I’m one for jumping in, feet first, when something seems like a great idea. So when I got invited to join this April Fool’s blog exchange, ever naïve me figured there was no way I’d be the fool.

And then I met Erin and spent some time perusing her blog.

Let me tell you, Erin is the sort of forthright woman I wish I had the balls to be. Of course, there’s always that essential dilemma of women and balls in the first place… I mean, can we actually have them? And why would we want little external holders of testosterone, that hormone that makes us sprout chest hair?

Anyone who knows me well knows that right about now, I’m channeling the spirit of Trevor Wolff, the star of the Trevolution, my series of Rock Fiction novels. Trevor and Erin would get along grand. Me, Susan at West of Mars? Intimidation city!

So let’s move onto safer ground, that spot where Trevor and I can coexist as much as a real-life writer and a fictional bad-boy bass player ever can. I’m talking about the wonderful world of Rock Fiction.

Now, this isn’t a genre you’ll find in a bookstore (yet). It’s more of a broad overview, really, if such a thing can exist. Rock Fiction can be a mystery, it can be a romance, it can be general fiction, it can be science fiction. When it’s successful, Rock Fiction follows the rules of its main genre – a romance will have a Happily Ever After, for example – and still have the beat of music throbbing through each page. The details of the music world are real, be they about a touring rock star’s day or what it feels like when the world is against you so you slap on headphones to help you cope. A good work of Rock Fiction lets you relate. A great work lets you feel like you’re part of it.

For those of us who can’t function without a tune blaring in the not-so-background, Rock Fiction is transformative. It’s our life, or the life we wish we had, on a page. It’s written by people who get it, who are living the same things we are, be it a crappy real life or the dream itself.

Here’s a few to try on for size: My own Trevor’s Song (of course!). Jessica Topper’s Louder Than Love. KL Going’s Fat Kid Rules the World. Peggy Ehrhart’s Sweet Man is Gone. Don Bruns’s St. Barts Breakdown.

If you’d like more, or want me to link to a review you’ve posted online, know that Rock Fiction has moved away from West of Mars and has found its new home at The Rock of Pages (http://therockofpages.com). Like any good rocker or any fantastic song, it couldn’t be contained, piggybacking on the other literary works at West of Mars. It needed a stage of its own.

Those of us who get Rock Fiction will know exactly how and why.

****

Sean’s Ramblings

Small Town Dad

Sole for the Soul

Syntaxxerrorrr

The Firecracker Blog

The Pittsburgh Mommy Blog

The Steel Trap

West of Mars

Ya Jagoff

Yinz R Readin

Yinzster

Yum Yum PGH

My friend Wendy is a Stella & Dot stylist and I’ve been promising her for awhile now that I would host a trunk show. (I keep wanting to call it a “party,” but this is 2014 and one does not call these things “parties” anyway; duh Erin Kelly!) I finally took the plunge and told Wendy to sign me up last month and apparently when Henry found out what I had done, he texted Wendy a simple “thanks.” Ha! That made it totally worthwhile. Wendy and I decided that it should just be Henry’s trunk show, so that is how we sent out the Facebook invitation for it. (Henry never RSVPd.)

One of the main reasons I kept saying no isn’t that I don’t like the jewelry, but it was my house. How many times have I referred to it as our “pit of despair”? But over the last year, Henry and I have been working hard on giving our old furniture a makeover and basically throwing out a ton of things that were taking up too much space. It’s been a slow process, but I was feeling pretty good about things. I mean, there’s only so much we can do to rental property, but a budget kitchen makeover is next on the list. (Henry if you’re reading this, measure the kitchen floor. Thanks.) And then everyone got there, and then I just felt like shit, so I probably won’t let people come to my house for another 5 years, unless I make friends with college kids. I don’t think they’d mind my crap house so much.

Wendy got there a little early to set up her wares and walked right into Henry and I fighting about orange sherbet like it was a conflict the size of Ukraine. Then, promptly at 5, there was a horrible “This is the police!”-type of banging on my front door, so I screamed really loud, but it was just Cara and Alisa. If they had screamed, “PIZZA GUY!” I probably would have crapped my pants. I’m so afraid of knocks on my door, you guys!

I decided to try and distract everyone with cookies (they were Pillsbury and so-so, except for the key lime ones which I was in charge of and burnt the bottoms) and six different kinds of delicious cheeses. But why stop there, let’s have 5 different types of carb-y cheese vessels (otherwise known as crackers), fig preserves and apricot jelly, apples and grapes and three different types of olives so everyone could make tiny cheese sandwiches. HOW ADORABLE, RIGHT? Now stop looking at the holes in my ceiling, thanks.

The cookies were pink lemonade, key lime and orange creamsicle, which not only matched my two punches but also three of the plate colors! I LIKE MATCHING. I think maybe it’s because I played a lot of Memory as a child.

But then everyone arrived and immediately I was reminded of my broken porch step that yes, my landlord knows about but just doesn’t care I guess, and the fact that my tiny duplex is not equipped to hold 14 people all at once. I don’t know how the hell I used to have all of those house parties in my 20s.

Speaking of, two guys walked past the house and I was tempted to open the door and invite them in, because that’s how I used to do it back in the day. (And by “do it,” I swear I mean “invite people to my parties” and not “have sex with strangers.”)

The cheese was so good. I barely get to eat cheese anymore, so I basically loitered near this spot for two hours while everyone else tried on bracelets.

Henry scored me a second punch bowl so now I can have two tacky punches at once! To go along with everything else that is tacky about me, yay!

Henry was basically choking on estrogen and disappeared for quite some time. I thought perhaps he was hiding under the bed, but no. Then Wendy jokingly said she heard banging on the basement door awhile back and that maybe he was locked in the basement.

He was.

I found him down there working on one of my dumb DIY projects and I asked him why he didn’t knock harder.

“Because I didn’t care,” he sighed.

Henry kept doing this “I hate women” jig in the dining room and whispering things to me about how badly he wanted to escape.

“Chooch, let’s go to Target!” he’d suggest, but Chooch was like, “Fuck you, I’m watching Wendy model this scarf. Who knew there were so many ways to wear one!?” So finally Henry retreated to the bedroom, claiming to have a “headache.” Wah-wah.

Chooch ate all of the M&Ms I think. I love these bat bowls that Laura gave me, but they make me miss her.

Thank god Chris and Monica came with cupcakes and real cookies to distract everyone from the cookies that were supposed to be distracting everyone from my shitty house! They were so good. (Theirs, not mine.) The frosting on the cupcakes were made from strawberry wine, WHAT. So good. I love cupcakes too much.

I made Kaitlin pose with Brad the Clown because she’s the one who tipped me off on its existence at the flea market last summer. I still love him so much! And Kaitlin! Hate that I don’t get to see her everyday since she abandoned the Law Firm.

Henry let us near knives. He’s really slipping.

One of the perks of having a Chooch is that he is naturally entertaining and sincerely enjoys spending time with adults. So while I mostly stood alone and drank too much wine while wearing a cape of general “I sort of prepared for a party” malaise, no one noticed because Chooch amused us by:

• drawing weird Asian pop stars on Draw Something
• modeling necklaces while shouting, “OMG I HOPE KAITLIN DOESN’T SEE ME!” because he totally loves Kaitlin and wanted more than anything for her to look in his direction (she did)
• see above picture

I love these two! Please note that they are enjoying punch that I made all on my own except that Henry bought everything I needed for them. I got the go-ahead to write about the day I took their engagement pictures so hopefully later this week, that will happen!

My only duty for the day was to clean the bathroom but then I made myself throw up so then Henry cleaned the bathroom.

And the house managed to stay clean even after everyone left! I don’t know, I thought it was kind of looking OK but now rental property insecurities are taking over again. Cry me a river of hobo tears.

When Emarosa posted this Thursday night, I sat next to Henry on the couch and cried. Then I made him watch it and I yelled, “HOW ARE YOU NOT CRYING?!” and he was like, “Because I don’t really care.” This was while he was watching that thing on Rocky Road bars, so he was too busy q-tipping his dickhole over that.

Is it weird to say that I am so proud of this band for persevering, for refusing to let the Jonny Craig drama dig their grave? I’m just so happy that they found a new singer and I can’t wait, you guys, I just can’t wait. We’re going to see them in Clevelend next month and I honestly think about it every single day.

In other news, tonight is Henry’s big Stella & Dot trunk show! He’s running around getting the house in order and mumbling varying degrees of hate-fueled statements regarding his life. Have a good weekend, suckers!

I have  come to embrace the weekly bullet-pointed posts. They really let me get it all off my chest, you know? Kind of like free-style rapping. But way worse.

So here are some pictures and bullet-points. Enjoy. Or don’t enjoy. It’s OK; I hate-read some blogs too every now and then.

•  The latest season of the Real World has had its moments (I especially like that they have stopped pretending that the camera people and producers don’t exist), but I’m not feeling it as much as I thought I would be. It started off pretty good, and now that one of the original girls is gone, there actually isn’t a single cast member that I hate, which kind of sucks, because that’s the best part. If you’re a grown-up, or just someone with better TV taste than me, this season is called Real World Explosion because halfway through the season, they surprised the roommates by moving in their exes. OMG EXPLOSION, GUYS, GET IT? But the one girl’s ex isn’t on the show because he’s too busy having a real life by touring with the band Asking Alexandria, LOL all day.  Anyway, Henry gets all curmudgeonly when I put it on but then watches the whole episode because he secretly loves it. Sometimes he gets so into it that he has to STAND UP to watch. (see: below.)

• I painted my friend Jeannie a calzone painting a few weeks ago and she then decided that she was going to take me and Nate out for a celebratory calzone lunch. (You’re welcome, Nate.) Anyway, that finally happened on Tuesday and even though Jeannie and Nate didn’t want to sit in the basement of Monte Cello’s (boooooo), it was a really nice lunch celebrating a painting that Jeannie didn’t bother to bring along with her. Anyhow, the point is, I checked in on Facebook and posted the below picture and for some reason over 20 people liked it, which seems excessive for me since it was just a check-in at some pizza place; YOU HUNGRY, FACEBOOK? But it’s not like I have my Masters in Facebook, so what do I know.
• Everyone is talking about CrossFit and Insanity and whatever else kind of extreme workout DVDs you can buy from an infomercial at 3:ooam. But you know what I’ve been doing? Throwback workouts, my friends. I found the Cindy Crawford workout from the 90s on YouTube last week and said to Henry, “I’m pretty sure this workout video is how I fucked up my back in middle school.” Then of course I started doing it and Henry was appalled. “Yeah, that’s it, Erin. Fuck up your back some more.” But you guys, Cindy’s workout videos are the shit because of the music. Primal Scream! The Smithereens! My favorite Seal song of all time (“Crazy”)! And I was sore as FUCK the next day. Yesterday, for funsies, I did Abs of Steel and today I did Tamilee Webb’s other series, I Want Those Arms. Maybe tomorrow I’ll see if YouTube has Jody Watley’s workout video too. (Sorry, Jillian Michaels—I’ll come back to you when I decide to return to this decade.) Fuck Yeah, Tamilee:
• I’ve been slacking on fun nail art lately (lately=the last 6 months). Mostly I just do solid colors and leave it at that, but then my friend Kendahl decided to start her own line of indie polish called Firecracker Lacquer (still in test-mode!) and she is so inspirational with her nail art blog posts that I might get off my ass and start putting in some effort again. The nails below don’t count. I half-assed those all the way to the market. (I don’t know what that means but I’m apparently channeling that little piggy today.)

• Henry and I were watching one of the many “how is this food made?” shows last night and one of the segments was on Rocky Road candy bars. Henry got instantly nostalgic and asked out loud, “I wonder where you can buy those now…” So I googled and the first thing that came up with this Yahoo Answers post from 2010 and I started cracking up. Like CRACKING UP to the point where Henry had to get up and leave because he didn’t think it was funny at all, but IT WAS FUNNY because I kept imagining Henry all hunched over a keyboard in his mom’s basement (because that’s where he was living in 2010?), one finger from each hand striking the keyboard like a piano mallet. “does anyone now were they sell rocky road candy bars????” YOU GUYS, HELP HIM!

• Right before I left for work today, the mailman hurled a box at my front door. My ears perk like a dog’s when I hear boxes hit the porch. “PACKAGE?! FOR ME?! WHAT DID I ORDER?!” I hadn’t ordered anything!! And I didn’t recognize the return address! Henry calmly said that it was probably a bomb and I began to freak out, but PACKAGE got the best of me and I continued to tear away at it with my bare hands. Finally, he gave me scissors and Henry was like, “YOU ALMOST JUST CUT MARCY!” because at this point, I had used context clues to help me figure out that it was a box of weird fruit from my friends Kevin and Liz in Miami!! It was all stuff that I have never seen before and I was like, “HENRY, CUT THIS IMMEDIATELY.” But apparently HENRY didn’t have time. I did get to eat one of those gray balls, though. If I’m reading the accompanying pamphlet correctly, they are sapodillas and basically, that’s all I will be putting in my mouth from now on. The description says they taste like pears and brown sugar, and by golly, they DO. Ugh, just look at this majestic grouping of weird produce. Hashtag-blessed all day long.
• In blogging news, I finally know what I’m going to write for my Pittsburgh Guest Blogging thingie that will be happening on April 1st. WHAT A RELIEF. Aren’t you relieved!? My friend Sandy is also participating so I ran to her office-thing the other day and started blabbering about how stressed I am over this and she was so calm. Why can’t I be calm, ever?  I literally almost cried about it a few days ago because I’m known for taking really small things and inflating them to the point where my whole world is consumed by nothing but that I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack from all the pressure that almost no one is putting on me. For as lazy as I am about a lot of things, I am VERY TYPE-A about others. So don’t worry, Guy Who Will Be Posting My Thing, I will have it to you by the end of the weekend. And it will at least be decent.
• One of my friends sent me a message on Facebook and said that he and his wife think Chooch is gifted, and instead of my first reaction being one of a proud mom, I naturally made it all about myself and started to dwell on the fact that I was tested for the gifted program in elementary school and spent most of my life thinking I didn’t get in until one day when I was 26, my mom laughed and said, “No, you were accepted, but I told them I didn’t want you in that program because it was all about that imagination bullshit.” ARE YOU KIDDING!? So now here I am, sitting at my non-gifted desk at my non-gifted job, sighing sadly over my non-gifted life. Please excuse me while I go make some non-gifted coffee. :(
• I was going to also write about all the things this week that have irritated me but it’s just too much.

Henry and I checked out of the airport Sheraton early Saturday morning; as soon as we walked out into the parking lot, Henry inhaled deeply and said, “Mmmm, the smell of jet fuel in the morning. Reminds me of THE SERVICE.” I lost another one of my lives laughing so hard at him. God, I love it when he slips up and mentions his SERVICE days.

Our plans for the morning were to finally get to see our friends Terri and Christian after two failed attempts the previous two years. It’s funny, because in this day and age, most of the new friends I meet are online; but in this case, we actually met Terri and Christian in person first, back in the fall of 2011 when we were all in Cleveland for the AP Tour (and to eat at Melt, obviously). And since then, we have gotten to know each other better through Facebook and Twitter and I have been dying to hang out with them again!

Henry and I don’t need to be entertained, so when Terri suggested that we just eat breakfast at their place and hang out, I was all for it and Henry seemed relieved because he’s always tired and doesn’t like walking around looking at things. Terri even made three different kinds of breakfast casseroles! One had fake bacon in it and I was so happy! (They’re vegetarians too! I can call myself that again because I have re-eradicated seafood from my diet, so come at me bro.)

I was a little nervous on the way there because we had only ever spent that one day together three years ago and what if it was going to be totally awkward? Well, it wasn’t, so you can stop holding your breath. I mean, I was still at my usual level of awkward, of course, but at least Henry was there to ease my food-cutting anxiety. We hung out for three hours, talking about music, music, music and more music and I can’t tell you how fucking awesome that was! And we learned that Terri and Christian met while working at Tower Records, how apropros! We even had civil hockey discussions, even though our teams are huge rivals! And I found out that Christian was at the aforementioned Type O Negative show in 1998 that I couldn’t attend because some bitch named Your Druidess didn’t show up with the tickets! It’s funny how many times that memory was recalled last weekend.

I wish we could have spent more time with them, but Henry and I had plans to attend the Hollywood Theater’s “Twin Peaks” party that night, so we had to hit the road around noon. As soon as their door shut behind us, I said to Henry, “If we lived closer, I would hang out with them so much, they would get so sick of me.” (So basically, two times.) And Henry said, “Yes, I like them. They’re nice people.” THAT IS A BIG DEAL FOR HENRY TO HAVE AN OPINION! He is usually so neutral about everything. But I think what he was really thinking was, “I wish we did live closer because then Erin can just go to shows with them while I sit at home watcing NCIS in my underwear.” Seriously though, thank you for opening up your home to us and stuffing us with delicious breakfast foods! We owe you one next time you’re in our city! (Don’t worry, Henry will do the cooking.)

“I hate you,” I sighed as Henry drove around looking for a gas station.

“Why?” he mumbled with very little emotion.

“Because you weren’t working at a record store when we met!” I cried.

“Either were you!” he shot back. THAT’S NOT THE POINT, HENRY.

***

OMG, the ride home was so boring. There was a hockey game on, so that entertained us for a little while. We stopped at a rest area so Henry could finally get his stupid Auntie Em pretzel bites, but I threw a fit because he didn’t get mustard so I stormed out into the parking lot, because this is how you get what you want when you’re 34. (And also 3 and 4.)

Henry went back and got mustard.

Later, we stopped at another rest area for a late lunch/dinner situation, and he accidentally pulled into the “Trucks/RV” side of the parking lot which caused me to scream, “OMG YOU FUCKED UP NOW, HENRY ROBBINS!” while making all kinds of dramatic gasps. Naturally, he was annoyed. Especially when every hour after that, I would casually say, “Hey remember when you broke the law by USING THE TRUCKS AND RV ENTRANCE? God, you’re such a moron. You could have gotten us killed.”

“We would NOT have gotten killed,” he sighed.

***

We made it home with about 45 minutes to spare before we had to leave again. While I was upstairs changing clothes, I found out that Henry never told his mom about our Saturday night plans so she thought she was done babysitting Chooch as soon as we got home. Oh sorry, Judy, didn’t your son tell you? You’re stuck here for three more hours. Possibly even forever.

God Henry, you’re such an asshole.

Luckily, she’s a good grandma and didn’t give a shit about a few more hours with Chooch. (Who, by the way, didn’t even miss us.)

***

The Hollywood Theater is only a few blocks away from our house, but Henry has never been there because he is so lame. I’m actually surprised I was even able to get him to go Saturday night, but we do both equally love Twin Peaks, so there’s that. He refused to dress up, though. I tried to get him to go as Mike, the One-Armed Man, because literally all he would have to do was wear a black t-shirt and not put his stupid left arm through the sleeve, but even THAT was too costume-y for him. So he went as Henry.

The theater was playing a marathon of all the episodes starting that Thursday, culminating in a party Saturday night, which entailed a costume contest, raffles and the big draw: a live performance by Silencio, a local Pittsburgh band that plays music from Twin Peaks and other David Lynch movies. I can’t tell you how much I love that music, especially the music from Twin Peaks.

Also, we were promised damn good cherry pie, and if I told you I wasn’t thinking about it all last week, I would be lying. Cherry pie is actually my favorite kind of pie and it pisses me off that restaurants around here usually have every other kind of fucking fruit pie but cherry. Maybe it looks too menstrual?

Anyway, I’m a lousy dresser-upper. It’s very hard for me to commit to a costume and I usually wind up half-assing it in the end because I’m lazy and unmotivated. (See: Fatal Attraction.) I didn’t want to go the obvious plactic-wrapped-Laura Palmer route, so I opted instead for one of my favorite characters, the Sheriff’s secretary Lucy Moran. I picked her because she’s awesome, but also because all I had to do was get a 90s’ish sweater from Goodwill, pair it with a skirt and tights, and put my hair in a half-pony. Henry kept trying to cut my bangs to make it look more authentic but, no. I’m not ready to rejoin the bangs-having society*. (However, I did order a pair of clip-on bangs from eBay for $5 but they sent me a bleached blond pair instead of the ones that would actually match my shitty hair color, so thanks for ruining my already-destined-to-fail costume, stupid Taiwanese seller.)

*However, if and when I’m ready, Henry could probably give me good bangs. (BANGS, NOT BANG.) When I did have bangs, he was always super good at trimming them and my hair stylist would always be so impressed that his meat-hands could pull off such precise scissor-y. (SCISSOR-Y NOT SCISSORING.) Of course he could. Henry excels at girly things.

So 90s. So sweater-y. So wow.

When I looked at this picture of myself last weekend, I thought, “Hmm, I look familiar….” and then after awhile it occurred to me that I looked like 15-year-old Erin. So, what I learned from this is that I spent my entire 10th grade year accidentally emulating the Lucy Moran hairstyle. Also, I still have the same dopey smile.

We got to the Hollywood right around 7 and proceeded to stand around like social pariahs because god forbid we should make new friends, ever. Henry bought a can of PBR (lol) and I got some coffee from the place I made Janna walk to last October, because they had a table set up and the two guys behind it kept wanting to talk to me but I think I was in the middle of one of those social strokes I sometimes succumb to? Honestly, I just stood there and kept saying, “Oh, really?” I HATE MYSELF.

We grabbed seats near the front of the theater and I got comfortable with my damn fine cup of coffee and cherry pie, and yes, it was damn fine. (Homemade!)

Silencio came on around 8:00 and Henry promptly fell alseep. Not because they were boring, but their music is so smooth and those seats are really comfortble. (Not to mention Professional Driver had been driving for 6+ hours that day, and the day before.)

Scenes from various David Lynch works played on the screen behind them, complementing the sounds with a bit of creepiness.

In between sets, the Hollywood Theater people came out to do the raffle drawing and I REALLY wanted to win the log. Yes, it was just a log, but I wanted it. There was also a set of these amazing David Lynch movie posters that an artist donated, but I didn’t win those either. I HATE NOT WINNING.

I went through a brief stint senior year of high school where I was obsessed with Angelo Badalamenti because of the Lost Highway soundtrack. I keep telling Chooch that he was only 8 when he started piano lessons, but Chooch as usual does not give a fuck. BE THE NEXT BADALAMENTI, SON.

Anyway, if you have never seen Twin Peaks, both seasons are on Netflix and you should go and do that. Go get mono or something and then lay there and watch it all. It’s worth it.

On our way out, we snagged a “The Owls Are Not What They Seem” cupcake for Chooch as a consolation for leaving him parentless for two days. Again though, he honestly didn’t give a shit that we were gone. He’s at that age, I guess.

Silencio was pretty fantastic and even though I hated being in a rush all day, I was glad that we were able to work this into our itinerary. It was a fun way to cap off three nights of three very different bands. That should tide me over for awhile. (It won’t. But at least there’s Eisley on April 10th!)

P.S. That sweater is totally now a part of my regular wardrobe.

The closest I’d ever been to the Trocadero in Philadelphia was October of 1999, when my friend Cinn and I were stood up by some goth bitch who had our tickets for the Type O Negative show. Fourteen years later, I finally got to go inside.

****

When I saw in December that The Sound of Animals Fighting were reuniting for a very small, intimate tour and had added an extra Philly date (the first one had sold out lightning quick), I was stoked. But first I had to beg Henry. “It can be my Christmas present!” I pleaded. “You don’t have to get me anything else!” (Of course he got me other shit too because he knows better.) The thing with this band is that they’re a sort of supergroup, so touring is hard for them to pull off, logistically. They played like 4 shows I think, in 2006. 4 shows, ever. And they were in California and Las Vegas, so…while I played the FUCK out of the live DVD they released, I never got to see them live.

Until now!!

I remember when I first heard about them, and it was all still a mystery then. OMG who are these guys wearing animal masks?! But then it was pretty obvious, once I heard it, that one of the “Skunk” was definitely Anthony Green, because oh dear lord, do I love that man. Circa Survive pretty much got me through one extremely suicidal summer, and to be honest, it’s a miracle that Henry and I are even still together. I often wonder how much worse off I would have been through times like those if I didn’t have music to stave off a portion of the mania. I know that sometimes people will hear “screamo” (we’ll just call it that, even though it’s not what TSOAF is), they don’t understand the appeal. “How can you listen to something when you can’t understand the words?” Or “this music doesn’t make sense to me.” Right? I can’t speak for everyone who likes this sort of music, but for me, it’s always been about the way it makes me feel emotionally and mentally. The screaming mimics what I sometimes feel in my head, like a mental gang-banging, and it is extremely cathartic and exhilarating for me. And then the music itself is so chaotic and janky, it’s like it understands me. And I understand it. And really, that’s the best way I can explain it.

But then with a band like TSOAF, you get the beautiful, clean vocals as well, from Matthew Kelly, Rich Balling and Matt Embree, and it just ties the whole thing together into a pretty bi-polar package.

BUT I DIGRESS. You probably aren’t here from some boring post-hardcore lesson, so I will save the rest for my Dear Diary and just tell you about how miserable Henry was all night. Yay!

***

The drive there was very uneventful. It started snowing literally the moment we pulled out of our driveway, so the first hour or so of the trip was terrible.

I made Henry listen to all kinds of music that he hates, like Gem Club. He kept being totally dramatic about it, pretending to nod off. “Please make me more depressed than I already am,” he mumbled, so I tweeted all of this and then Gem Club favorited it. This is how I make connections on Twitter, you guys.

We ate lunch at a shitty rest area where Henry bitched about having to buy me Starbucks and the fact that Auntie Em’s was out of pretzel bites.

We were one of the first 10 people in line before the doors opened because I was in A Mad Hurry. Equal Vision announced on Instagram last week that each TSOAF show was going to get its own t-shirt design, but only 100 each would be printed. My TSOAF hoodie is one of my favorite pieces of merch ever, so I was determined to get one of these fucking shirts. So we stood in line with all the other die-hards, and I realized that I hadn’t been that close to the front of a concert line since 2001 when my friend Shawn and I got to Nick’s Fat City 3 hours early for a Cold show. When I told Henry this, he just rolled his eyes. Because he’s too old to give a fuck about these things. Don’t ever get old, you guys.

“There’s Anthony,” Henry said, elbowing me as Anthony Green and his wife Meredith walked down the sidewalk. HE IS SUCH A GOOD WINGMAN! Also, LOL forever at Henry unwittingly knowing so much about the scene.

The doors eventually opened a little after 7 and I made a beeline for the merch booth, where, for the first time in pretty much ever, I got to tell the merch girl that I needed a size small. (Only because it was boy sizes, though; don’t worry–I’m still semi-chubby.) Anyway, thank you Henry for not ruining my night by being a total tightwad! I love this shirt so much!

I’m learning how to smile naturally.

Perhaps at this time I should talk about how, in Henry’s eyes, I fucked up. In my haste to get the hell out of the house Friday morning and embark on our road trip, I left my wallet on the coffee table. I knew that I had the tickets, and that’s all that mattered to me. Forgot the hairbrush? Pfft, I’ll just send Henry out to buy a new one in the morning. Forgot the gift I was planning to give our Philly friends Terri and Christian the next day? That sucks, but I can just mail it when we get back. Forgot my wallet? NO OVER-21 ENTRY FOR ME.

<

This isn’t something that I give a shit about, but the thing is, that’s the trade-off for Henry going to these shows with me: I (sometimes) will abandon all of the action in an effort to make Mister Miserable a little more comfortable in the grown-up area. Like the one time we went to see Pierce the Veil at Mr. Small’s and Henry’s stupid stomach hurt him so I was like FINE WE CAN GO TO THE BALCONY and literally it was me and a bunch of motherfucking PARENTS. So lame.

The Trocadero has a beautiful balcony, but it’s off limits without an ID. I told Henry he was welcome to go up there once the show started, but he was all, “NO JUST FORGET IT” which tells me he was secretly having a nice time. Or just wanted something to bitch about later.

The opening band was Unwed Sailor. Henry hated them because god forbid, there is no singer, OMG. I thought they were nice and soothing, an appropriate precursor for what was to come.

We were standing near the door to the backstage area, so Anthony walked by us a few times and THEN HE AND HENRY EXCHANGED PLEASANTRIES AND I COULDN’T STOP LAUGHING. It is endlessly funny to me when Henry makes contact with people in bands that I like, because:

1. it’s Henry
2. it’s Henry saying hello to people way cooler than Henry
3. it’s Henry

And then he gets all embarrassed when I make a big deal about it and that just fuels the laughter.

After Unwed Sailor played, I said to Henry, “You know, I’m not saying I’m going to be one of those pushy moms, but if Chooch ever decided to be in a band, holy shit I would be the proudest mom of all time.” I paused for a second, mulling it over, and then added, “But just to spite me, he’ll probably be something dumb. Like a doctor.”

“I would be happy if he became a car mechanic,” Henry weighed in. “Something that’s useful to me.” Seriously? By the time Chooch is an adult, Henry’s not going to be driving anything but a Hoveround.

Around 9:30, the lights went out and the intro started playing while silhouettes of orange and yellow people were ushered onto the stage and place in various positions of worship around Matthew Kelly, who then sang one of my favorite TSOAF songs of all time, The Heretic. And here is where I began to openly weep. And I didn’t give a single fuck either because I knew every single person standing near me understood.

(I AM STARTING TO CRY ALL OVER AGAIN AS I TYPE THIS IN MY OFFICE-THING.)

So here is a video that some guy took from the sold-out show the night before. He recorded the entire intro, so it doesn’t really start until about the 3:30 mark, IF YOU ARE INTERESTED IN WATCHING IT. (I do highly recommend that you do though, because it’s beautiful. However, be warned that it fades right into the next song which is scream-y. This was the point in the night where the crowd fucking EXPLODED and Henry was probably like, “Oh, how I love these shows.”)

Thank you for recording this, Guy at the March 20th Show.

After the final note of The Heretic, the rest of the band came out and Anthony Green vomited screams all over our faces and I wept even harder, because ANTHONY GREEN. I have a framed picture of him on my fucking wall, for Christ’s sake.

Please excuse my terrible pictures. I am not a concert photographer and was way too busy freaking the fuck out to worry about getting the perfect shot.

I didn’t get a chance to look at Henry’s melting face at all because we weren’t standing near each other by the time TSOAF came out. Some tall douchebag had planted himself right in front of me so I moved up some. I don’t think Henry gave a shit; for all I know, he had gone up to the balcony. THAT’S COOL, BRO.

It felt so good to hear Anthony scream, made me feel warm and safe like being hugged by a fat grandma. His stage presence is incredible. When I asked Henry later on if he agreed, he reluctantly said yes.

I’ll tell you one thing, there was some mad respect radiating from the crowd that night in the Trocadero. We all knew we were seeing something special.

The older I get, the more grateful I feel after I get to experience things, and this was definitely one for the “grateful” column. I appreciate so many bands on such a grand level that it is awe-inspiring at times to be so close to them. It means so much, but I will never be able to put it in words, not even if I made up my own language. I think I stopped making sense a long time ago.

****

Afterward, Professional Driver Henry didn’t know how to get out of the parking garage and a security guard had to come to his rescue. Listen to him hyuk’ing it up it this video, totally playing the “dumb blonde card” so a security guard can feel all strong and manly.

While Henry blindly navigated around downtown Philly and swore at the GPS, I cheerfully cried out things like, “THE REAL WORLD PEOPLE USED TO GO THERE!” to which he would spit, “I don’t give a FUCK about the Real World people!” Lost Driver Henry is mean.

We (eventually) checked into the Sheraton Four Points and crashed after a good hour of me relentlessly asking Henry what his favorite part of the show was. (No answer.) I can’t believe I got to see them, The Sound of Animals Fighting, right there in front of me. Oh my god, oh my god. What a great fucking night!

Hey, remember last week when I was all, “OMG we’re going to see Gary Numan“? Well, guess who almost didn’t get to see Gary Numan? OMG GREAT GUESS.

Henry and I got to the Altar Bar right after the doors opened and imagine my extreme delight when we gave the guy at Will Call Henry’s name and he was all, “NOPE. NO TICKETS FOR HENRY.” We used Henry’s credit card and Ticket Fly was like, “These tickets will be in Henry’s name, OK dummies?” So the guy asked if maybe I was confused and selected the mobile ticket instead of Will Call, and even though this did not sound at all like something I would ever do, I said, “Gee, you know what? I think that’s what I did” so then I had to get out of line and stand awkwardly next to some broad who was giving out free e-cigs while I frantically checked all 8 of my stupid email accounts on my phone for some non-existent cyber ticket, and you know what happens when I am totally panicked? I cannot think straight and I end up checking the same email address approximately 78 times because suddenly my surroundings are closing in on me and why is everyone staring?

Just totally awful, what a terrible way to start the night, with Henry standing there smirking at me because oh, look who is so irresponsible and lost our fucking tickets. Eventually, I found the email confirmation and shoved my phone at one of the guys who read it over and verified that my tickets were indeed WILL CALL and they should be in HENRY’S NAME. So then the other guy had to go to the office to see if they needed re-printed and right then, my friends Patty and Tim showed up and were like, “HEY GUYS” and I just grunted several intelligible syllables in response because I couldn’t focus on anything other than the fact that I was going to punch a bitch if they tried to deny me entrance. The dumb ticket guy came back and said, “What’s YOUR name?” so I told him AND LO AND BEHOLD, the fucking tickets were there in my name but literally none of us had the bright idea to check for that from the get-go.

That was a real nail biter, wasn’t it blog readers? Is anyone still reading?

Meanwhile, Henry’s spirit was crushed as he realized that he was not going to get out of this show after all. And then he had the audacity to bitch because there were so many old people there. That man is never happy.

He did seem happy to see Patty and Tim, though, considering the only people he ever sees at concerts are kids that are friends with his sons, Blake and Robbie, or security guards that he recognizes from other shows. We talked to them for a little bit before the show started. I was really excited because a lady who works in the The Law Firm mail room was there as well, which took me by surprise because (STEREOTYPE ALERT) I never would have pegged her for a Gary Numan fan. Maybe more toward James Ingram.

Because James Ingram is always on the tip of my tongue.

I expressed my happy shock to Patty, who told me that she had also seen this co-worker at a Damned show in 2003! Newfound respect for the mailroom lady now. My whole department is obsessed with her because she walks around at exactly 5:04 every day and moans, “Mmmmm-lasssst mail.” She’s made it into an art form and I’m in awe. I even got Barb to ask her to reverse directions on April Fool’s Day one year just to fuck with one of our since-departed co-workers, who was so obsessed with her that he once steathily chased her around the department in an effort to hear her cries of “Last Mail” in all four quadrants:

SHE RULES.

Even more now that I know she likes good music! Whaddup, Last Mail? Come sit at my lunch table.

After bullshitting with Patty and Tim for a few minutes, I dragged Henry upstairs so that we could claim a good spot on the balcony, which is my favorite place at the Altar Bar. Before the show started, I took some time indulging in one of my favorite activities: stalking people.

NO ONE IS SAFE AROUND ME, PATTY.

Just ask Henry.

Roman Remains opened, and I instantly fell in love. I don’t really keep up with this genre of music that much anymore, so it was all new to me and fuck if that dark bass line didn’t bring back fond memories of my short stint as a goth. Plus, the singer is a really hot Nordic-looking woman. It made me consider going back to the goth lifestyle, and coincidentally, Henry had just cleaned out my closet and found my old Morticia-styled stompy heels in the back, so he placed them suggestively at the front of my closet in case I wanted to wear them to work.

The second band was Big Black Delta. They had their moments but I was mostly bored. I can only watch some guy push buttons and then dance around for so long.

But then finally, after a long, dramatic intro, Gary Numan finally came out and I was like “OMGGGG” like a little bitch because, my god, what a fucking icon.

ADAM LAMBERT WISHES!!

Henry’s dumb hands.

The only downside was when a man and his much-younger girlfriend (basically, a way more annoying version of me and Henry) squeezed their way in between me and the guy next to me at the balcony, which is fine, but how about you STFU and enjoy the fucking music instead of screaming everyday conversations to each other whole fucking time? That is probably my biggest pet peeve ever at older people concerts. Yes, a good bit of the people are actually there because they’re fans and genuinely love the music, but there are always those motherfuckers who are like, “Hey, let’s spend $60 on tickets and just go and drink and act like motherfuckers.” HERE’S AN IDEA: GO TO A BAR AND PLAY THE JUKEBOX INSTEAD. FUCK. And the girl part of the duo stunk like b.o. and a head shop.

They would walk away every now and then and I would rejoice. But then, when the intro to “Cars” started, the guy shoved his way back in and started thrusting his phone out over the balcony, so I was like, “OK fine, I get it. You want to get an Instavid of Gary Numan singing ‘Cars.’ That’s understandable.” But no! No! He was just taking pictures. OMG GARY NUMAN IS SINGING CARS QUICK TAKE A PICTURE. Seriously, get the fuck out of here, guy. Eventually, I just made Henry switch places with me because I couldn’t hold my breath any longer.

Meanwhile, Henry was too busy gawking at all the aging Goth Queens in all of their latex-and-exposed-midriff glory. It made me laugh because from the neck up they were 100% “middle-aged professional” but the rest of them was “night at the Batcave.” I  mean, at least do something with your Sally Wiggin hair if you’re going to sausage your body into a musty pair of bondage pants.

This is not my video, but she must have been standing only a few people away from me. So thank you, Girl, for posting this on YouTube because it was one of my favorite songs of the night, OMG I love you Gary Numan. Even though you didn’t play Marcy’s jam “She’s Got Claws.” :(

————

Henry’s review:

It was good and I got to drink some beers. The guy behind me was dancing the whole time and kept bumping into me. I think he was gay. I mean, I don’t care, I’m just saying.

The Haywire was (mostly selfishly) established in 1882 by the venerable Mayor Oslo von Queef as a sanctuary for himself when his wife would host yet another impromptu tampon party in their estate. Nowadays, the Haywire has morphed into a safe place in Hellsbelly where the residents convene and congregate, hash out their problems to the friendly ears of their neighbors, get help beating level 65 on Candy Crush or remembering the lyrics to Crash Test Dummies songs.

1. Gregory had $23 left in his bank account. He really wanted to go to the Wet Fish, the strip club at the corner of Labia and Venereal Avenue, but he also needed to get his niece a birthday present. He could already hear his sister’s derisive riot act if he had the audacity to show up at her daughter’s birthday party without a gift, but his addiction to lunch buffets and hip-gyrations were dangerously close to winning out.

2. Areola just happened to have been fired from her stripping position at the Wet Fish for sexually harassing the albino janitor. Overhearing Gregory’s opines, she suggested that he treat himself by strip-clubbing it up, and to collect some of the stray sequins that often come loose from the strippers’ headdresses and nipple tassels being aggressively groped and shaken, which Gregory could then use to fashion a delightful headband for his niece. “Just don’t go to the Wet Fish,” Areola huffed. “The Eager Beaver is much better.”

3. Mauricio hadn’t had sex in 4 years, not since the fire at the Waffle Wigwam had turned his face into a perma-Freddy Kreuger mask. He was just thinking how great even a hand job would be at this point, when his baggie of Smarties fell out of his pocket and rolled across the damp ground. “Great,” he thought, sitting in defeat next to the spilled pill-like candies. “Can’t a melted-mugged motherfucker eat some goddamn candy without humiliation?

”

4. Beauregard had just received a large sum of galvanized steel pipes from his grass cutter’s Will, but could not think of a use for it. Hearing of Areola’s occupational distress, he ran home to erect the pipe in his bedroom and then hired her to be the personal pole dancer for his iguana, who was having a terrible time eating without the sound of flesh squeaking against a pole.

5. Bettina had just gotten her hair shorn clear to her scalp, her long flaxen locks sold by her mother to traveling gypsies for a month’s worth of arsenic hastily splashed into a dusty apothecary jar mislabeled as “weight loss potion.” Bettina sat on a wire and cradled her bald head in her lap. “Well,” her friend Bianca joked earlier while shaking a bag of pork rinds into her grinding maw. “It’s a good thing I didn’t get you any headbands for your birthday.” Bettina had watched Bianca steal the pork rinds from her own mother’s purse earlier that day; Bianca was obsessed with achieving a thigh gap, yet couldn’t kick her junk food addiction or perfect the pigeon-toe stance. Bettina secretly wished to the Haywire that Bianca would just die.

6. Phillipe felt like shit. He had forgotten to disable the landmines in his backyard and now his goddamn grass-cutter was dead. But that’s not why he came out to the Haywire that night—he just liked how the wire cupped his ass when he perched on it.

7. Henry was on his way home from a Ted Nugent concert when he was overcome by a hankering for waffles. Unfamiliar with the area, he flagged down a caravan of gypsies, who pointed him in the direction of Hellsbelly. “There’s a place there called the Waffle Wigwam,” said one of the gypsies, who appeared to be wearing a wig of long blond hair that clashed with her ginger eyebrows. “They come with pockets so deep, you need two carafes of syrup. It’s like pores on a giant’s face,” she added, flipping her unnatural hair. But once Henry arrived at Hellsbelly, he found an empty lot where the Waffle Wigwam once stood before a man accidentally burnt it down four years ago when he drove his lawn mower through the kitchen wall and crashed into the gas griddle. And that is how Henry found himself loitering at the Haywire, pondering the pores on a giant’s face and wondering where the fuck in this town he could get a waffle. “It’s not like anyone has a spare in their pocket,” Henry laughed bitterly to himself.

8. Maryanne was tired of giving handjobs to her old majorette’s baton in an effort to get her husband’s OCD iguana to eat his fucking mashed figs. Her hand was perpetually blistered and brush-burned and she just needed a moment’s rest at the Haywire. Unfortunately, she also really wanted some molly, and that is how she ended up giving a handjob on her handjob break to a grotesque man sitting amidst a pile of pills.

9. Connie hated her brother with the passion of 54,000 Westboro Church members picketing a Lady Gaga concert. She’d hated him since middle school, when he would pay her friends money from her own piggy bank to give him what he called “sciatica relief” but were really just awkward lap dances. Her daughter’s birthday party was tomorrow and Connie was so afraid that he was going to pull the “sciatica relief” schtick on her new grown-up friends, so she did what she had to do to get the money for gypsy killing juice, but, where was it? She was sure she put it in the garbage bag she used as a purse.

10. The junior prom was fast-approaching and all of Johan’s friends had secured dates. It’s not that Johan was ugly or reeks of cabbage, but he was allergic to hair. No girl can dance with him without him breaking out into hives and choking on his own swollen tongue the moment her locks come within a foot of his face. He was just about to resign to another Nair-scented night of Redbox rentals and beer nuts when he felt a tear drop kiss his shoulder.

He looked up to see the most beautiful poster child for baldness crying on a wire above him, her glabrous pate glistening beneath a flickering streetlight.

11. Frangeline’s daughter was a pick-pocketer. Frangeline kept telling her, “Bianca, one of these days you’re going to stick your hand somewhere it really don’t belong and get yourself a bad, bad surprise.” Like the time Bianca was 7 and snatched Old Lady Humperdinck’s enema kit out of her handbag because she thought it was a balloon inflater, which made the house smell like synthetic farts. And that is how Frangeline knew when she walked in on Bianca, dead and bloated on the bathroom floor, that the empty jar of weight loss serum next to her was likely ill-begotten from some broad’s purse. “Oh Bianca,” Frangeline wailed later on to everyone and no one at the Haywire. “I always knew your obsession with sticking your hand in the cookie jar was going to be the death of you, my thunder-thighed girl.”

12. Unger was really not feeling like himself at all.

It had been 71 days since he last killed anyone, probably because he had become so preoccupied with that big-boned stripper at the Wet Fish following him into the janitors closet, trying to see his alabaster cock. Then she got fired for some reason and now Unger was bored when, normally, he couldn’t walk a block away from his house without being struck with homicidal inspiration. However, a few seconds of taking in the mind-melting squawking from eleven of his neighbors at the Haywire was just what he needed. Another couple of seconds more and he was REALLY starting to feel like himself again. He reached into his pocket, past his spare waffle, until his hand grazed his rock hard alabaster Glock.
——-
Hello. This is a painting on 8″x17″ canvas. It will be stuffed into the pore of a messenger giant and dumped at your door. J/K. It will be placed lovingly on the ground. This was my poor attempt at getting back into the whole “short story” portion of my paintings.

I was terribly excited last Thursday when Chooch brought home this prize-winning illustrated essay, but he completely brushed it off.

“It was supposed to be a joke,” he explained, rolling his eyes. I mean, clearly my child is not of the Ring Around the Rosey ilk, and he didn’t even really watch Max & Ruby when he was a BABY, let alone now. He said he even kept spelling Aidan’s name wrong on purpose. So basically my kid wins for being an asshole, which actually makes me pretty proud because GEE I WONDER WHERE HE GETS IT.

Henry and I were talking about this on the way to Philly last Friday, and I kept going on about how it makes me sad that he won’t draw very often because he thinks he sucks at it, but then he brings shit like that home and I’m like, “HE IS SO GOOD!! WHY DOES HE THINK HE SUCKS?”

“Yeah, I wonder where gets THAT from, too,” Henry mumbled. Shut up, Henry.

I think my favorite part is that he gave himself rotten teeth, presumably because I’m always harping on him to brush his teeth. Man, I love that kid, always having to get his jabs in where he can. GEE I WONDER WHERE HE GETS IT.

We did basically nothing today and I can’t believe I’m going to say this since I always bitch about it, but fuck it felt great. Sometimes you just need to take a day to catch up on Teen Wolf, am I right?

Also, I think Henry might be dead.

And by chat I mean mostly post pictures. Sorry! I’m in a car on the way home from Philly & I have blog-posting compulsion but typing too much will make me puke in Henry’s lap, maybe.

We had time to kill before The Sound of Animals Fighting show last night, so we roamed around Chinatown long enough to eat dinner and for Henry to tell me NO!! a million times in the Sanrio store. I hate him. But they didn’t have green tea Kit Kats there and that was really all I wanted anyway.

I wanted to find somewhere creepy to eat, preferably someplace located in an alley & possibly underground, but Henry was like, “No. We’re eating at Penang because I just saw five people walk in, so…” I walked in predetermined to hate it since Henry picked it, so I bitched about the menu like the cry baby that I am because I recently decided to go back to being a strict ovo-lacto vegetarian (sayonara, seafood) and it seemed like even the vegetable portion of the menu had some sort of animal in it. I eventually ordered some noodle thing sans shrimp that was ok. Fine, it was good.

But you know what was fucking awesome? The lychee water I ordered, which cost almost as much as my dinner but it was worth it. (Henry was all, “YOU BETTER DRINK THAT” like I’m some picky child; OK, because I AM some picky child.) Those lychees were like giant bloated eyeballs and now I can’t imagine having to drink water without my glass clogged with those sons of bitches. If lychees actually were eyeballs, I’d have to put myself on my next serial killer greeting card, because I have a feeling me and my melon baller will be hitting the town on the regular.

Then I openly boasted about how great of a street-crosser I’ve become and Henry’s eyes were about to roll right out of his head.

After dinner, I wanted something sweet in the worst way and Chinatown was peppered with all kinds of Asian bakeries, but Henry was all, “When will you learn your lesson?! You don’t like Asian ‘desserts’!” God Henry, let me make my own poor choices every now and then, would ya?

There was some inviting Chinese emporium type place and I was desperate to get Chooch a souvenir.

“Why? We’re not actually in China, Erin. We can buy him this shit in our own city,” Henry sighed.

So we continued walking around and I was so busy craning my neck to ogle a bakery across the street that I straight tripped really hard, doing a modified swan dive through the air, while Henry shook his head and kept walking. YOU CAN’T TAKE THE FAT GIRL ANYWHERE.

Then I misheard Henry to say “That looks like a place where KD Lang would eat” and it was finally time to get in line outside of the Trocadero and for Henry’s night to start its slow decline.

• After terrorizing Chris and Monica with my camera on Sunday, they took me and Chooch to Tom’s Diner for dinner, where the subject of the missing Malaysian plane came up. “The only people who know where it is are Jesus and Amelia Earhart,” Chooch casually interjected. I was glad there were witnesses there because sometimes I fear that people think I’m making up his quotes. I promise I’m not.

• I’ve been in a major fruit funk. Even the apples I’ve been eating haven’t been anything spectacular and just taste like earth. But then Henry bought me a cherimoya! I was so excited to have my passion for fruit rejuvenated, but then he cut it and it tasted terrible. It was too ripe. Or not ripe enough? I don’t understand how “ripe” works. So I’m back to being in a fruit funk.
• I took the trolley to work on Thursday. It was starting to look like it was going to be a quiet, uneventful ride, until the young man standing in front of my seat received a phone call. I hadn’t paid much attention to him prior to his phone ringing, because he was just standing there quietly, being tall and skinny, relatively inoffensive. But then it was all, “DEENA!!!! I CALLED YOU LIKE 7 TIMES!!! WHAT, YOU DON’T ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE NOW!?!?!?” His tone was enraged, bombastic enough to pretty much make everyone whip their heads in his direction. And then I guess Denah hung up on him, which made him shout, “I’M GONNA FUCK YOU UP.” I actually gulped and slid down a little in my seat, tugged at my collar and stared out the window, hoping he wouldn’t use my face as Deina’s stunt double. A few minutes later, he was able to get her back on the phone. “WHAT THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH YOU. I’VE CALLED YOU FIFTY TIMES. OH OK, YOUR PHONE WAS IN YOUR POCKET. SINCE WHEN DO YOU KEEP YOUR PHONE IN YOUR POCKET!?!?” And then some terrible discussion about how, OH DON’T WORRY D-NAH, he was able to get out of the house this morning without her help. I don’t know what this means, but then he went on to say, “He was downstairs, but I got out. DON’T WORRY, I GOT OUT WITHOUT YOUR HELP” so now I’m wondering if this so-called “he” is D’na’s real boyfriend who she’s cheating on with the screamer on the trolley and screamer was trapped in the house when the real boyfriend unexpectedly came home from the China Beach convention in Sheboygan? I can’t imagine how terrible this other guy must be to make Dina have an affair with Trolley Screamer. Luckily, the trolley went underground right around the time he began lambasting Deana for worrying about “dumb shit” so he lost cell service. The rest of us just sat there uncomfortably, thankful that he couldn’t call (Silent P)dina back. I mean, he was talking to her the same exact way I talk to Henry, but at least I reserve that shit for in the house! Now I’m really worried about Dena. Please leave that punk ass bitch, Deeeeeena. I bet he smells like Kools and Slim Jims. No, I know he does.

• Chooch is thankfully still enjoying piano lessons, except that every time the cat walks into the room, he immediately stops paying attention because CAT ALERT. At one point, he asked himself “What would Keyboard Cat do?” I thought Cheryl was going to lose it.

• Henry and I are leaving very soon for Philly. We haven’t spent a night away from Chooch since 2011 (except for sometimes when Chooch sleeps over his cousin’s house, but at least we’re only 15 minutes away) so I’m kind of excited about that but also sad because I’m pretty attached to Chooch. I don’t know if you noticed, but the three of us are like, almost always together. It’s pathetic. Or nice? Anyway, Henry is even more curmudgeonly than usual because I made him go to the Gary Numan show last night so he’s all tiwed wike a wittle baybay (tired like a little baby; I don’t know what’s going on in my head this morning) and now he has to drive to Philly to see another show he doesn’t want to see and hopefully hang out with our friends Terri and Christian, too. But you know what, Henry? You signed on for this in 2001 when you thought, “Wow, I would like to pursue a relationship with the weird office manager at my job.” Sorry you thought I would outgrow this, haha.
• I HOPE EVERYONE HAS A GREAT FRIDAY! Because that seems like a good way to end this!

ANTHONY FUCKING GREEN <3

I’m working 11:00am-6:30pm today instead of my usual 1:30pm-9:00pm (ugh, that shift) because Henry and I are going to see Gary Numan tonight at the Altar Bar and I am practically scratching my skin off in anticipation. I’ve been at work for about 30 minutes and have had about 17 variations of this conversation because my co-workers get freaked out when they see me in the AM:

Them: WHY ARE YOU HERE.

Me: Because I’m leaving at 6:30 today.

Them: WHY.

Me: Because Henry and I are going to see Gary Numan.

Them: WHO.

Me: Sigh. The guy who sang that 80s song “Cars.”

Some of them: OH THAT GUY.

Others: WHO.

But it’s pretty major that for once, most people here actually know who I’m going to see! Unless they’re just doing the smile and nod thing.

Anyway, the Gary Numan I like most is the stuff that came later, and the Exile album is my favorite of all time, so if he plays at least one song from that, I will be 100% content and might even put my head on Henry’s shoulder, who really does not want to go tonight and I almost ended up buying just one ticket, but then a song from Gary Numan’s new album was on an episode of Pretty Little Liars a few weeks ago and suddenly Henry was all in.

In other work news, I took a few minutes away from writing this blog post to visit my office-neighbor Patrick and fawn over a picture of him and his girlfriend, when suddenly out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nate wheel up to the door of Patrick’s office-thing and I jumped back because I thought he was in a wheelchair, but it was only just a wheeled chair.

I was all at once frightened and excited, and Nate said he wouldn’t be adverse to me pushing him around the office.

This is really turning out to be quite an excellent day.

Ugh, look at my dopey face.

I got my first tattoo in 1997. I was 18 and obviously put zero thought into it, but, you know, OMG I’m 18 and can get a tattoo now! I was still in a relationship with Psycho Mike at the time and we decided that we would get our first tattoos together so that we could have yet another terrible memory to put in our stupid scrapbook.

(YES WE KEPT A SCRAPBOOK TOGETHER. It was awful. One page was an actual list of all the times we were approached by cops while banging in the park at night. Keeping it classy, always.)

In 1997, tattoos were entirely too affordable for asshole teenagers. And even if I didn’t have an American Express card that my mommy paid the bill on, I made enough at my crappy telemarketing job at Olan Mills to be able to waltz into some tattoo shop and pick the dumbest piece of flash out of the binder and think to myself, “Yes, this is what I want to carry around with me, deep within my flesh, everyday for the rest of my life.” Some stupid heart getting shot in the asshole with an arrow, it can be yours for $65.

I was drunk in this picture, but I sadly can’t use ‘inebriation’ as the reason I got such a dumb tattoo. And then once I got older and it started to blur, that’s when it really looked fantastic. Most people thought it was a farting heart. Because that’s what shitty tattoos turn into you guys. Farts.

But even worse for me, it wasn’t what it looked like, but what it represented. Anytime I would catch a glimpse of it in the mirror, especially these last few years, I would be reminded of a shitty relationship. It just made me so sad, but the idea of trying to get it covered up seemed so daunting. After 15 years, it was basically just this oblong red blob on my arm and I couldn’t imagine someone trying to cover it up.

During the summer of 2012, Andrea was here visiting and she decided she wanted to get a tattoo. She has like a million of them and I was so worried about taking her to a crappy place, but I knew that my friend Stacey’s brother was really good, so we went to his place. Of course he wasn’t there (turns out, he had left that place), but Andrea was like, “Fuck it I want teeth on my wrists” and asked one of the available artists—Josh—if he had time to bow to her whims. He did, and he turned out to be really awesome, so thank you for not giving my friend a shitty Pittsburgh souvenir.

I showed him my dumb heart and he said he could cover it up easily, but of course I had zero dollars and told him I would get back to him once I found a lucrative corner to stand at.

A year passed by and I randomly found Josh on Instagram and totally fell in love with his style. Finally saved up some money and made a consultation appointment in January. Basically, I was like, “I’m obsessed apples, and the quote ‘the sweeter the apple, the blacker the core’ applies to me.” Two sittings later, and now I have apples on my arm and there’s no trace of a farting heart! (Alhough, Josh saved that for the very last part, so every time I looked over, I could still see those stupid cartoon eyes staring up at me. But man, when he was done, I had to fight back tears because I was so happy it was gone.)

Sorry this is such a shitty picture (blame Henry), but this was taken right after and now it’s in the lepresy-stage, so I won’t be taking a new picture for awhile.

And that’s the relatively uninteresting story of how I literally let someone color over a shitty memory. Thank you Josh from Artisan! I usually have a black cloud over my head when it comes to tattoos, but this was a really good experience.

I know, a thousand trillion pictures of Marcy, nothing new. But she’s my babe and I wanted to share.

****

I’m listening to Black Lab on Spotify and suddenly it’s 1998, Marcy is a kitten and I’m sun-tanning on my porch with Crisco because I can’t find my tanning oil. But the important question here is: why did I even have Crisco in my apartment to begin with? I only used the stove once and it was to make Spaghetti-O’s with Janna and then we left my apartment for an hour while it was cooking because it’s easy to forget you’re cooking food in a pot in a townhouse with literally one giant open room.

Oh, to be 18 again, not caring about skin cancer or turning townhomes into tinder.