging out across the walkway at the hot dog stand. I mean, what else was he going to do? Perform safety inspections?

The gift shop sold everything but Conneaut souvenirs (OK, there was a small table of glassware). In search of Abraham’s bust? They got you covered. Creepy half-ceramic / half-plush clown dolls for $3? There’s a whole stash! (Henry Warbucks totally bought me one, albeit grudgingly.) Mementos for being a hick? Racks and racks of fishing t-shirts to peruse at your leisure.

It stunk in there so bad like old people and moth balls, but it provided refuge from the rain.

My favorite part of these little amusement parks is finding all of the strange and old rides that you just wouldn’t ever come across at Six Flags. Conneaut’s claim is the Witch’s Stew. Holy fuck, as if it weren’t enough that there are creepy depictions of Hansel & Gretel, gingerbread men and wicked witches, this ride is pretty much the reason some pharamist whipped up the first batch of Dramamine in his mortar and pestle.

Whiplash and Motion Sickness city! And only some of the seats have seat belts, which I discovered AFTER the ride started the first time Chooch and I went on.

Of course, we were sitting in the seat beltless seats. I for sure thought Chooch was going to perish, and he was getting so mad that I had my arm around him but oh my god, my Mom Vision was going haywire and I swear I was seeing flashes of 87 different versions of Chooch being expunged from this creepy ass tea cups-on-acid suicide mission.

And then as soon as the ride ended, we pushed and shoved each other toward the exit and ran to Henry, screaming, “OMG THAT WAS THE BEST RIDE EVARRRRR!!”

The second time we went on it was even better because it started STORMING and the lacksadaiscal ride attendant just let us whip around beneath pregnant storm clouds. Since the ride is on a tilted platform, spates of rain water were sluicing off the top of the cars straight onto our backs. It wasn’t uncomfortable at all.

As I stalked toward the exit, frozen in a jumping jack-stance to allow the water to drip from my clothing, the ride attendant gave me a once-over and said with a smirk, “I hope you enjoyed the extended wet ride.”

I think that means he wanted to have sex with me, but I’m not sure.

“Holy shit! We’re still alive!”

The “famous” wall of gum in the Devil’s Den.

Find the Frown!

I think there were only about 20 other people in the park with us that day. The only time we waited in line was for the bumper cars.

Honestly? I can’t wait to go back. With props and models. And the unicorn head mask I just bought.

Growing up, my family only ever went to the big amusement parks: Cedar Point, Busch Gardens, King’s Dominion, Disney, and of course my beloved Morey’s Piers in Wildwood. (And by “big,” I mean “bigger than Pittsburgh’s own Kennywood Park.”) So naturally, I always had a taste for the roller coaster juggernauts; I never went to any of the little dinky parks when they were in their heyday, and it wasn’t until I became an adult that I developed an appreciation for these little, half-abandoned slabs of amusement history.

Erie, PA seemed like the perfect birthday getaway because it’s really close to Pittsburgh and there are two small parks in the area: Conneaut Lake Park and Waldameer. Anytime I would tell people where we were going, most of them would nod knowingly at the mention of Waldameer, because even though it’s small, it’s thriving; but when I would throw Conneaut’s name into the mix, most people were like, “Why? There’s nothing there anymore.”

But I had to see it for myself.

Even the balloons were wilted.

We didn’t have to get very close to the park to see that it was pretty desolate and dejected.

For as much as I love amusement parks, I am actually plagued by recurring nightmares where I’m in a flooding park at night, or I’m on a roller coaster with unfinished tracks, or there is actually nothing fatal occuring at all but the atmosphere is so decidedly sinister that I wake up feeling unsettled and scared.

I’ve never been to Conneaut but I’m pretty sure this was once the setting for one of those nightmares.

The Devil’s Den was one of the main reasons why I wanted to stop there, because I always see it listed on all of the dark ride enthusiast websites and it just seems fitting that some heathen hussy like myself should take a jaunt through the den of the devil. Sure, it was a small building filled with dangling K-Mart Halloween masks and a blaring horn, but it was charming and had that old, musty stench of The Way Things Were before all the roller coasters went steel and general park admission was eradicated. Hokey decorations or not, it made me feel like a kid again and Chooch deemed it his favorite ride.

Henry refused to buy a wristband so he didn’t get to relive his childhood by soiling himself. He did, however, purchase tickets to ride the lone coaster there, the Blue Streak. There’s some controversy over this old wooden coaster, which the ride attendant attempted to tell us about in a strange hillbilly telemarketer monotone.

I guess it was shut down for a few years, and then some company that this guy worked for out in California came here to do some repairs on it, but then Conneaut ended up unable to pay, so this company seized the park* and that is how we got so lucky to have this state certified mechanic supervising our totally harrowing, white-knuckle journey on the world’s most rickety wooden tracks.

(*I wasn’t really paying attention.)

“That was awesome!” Chooch screamed afterward as Henry and I reached for our imaginary walkers.

“Yeah, that’s because you couldn’t SEE anything!” Henry muttered, rubbing his thick neck. Unlike Chooch, Henry and I were tall enough to see what sorts of certain death lay below each time we crested a hill.

From the road, the Blue Streak actually looks broken down and overtaken by weeds. So, you know—totally inviting.

I really want the entrance to Kiddieland to be the archway into my future house. I think it’s fantastic, but I’m sure there are a ton of people (and almost all of my friends) who might be a little unnerved by it. But I guess I wouldn’t want my house to start attracting Megan’s Law candidates.

This is what restrooms look like after a tango with arson.

I got so incredibly ill on this ride.

There was an organ rally going on that day, which made the experience even better. Everywhere we turned in that park, we saw broken windows, pot-holed asphalt, rusted rides and carnival games that were chintzier than the ones we had at our fifth grade fair, but all these maudlin images were offset by cheerful calliope music grinding out of box trucks set up at every juncture, like canned happiness.

It was one hell of a mind fuck.

Walking down the main stretch of the park, there were gaping lots from where rides once stood.

I’m kind of glad that I never got to see it when it was flourishing, because I think I would have been too depressed to enjoy myself. But as it were, I was able to appreciate it for what remains.

You know an amusement park is dead when you’re the ONLY PERSON in the rest room. Not a single stall was occupied by a Croc-wearing mom screaming at her little unbathed ragamuffin.

(“WTF kind of Appalachian amusement parks are you going to, Erin??”)

Hotel Conneaut is right across from the park and is supposedly haunted, but when we walked through the lobby, I didn’t feel anything. And we all know I’m kind of an expert at ghost-detecting. It looks abandoned from the exterior, but it’s actually still up and running. It was probably fancier than our room at the Travel Lodge.

“Why can’t we just go to Disneyworld like normal families?”

Dreaming of dancehall days.

The midway had a boarded-up arcade and four sad games with really rad dollar store relics from the 80s to win. This was the first time in history that Chooch didn’t beg us for money to play games. Even he knew that the prizes weren’t worth the effort.

;

;

The rain did wonders for the cheerful and inviting ambiance.

I’ve got some more pictures to post tomorrow!

I knew that my birthday wasn’t going to go by unnoticed at work yesterday (maybe the fact that I stopped nearly every co-worker on Friday to remind them had something to do with it), but I really wasn’t expecting as much of a to-do as I actually got. I figured there would be some mild decorating, maybe a card or two.

Instead, I walked into a confetti explosion, not one but two Happy Birthday banners flanked by pictures of Jonny Craig, a parade of gift bags and cards, and mini lemonade cupcakes.

What the fuck, you guys, I almost died!

You can tell I was excited because all my pictures are blurry.

Glenn could have at least signed his Post It Note. (I put the confetti there myself; he’s not that creative.) When I asked him if he got me anything, he handed me a piece of candy from my own candy dish. God, he is totally Work Henry.

My card from Gayle!

GAYLE MADE ME A JONNY CRAIG CHARM BRACELET CAN YOU EVEN BELIEVE IT?! I was wearing my prized jeweled elephant bracelet at the time and that sucker was shunned real quick in favor of dangling Jonnys. Barb’s reaction was, “Great. Now she likes Gayle more than me.” I just see this as motivation for everyone else to step it up!

Ruby-hued cocktail ring from Debbie, who had no idea that Ruby is my nickname. This inspired me to tell Barb the story about alter ego after Debbie left for the day (she might be too new to handle some of my over-shares) which was met with Barb’s standard WTF reaction.

Lee was jealous that my birthday caused more hullabaloo (God I love that word) than his did last week, so he confetti-bombed me. And I mean, he confetti-BOMBED me. Every time I moved, clumps of it would cascade down my back all the way into my pants.

It was sharp.

I ended up leaving a trail of it all over the department and brought even more of it home with me. I’m still brushing it out of my hair.

This was taped to the back of Barb’s card. She got me an I Love Being in the Cemetery pendant! And Wendy got me a fairy door locket so I’ll be able to put a picture of Jonny in it.

“Yeah, forget about Henry and your son,” Barb said sarcastically when I excitedly announced my intentions.

Jeannie got me some lip balm and a Shit List notepad (Wendy rolled her eyes and said, “Great, I know my name will be on that a lot”), Catherine got me a Starbucks card because I’m awesome, and Sandy (who hung one of the Happy Birthday banners up on her own!) and Sue got me cards. Everyone else fawned over me with words, which was acceptable.

A few people were like, “It’s your birthday, WHY ARE YOU HERE?!” and I just spread my arms and looked around my desk smugly. Seriously, stay home and miss all of this?! I have the best work friends of all time!

After work, Chooch gave me two cards: one was his signature ridiculous music-playing cards (he loves those things) and I couldn’t stop laughing because he used an Internet smiley face on the envelope. Seriously, he’s six.

The second card was handmade. He’s been obsessed with all of the Ju-On movies of late, so that’s the picture he drew for me, which I guess is better than the mound of shit he drew on Henry’s birthday card in June. He also got me nail polish and the new Used CD.

And Andrea’s mom sent me the most beautiful flowers!

I never get sent flowers! They made me feel so special.

Actually, everyone made me feel so special yesterday. I have had a notoriously long line of disappointing and depressing birthdays. It’s not about “stuff,” it’s about feeling like people care about me.

I always get so sad around my birthday because it makes me miss my Pappap so much, and it brings to the forefront all of the issues I have with my family and I can’t help but wonder if this will be the year my mom actually reaches out. It never is, but both of my brothers, my aunt Susie, and my cousin Danielle remembered my birthday, and aside from Henry and Chooch, that’s all the family I need.

This was the first year I didn’t cry (in a bad way) once on July 30th, and it’s because of all you guys. (There was a good chance that Henry would fuck that up once I came home from work last night, but he was careful with his words. I didn’t even flip out when he said that my present has to be given to me on a certain day which was not yesterday. This obviously means, “Erin, you spent all of my money with your dumb weekend amusement park tour, so now I have to wait until I paid again.” But look at me, being all patient and not spoiled!)

Meanwhile, Seri and Pete have something up their sleeves and it is driving me absolutely crazy. We’re celebrating my birthday in two weeks because they’re going to Delaware this weekend. Seri texted me when we were in Erie over the weekend and said that they bought my birthday gift and it’s so obscure and Erin-esque that she feels confident it’s the most perfect gift ever. They came over Sunday night after we got home and while Seri was inside discussing birthday plans with Henry, I tried to get Pete to tell me what my gift is and all he would say was that he’s not entirely comfortable having it in their house.

I was telling Barb all of this at work yesterday and I said, “Well, whatever it is, Seri was able to carry it into my house to show Henry, so it’ s not a wheelchair.” I paused thoughtfully and then blurted out, “Oh my god, maybe it’s leg braces!”

Barb almost died right there at the absurdity of my exclamation, but I was totally serious. Turns out that wasn’t even my actual present that Seri was showing Henry, but something that “goes along” with everything else they’re planning. WHAT THE FUCK, THIS IS KILLING ME! I’m so not used to this kind of birthday treatment.

Thirty-three already feels pretty spectacular. It’s time to close the crypt door on all of the childhood darkness.

It’s my birthday! I had an action-packed birthday weekend! I just ate a raspberry lemonade cupcake! Now I’m going to let Barb fawn over me at work!

You know what I want for today? I mean, other than a bedside serenade from Jonny Craig? I just want you guys to share my blog with your friends. Having people read this thing would make me happy on my birthday.

I mean, you don’t have to do anything, but IT IS MY BIRTHDAY.

33 is going to be better than 32. It has to be.

I guess I felt we’d be remiss if we went to Erie and not spent some time at that Presque Isle place, so we did that briefly Saturday evening.

I’m not a big beach person (beached whale, yeah), let alone a fake beach person, but it was OK for the short amount of time we spent there. My family used to go to Wildwood, NJ every summer and I was OK with spending my days eating sand because I knew that I would be rewarded with all of the action after dinner when we’d hit the boardwalk.

If I HAD to go to the beach, it would be Wildwood but that’s ONLY because of Morey’s Piers.

The entire time, Henry reminisced about his stupid fishing trip that he took there a hundred years ago. “That’s where we stayed when I came here to fish!” he exclaimed wistfully at one point as we passed some negative-star motel.

“I PARKED THERE WHEN I WENT FISHING!”

“I ATE AT THAT PERKINS WHEN I CAME UP HERE TO FISH!”

Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP.

Chooch probably still has sand on him.

I should probably give him a bath at some point this week.

Still, trodding through wet sand at Presque Isle wasn’t the worst way to waste time. And I guess it was pretty, if you like all that nature shit.

The “I Can’t Believe I’m In Line for the Tilt-a-Whirl Oh Well It’s Better Than Listening to Jonny Craig” Frown.

Conneaut Lake Park was the first stop on our agenda today, but we had a little bit of time to kill before it opened at noon so Henry took us on a tour of Small Town USA which culminated with stop at Linesville Spillway. There are so many carp there begging for carb-droppings that the ducks can quite literally walk on them.

It was horrifying and nasty, but I couldn’t stop watching these fish aggressively fighting each other for rolls and crust. It was intense.

The “I USED TO COME HERE ALL THE TIME WITH MY GRANDPAP IN THE 1920s, DON’T RUIN THIS BY BEING AN ASSHOLE” Frown.

***

My birthday weekend getaway almost didn’t happen. I joked a few days ago, albeit with a healthy scoop of bitterness, that with the way our luck has been going this year, our car would probably break down. Well, our car didn’t exactly break down, but Henry finally got off his pretend-mechanic ass and decided to check out the horrible sound the car’s been making FOR LIKE A MONTH. It turned out to be something I don’t understand that could potentially “seize up” if we drove long distance.

The good news: he could fix it himself and it wouldn’t cost much.

The bad news: he wouldn’t be able to fix it in enough time for us to go to Erie that weekend.

He informed me of this last night when I was at work and I proceeded to cry at my desk like the bitchbaby I am. But then Seri was all, “Don’t be stupid, just take one of our cars.” I kept saying no, that this was Henry’s problem to solve, but Seri can be very convincing. If it weren’t for her generosity, I wouldn’t have been able to walk around a creepy, half-abandoned amusement park; visit a Victorian Perambulator Museum; argue with Henry for two hours over where to eat for dinner; or watch a school of fish hungrily flex their gaping maws like a sea of Jersey Shore kookas ready for a post-Karma feeding.

Have you ever met someone who touched you so deeply even though your interactions were the equivalent to the blink of an eye in the grand scheme of things?

I picked up a hitchhiker in 1998. He was thumbing it on an exit ramp in Washington, PA, and I just happened to be driving around aimlessly that night in my white Eagle Talon named Cassie Lane. I did that a lot back then – gas was cheap and driving around til the wee hours of the morning listening to painstakingly-made mix tapes was my therapy.

Yes, it was late at night.
Yes, I was alone.

But something in my gut told me to pull over for this guy.

Idling on the shoulder of the road, I asked where he was going.

“Pittsburgh, but I’ll go with you as far as you can take me,” he yelled through the open passenger window over top of passing big rigs.

“You’re not going to kill me, are you?” I asked sincerely. He seemed amused at my bluntness and promised that he had no such intentions. Probably Ted Bundy found himself in these same amusing situations too.

He got in the car and we made formal introductions. His name was Justin and he had hitched all the way here from Baltimore, having just gone through a bad breakup with his boyfriend. I told him to put his seatbelt on because I’m kind of an aggressive driver.

“YOU’RE not going to kill ME, are you?” he laughed.

It’s a short drive from Washington to Pittsburgh at that time of night on the highway, and the conversation never wavered. He told me all about his travels (this wasn’t his first time hitch hiking), the truck drivers he’d encountered, and his struggles living with AIDS. The level of comfort I felt with this complete stranger next to me was something I had never quite experienced before. There was a connection and in a short 30 minutes I found myself really caring about this guy.

When I had left my apartment earlier that night, I had no intention of driving downtown Pittsburgh, but I went with it. Clearly that was what fate had in the books for me that night. I could have dropped him off anywhere, but I took him all the way into the city. It was almost like I didn’t have a choice.

We were driving through the Fort Pitt tunnels when he was telling me that he had a friend in Pittsburgh who was going to be picking him up. Just then, my car burst through the other side of the tunnel and Justin stopped mid-sentence, just totally choked on his words.

He was staring out the window at the city skyline, all lit up and reflecting off the river.

Finally, he managed to whisper, “Wow…” For the first time in my life that night, I saw the beauty in the city in which I was born and raised.

Justin said his plan was to find a pay phone to call his friend, and even though he kept insisting that I just drop him off anywhere, I was determined to keep circling around the empty city streets until I found him a pay phone.

Finally he said, “Ok, I have to tell you the truth.”

This could have been the point in the story where he pulled a knife on me and I admit to my blog readers that I was once a boy until my penis was sliced off that night like a hunk of bratwurst from the deli. But really, he just wanted to tell me that there was no friend he was meeting, and that his only plan was to find a shelter and a job.

I couldn’t bear the thought of him sleeping in a shelter, or worse—the streets, and begged him to just come back home with me until he had a better plan, but he refused to impose. I gave him my number and, since my 35mm camera was always in my purse, asked if I could take his picture. Not like I’d ever forget him.

I went home and cried so hard.

He never did call me, and I still wonder every time I’m in that tunnel what ever became of him. In our brief encounter, that chance passing, he managed to get a 19-year-old girl to feel more compassion and humanity than she had yet to experience in her sheltered rich girl suburban life.

There a lot of things about this city I don’t like, but because of a hitch hiker, I still smile at the way the Pittsburgh skyline lights up the river and the sky. How could I ever forget him?

July 12th, 2012: Warped Tour, a/k/a Erin R. Kelly’s Christmas.

Oh you guys, I can’t even begin to explain how badly I need this day every year. It’s that one day where I don’t give a shit what I look like, how much I weigh, that my finger is engagement ringless. Mama don’t care! On this day, I’m not a mom, not a girlfriend, not a Law Firm grunt, not a blogger or a serial annoyer; I am just a music fan. I wake up with butterflies in my stomach – that awesome feeling of being on a roller coaster going up a hill? I’ve got that the whole way up until the gates of the venue are opened, and then it’s just an all-day, unrelenting rush of emotiblahblahblah blah blahhhh Erin is a scene ladykid who probably has a drawerful of YOLO tanks.

No one comes here to read this emo shit. Bring on the dramzzz, right?

There was definitely a big scoop of pre-Warped drama, stemming from when Henry nearly couldn’t be my date, CAN YOU IMAGINE? He almost had to work that day (actually, he was supposed to work that day but pulled some strings, moved some shit around, did what he had to do to keep his big bitchbaby girlfriend placated) and even tried to PAY Christina to go with me, which would have been a disaster so thank god she’s too wishywashy to say yes. (Worst Warped Tour ever was 2007 when I went with her and her sister; just awful.) My alternate date was Chooch. This seemed like a swell idea at first, probably because I was drunk when I thought of it. But can you imagine? Maybe all three of us together (with a SWAT team behind us) would be OK, but Chooch and me alone? No.

(He was actually on board to go once he saw pictures of Warped Tour that included girls in bikinis. Scandelous.)

I cried. I stamped my feet. I slammed doors. I didn’t talk to Henry for an entire day* because of this and made sure everyone at work knew that my boyfriend was a horrible human being.

*(That’s a long time for a couple who barely fight! No seriously, that wasn’t a joke.)

But then two nights before the day of Warped Tour, Henry came through and said that he would indeed be able to go. The next day at work, I was called a “crybaby” and “spoiled brat” by unnamed co-workers.

(Lee.)

I would have gone by myself if I had to, but I sure was happy that my official Warped Tour partner was able to come along for yet another year.  And I don’t care what he says, we both had a good time. I think Henry’s favorite part was when we were up front during Of Mice & Men and got to see the conveyor belt of injured fans being carried away by security staff and medics, such as:

• girl with busted nose so bloody, it almost appeared that it had been ripped entirely off
• guy who landed supine on the asphalt
• guy who was 100% unconscious
• girl who was crying hysterically to the chief security guy; Henry postulated that she had something in her eye (I have no idea where he got that idea) but I’m pretty sure she was telling him that she was touched inappropriately by another security guy.

The downside to Of Mice & Men was that Blood on the Dance Floor was playing after them and one of their members TOUCHED ME when he was cutting through the crowd to get back behind the stage.

 I apparently thought this was worth capturing for posterity.

The band I most wanted to see this year was Warped Tour darlings Pierce the Veil, because it’s the only band that Henry and I both mutually love. They just released a new album last week, and their first single features Kellin Quinn on guest vocals. It is so fucking sick, you guys. So fucking sick. What makes me like them so much is definitely the lyrics. Their songs are morbid, romantic (in a the truest Romeo & Juliet sense), heart-wrenching and violent all at once, without sounding like a funeral dirge. They make you want to dance while Vic is singing about post-mortem kissing.  Lyrically, I can’t help but compare them to the Cure and I think if Robert Smith ever read some of their lyrics, he’d be hard-pressed not to crack at least half of a red-lipsticked smile.

Basically, they write the songs I would write if I could write songs. I think Vic Fuentes is fucking brilliant.

For some reason, Pierce the Veil gets lumped in under the Bands That Little Girls Love OMG category, I guess because they’re a bunch of super cute Mexicans? But really, these guys BRING IT and the crowd can get pretty violent.  When bands play on the stage under the ampitheater, it makes it hard for those of us overprotective of our bones to get as close to the stage as we want. Everyone jams in this tiny pit between the front row of seats and the stage and it just looks completely unsavory to me and my old lady joints.

I grabbed two seats in the first row after the barricade, which Henry was totally not thrilled about. (He even “pretended” to “not see” where I went, so I had to sit alone for a few mintes before the set started. I had to stop myself from squealing to the teenage girls next to me, “OMG DO YOU THINK KELLIN WILL COME OUT AND SING WITH THEM!?” I mean, duh, of course that was going to happen considering Kellin’s band Sleeping With Sirens is also on Warped Tour this year. DUH, YOU GUYS.

A circle pit erupted almost immediately, causing a wall of bodies to press back against the barricade, which in turn pressed back against the row of empty seats in front of us.

“Um, I hope they used good bolts,” Henry yelled in my ear, pointing at the green plastic seats which were now being angrily thrusted against our thighs. And then the lady in front of Henry turned around and they shared some HAHAHAHAHA FUNNY REMARK about the peril we’d be sure to find ourselves in if those bolts gave out. That’s OK, lady, I’m sure Henry will save you first when the avalanche of bodies comes crashes through the barricade and I’m left vivisected and needing a wheelchair for real.

 And then I couldn’t stop fixating on it. I started looking up at the rafters, imagining other things that could go wrong; but despite all the Final Destination paranoia, I was still able to enjoy the show. (And cry a lot. God, I love them.)

Fucker put his arm up and blocked Kellin Quinn (OMG KELLIN QUINN CAME OUT AND SANG!) right when I took this picture.

I really loved Henry for about fifteen minutes after Pierce the Veil’s set. Residual ephoria, I guess. I don’t know. But that all ended later on during Sleeping With Sirens. He was behind me the whole time, as far as I knew anyway, and when I leaned back during the last song (our never-wedding song!!), it was not Henry’s nondescript shirt-covered Mountain Dew belly that I found myself lovingly resting against, but the SUNKEN IN CHEST OF SOME ACNE-RIDDEN SWEATY TEENAGE BOY, WTF HENRY?! Oh, I wanted to die.

And that’s when I saw Henry HUNDREDS OF YARDS (I don’t even know what yards are) away from me. I stormed over to him after the set was over and he said, “What? I was hot. I didn’t want to stand in the crowd anymore.”

HE COMPLETELY MISSED OUR (MY) SONG!!!

I stormed off quickly toward the stage where Taking Back Sunday had just started playing, purposely losing him in the process. This happens once every Warped Tour. It’s OK, you guys.

Then this text exchange panned out:

When he found me, I tried to psychically knee him in the balls, but my pissed-off act never lasts around him anymore. I guess I’m just too downtrodden at this point. We made eye contact and then both started laughing and lived happily ever after until I started bugging him about buying me merch. (Finally bought me a Vans tanktop near the end of the night when most of the other tents had already been taken down.)

The brightside is that Henry was already at that particular stage, because he actaully paid attention earlier and knew that Taking Back Sunday was on the day’s itinerary. D’aw, Henry loves me!

 Bands We Saw:

• Chelsea Grin
• Four Year Strong
• Vanna
• Emily’s Army
• Funeral Party
• We Are the Ocean
• Title Fight
• You Me At Six
• Of Mice & Men
• Pierce the Veil
• Sleeping with Sirens
• Miss May I
• LoveBite
• Chunk! No, Captain Chunk!
• Anthony Ranieri (acoustic)
• Bayside
• Taking Back Sunday
• Breathe Carolina
• I Fight Dragons
• The Used

 I don’t know what else to say. It was a wonderful day, but if I write anymore, it’s going to start sounding like the shit I write in my diary, with bubble letters in pink ink SMEARED BY MY ERRANT TEARS.  In a nutshell: we saw some incredible bands, ran into Blake who immediately panhandled on Henry, I got to release a ton of built-up angst and rage,  Henry got to take a short nap in the grass and for the first time since 2004, I was able to hear The Used without getting upset. I don’t even think I hated anyone that day.

Until next year, my fair Warped Tour. :(

Well, any chance that Marcy actually wasn’t evil has flown out the window now that she’s sitting on Old Psychiatric Wheelchair, inhaling tortured spirits.

I have the perfect frame for this.

Who needs Wordless Wednesday anyway?

• Henry and I went to dinner at Alma with our friends Rick and Tammy on Saturday; the dinner was wonderful but I honestly can’t stop thinking about the horchata martini I had, OMG. If I had known how cheap our bill was going to be, I’d have ordered another and then 3 more.
• My birthday is Monday. I will be THIRTY-THREE. So far, I have been enjoying my thirties way more than my twenties. I think a lot of that has to do with the fact that I’m more proactive at doing what makes me happy and I’ve learned to be pickier with the people I let in. I’ve met some real gems since kissing my twenties my goodbye.
• Henry is taking me and Chooch away this weekend for my birthday. Nothing major, just Erie which is only about 2 hours away and not that great BUT there are two little amusement parks around that area so we’re making a weekend of it.
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  I LOVE ME SOME BABY AMUSEMENT PARKS.

• This is provided our car doesn’t break down, Chooch doesn’t get us arrested, or Dorothy’s house doesn’t fall on us, considering every time we try and go away something stupid and/or devestating happens.
• Then next weekend, I’m continuing the celebrating with Laura at the Fayette County Fair, holla. She better buy me some ice cream or at least arrange a carny lap dance. Whichever is cheaper.
• I just found out today that Jonny Craig was name-dropped in a meeting I wasn’t even attending. I have poisoned The Law Firm!
• A lot of things have been changing at work and I am totally overwhelmed by it, but at least I’ve only cried once in Wendy’s office so far.
• We’re in the process of moving all the non compos cards to their own site so everyone can buy directly from me very soon. Fuck Etsy.
• I’m not against accepting whatever sorts of trinkets, love letters and Call Me Maybe tank tops you’re wont to send me on my birthday, FYI. Address available upon request.
• I’ve been keeping an open dialogue with Chooch regarding the theater massacre in Aurora, CO. Chooch is full of ideas on how to “take care” of James Eagan Holmes, such as: “Tying a string around his head, setting it on fire, and watching the blood explode above his head like firecrackers.” I didn’t even yell at Chooch when he called him a motherfucker.
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And on that note…here is a picture of Pete and Henry being directed by Seri, who kept making me give them words to act out, but they were very insubordinate about it. (To be honest, I myself wasn’t sure what was going on. Sure do love hanging out with that girl, though, even when we somehow tend to find ourselves alone, late at night, in unsavory places without pepper spray, thinking that some hump-backed rodents are really cute little kitties.)

Oh man, I was so excited for Bayside!

They had already started by the time I dragged Henry over to the Tilly’s Stage (Taking Back Sunday’s set overlapped with their’s) so a decent-sized crowd had already formed. We had just staked out our spots over to the left of the stage when I noticed it.

On the ground in front of me was some kid’s school portrait, just laying there on the dirty ground, God only knows how many nasty scene feet had trampled it. I became determined to snatch it up for my collection.

(Honestly, I’m like the world’s worst magpie ever.)

The guy next to me elbowed his buddy and pointed down to the ground. POINTED DOWN TO MY PICTURE. But before he had a chance to say, “Look at that picture, let’s take it for our own,” he was interrupted and shifted just so that his back was now toward my targeted bounty.

I turned around and made eye contact with Henry, who knew exactly what was going on without needing an explanation. I started to open my mouth and he just shook his head and mouthed the word “Don’t.”

Bayside is now just background noise for a much greater scene. I sized up the woman standing next to the picture (her fat foot at one point had been flattening it against the asphalt): she didn’t seem very threatening, smelled slightly of patchouli; I determined with ease that I could take her down if she noticed my picture and decided to take it for herself.

I kept inching myself forward, forcing her to shuffle in slight incements to the right, until I was exactly next to her, flush against her side like we were old school friends whose Ma had dropped us off at Warped Tour; I’ve seen her Pa in his underwear; and she’d let me borrow a tampon if I suddenly needed one, but not without first giving my bleeding vag an introduction to all the boys in the crowd.

In other words, we were standing intimately close.

• Which wouldn’t necessarily be weird at a show except that we were on the outskirts of the crowd and no one else around us were smearing their flesh against one another.
• Even weirder is that she didn’t move.

   

I stamped my foot upon the picture, pinning it down with a fervor. I turned to give Henry the thumbs up and he just closed his eyes and shook his head again.

But instead of just bending down and picking it up like a normal person who collects sentimental trash off the ground at concert venues, I opted to keep my foot pressed against it, which seemed like a great idea until my foot started to cramp and the only solution aside from picking it up or walking away from it with some tiny vittle of diginity was to cross my legs so that my left foot could get a chance.

This not only made me look like I had to pee, but it was also hard to retain my balance. So I went back to standing normally (i.e. with the mannerisms of a strung-out bitch looking around for cops and rapists while trying not to urinate).

I stood this way until the very last note of the very last song, until almost everyone around me had vacated the premises, and then I lunged down and with one swift swipe….I missed and had to grab it again.

Having it finally in my possession, I fanned it in Henry’s face and made exaggerated o’s of jubilance with my mouth. “What are you going to do with that?” Henry asked wearily, as he was past due for his scheduled Old Man at Warped Tour Sit Down.

“Probably take it work?” I answered with a question. I couldn’t just leave him and his jacked up lip out there to disintegrate and parish to a place where no one looks at him anymore!

Johann is currently hanging up at my desk by a magnet. I keep putting off buying a frame, because I’m a shitty adoptive portrait mom.

Thank god you didn’t come here to read a review on Bayside’s set.

The pet cemetery where Speck and Don are buried isn’t exactly conveniently located, but we try to get out there as much as we can with bouquets of flowers, because I just can’t bear the thought of them thinking we’ve forgotten them. And laying flowers on their graves really makes me feel a little bit more at peace.

We have to go back up with a Sharpie because Speck’s name is wearing off her temporary grave marker. Next year, both burial plots will be ready for real, fancy plaques. (Henry is off somewhere as I type this, psychically cringing at the cost.)

I’ve always been obsessed with death. My pappap dying in ’96 really fucked me up good, as evidenced by the way my life spiraled and snowballed out of control after that, leading up to my eventual decision to drop out of high school. I spend more time in cemeteries than most people, even celebrating Christmas there every year, and I once strongly considered going into mortuary science. (I even toured the school and still think about doing this often.)

I know, it’s surprising I’m not Goth. But I never really felt the need to “look” the part, I guess.

Speck and Don dying five months apart from each other has really made me hit rock bottom. I’m even more obsessed with death and old funeral home paraphernalia and have been decorating our future home around this morbid fascination and also the old wheelchair thing, which seems to complement the other beautifully. I’ve been buying post-mortem pictures and old photos of handicapped people on eBay. I might be losing it, I don’t know, but it has been distracting me from how much I hate our current home and it’s been keeping me sort of calm, so Henry just keeps his mouth shut. There are just too many memories here and I want out. And somehow my subconscious has decided that my next house needs to be decorated with other people’s memories, if that makes sense.

I don’t really know what is happening.

The “Why Are We Watching Justin Bieber Perform on the Teen Choice Awards, No Wait—Why Are We Watching the Teen Choice Awards” Blank Stare, courtesy of Henry and Pete.

My favorite moment was when Ian Somerhalder won a surfboard and I asked, “What did he win for?”

“Not being Katy Perry,” Pete deadpanned.

No wait, my other favorite moment was the pedestal of cupcakes Seri placed before me. That girl knows how to win a bitch’s friendship.

I would probably just whale a bag of Fritos at my guests, but not Seri.

I’ve been trying to explain all night who all the people presenting awards are, but I’m always met with blank stares. What? This is my demographic, you guys. At least I’m drinking wine and not a Shirley Temple.

Now we’re explaining to Seri what snuff films are, OMG my dear friend who spells her curse words.

(Edit: Seri was talking about drivebys and is all bent out of shape because she can’t think of the term for the victim and hates Henry because he’s like “WTF are you talking about?” and shes like “OMG WEREN’T YOU IN THE SERVICE?” so now she’s googling it and exclaimed, “DECIDER! That’s it decider!”

“Um, if he’s the victim, he certainly wasn’t the decider. He was the decision.”)

OMG THE CALL ME MAYBE PERFORMANCE JUST STARTED AND COMPLETE PANDEMONIUM ERUPTED IN PETE AND SERI’S LIVING ROOM.

It’s amazing how much progress has been made on the new Castle Blood digs in the last two months since we last visited. I’m so excited for the haunt season to commence!

Henry’s all annoyed because I walked away with more ideas for our future dining room.

But Ricky said he would help, so there Henry.

(Last night I put some bids on antique embalming fluid bottles to use as vases.

Worst case scenario: I’m gonna have the coolest tree house in Brookline.)

Of course Henry had to flaunt his handiness. Wouldn’t be the same otherwise.