The directors of our department chartered a Just Ducky boat for our group last week, so a bunch of us signed up to go on a boat tour of Pittsburgh after work. We were allowed to bring our kids, so I stupidly said that I would be bringing Chooch, and then remembered that he was going to be on a boat with a bunch of my co-workers and that could potentially not be that great.

To double my doubts, Henry completely set him off before bringing him downtown to meet me, by opening Chooch’s report card and pretending it said he had to repeat second grade (literally every person I told this to believed it, so now I’m wondering how dumb they think my child really is). Obviously this was a joke, because Chooch once again got straight As (sorry, but I don’t count that B he gets in handwriting every time because HANDWRITING IS NOT A SUBJECT). But Chooch fell for it and started crying really hard, apparently.

So by the time Henry brought him downtown to meet me, Chooch was totally acting bipolar and saying stupid shit like “Me five days old” to my freaking BOSS after I was like, “HERE IS A LIST OF PEOPLE TO JUST NOT TALK TO, OK? JUST DON’T TALK TO THEM AT ALL.” Because sometimes I’d rather certain people think I have a mute son than a jerk.

And then BARB had to go and ask him about his report card, which made him start SOBBING and then people were like, “LET’S GET A GROUP PHOTO OF ALL OF THE CHILDREN!” right smack in the middle of Chooch crying and I was like, “PLEASE JUST STOP CRYING AND GO GET YOUR FUCKING PICTURE TAKEN DON’T EMBARRASS ME OMG.”

In hindsight, he was honestly just acting like a tired, cranky kid and everyone was like, “Don’t be stupid, he was fine” but I guess I’m just used to Chooch the Adult, which is what I get from him at home. So anytime he acts like a typical brat-kid, I get weirded out and feel like an awful parent.

Finally, the stupid boat came and picked us up and Chooch managed to not say anything offensive during the whole trip, probably because he was too busy pouting.

Henry didn’t go on the tour because I didn’t ask him if he wanted to, HA.

SAD BABY.

One of the directors of our department was sitting in front of us and she kept playfully trying to take Chooch’s picture, which apparently is now a thing that he hates and of course it’s all my fault, so he started crying again but luckily she didn’t notice.

So this is one of those tours that starts out on land and then plows right into the river and it’s actually pretty scary. One of the boat people told Chooch to keep his foot over a hole on the floor to keep the water from coming in and because we’re both idiots, we believed it. Finally, I was like, “Wait, I don’t think you have to keep your foot there, really.”

Here’s when I pleaded with him to act like Normal Folk with me and allow me to take a picture of ourselves having “supposed” fun on a boat.

We learned stuff but mostly it was just an hour’s worth of really dumb jokes. Like, “LOOK THERE’S A PITTSBURGH CROCODILE!” which really annoyed Chooch.

“It’s just a STICK,” he muttered in disgust.

There are over 400 bridges in Pittsburgh, apparently. That sounds familiar, like someone might have tried to teach me that before but like all information about this city, my body rejected it. Or if we were told something that I actually HAD remembered, I would scoff and say that I had already learned that on the haunted walk I did in May with Wendy, Evonne and Jeannie.

As soon as the boat tour came to an end, Chooch’s mouth started up again and I was bursting blood vessels in my head brain in an effort to psychically beat him.  And then on the trolley ride home, Chooch made sure EVERYONE knew about what a horrible prank Henry played on him with the report card and WHAT KIND OF FATHER SAYS THAT TO HIS SON?!

I wanted to die.

Meanwhile, Henry was excited to tell me that while he was sitting on a wall waiting for us (exactly what I figured he would be doing, by the way), he saw three people that we saw at the Circa Survive show earlier that week, and that while he was eating dinner at Five Guys in Market Square, some girl came in and she was wearing an Emarosa shirt. COOL STORY, HENRY-BRO.

Anyway, Chooch ate a burger once we got home and then immediately crashed. Hunger and exhaustion: what a lethal mix.

I think the moral of this story is to not let my kid tag along to any upcoming work functions.

When I told people I went to a professional woman’s football game last Saturday night, the popular response was, “What the hell. You hate football!”

Truth! I really do hate football, and the only thing I hate worse than football is PITTSBURGH football. Boys or girls, I hate them all the same. No discrimination here. But when my friend Kristy asked me if I wanted to go and explained that she was only going because her friend Katie plays for the opposing team, the New York Sharks, and also that we were going to drink at the Smiling Moose beforehand, I was like, “Fuck yeah, I’ll go.” I get a lot of joy rooting for opposing teams! I’m like a sports hipster, I guess.

Besides, if I was going to go to a Pittsburgh Passion game with anyone, it would be Kristy. I don’t know why, but I stand behind this statement.

Kristy even made this awesome sign to show support for her friend Katie! It was kind of adorable. I want to join some kind of team now or run for Congress so that Kristy will make a poster for me.

When we got inside Cupples Stadium, Kristy decided she didn’t want to sit in the middle of Passion fans, because Pittsburgh sports fans are a special brand of crazy. Like, bath salts crazy. Before we even made it to the stands, we stumbled upon a small group of Sharks fans with some assertive Passion broad who was trying to accommodate their seating needs. And by seating needs, I mean that they were asking to sit as far away from psycho Yinzer sports fans as possible. So we tagged along and entered the field with them, and that’s when I realized that one of the Sharks ladies was actually a part of the organization, so I started to feel really special, because that’s the type of person I am: the type that gloats when mascots or someone on a professional women’s football team payroll spends one extra nanosecond on me than the rest of the kids. It’s because I’m attention starved, OK? I will take flirtatious sentiments from anyone: in a fur-suit, NY Sharks shirt or prison jumpsuit, I don’t give a fuck.

Anyway, the Passion broad explained to us that she was unable to unlock the gate so that we could sit on the bleachers across the field from the Pittsburgh side, some lame excuse about how the Passion organization only paid for half of the stadium to be cleaned so they couldn’t have us getting our filth all over the other side of stands, too. However, what she was able to do instead was bring over extra benches ON THE SIDELINE so that we could still sit far away. There was some grumbling from the other Sharks fans about how they weren’t going to be able to see real well, but I was like, “Fuck yes.” Because if I’m going to have to watch some dumb football game, you better believe I want it to be on the field, like Jay-z.

(I don’t even like Jay-Z, but I wouldn’t mind living like him.)

While we were getting situated on our special benches, one of the Sharks ladies felt compelled to beg us to behave. Don’t distract the players, don’t get up and walk off the field during play, and basically just don’t breathe. Then she came back with her camera and yelled, “OK SHARKS FANS!” and everyone put their hands up on top of their heads like shark fins, and I had to whip my head around to look at everyone else’s so that I didn’t fuck it up because I’m a hand-gesture dunce.

“I wonder what the Passion sign is?” Kristy wondered out loud, making a diamond over her crotch with her hands. “Do they just like, masturbate?” And I died for the first of 87 times that night.

Seriously, this was our view: a recreational lesbian’s field day. I cultivated no less than 8 crushes in the first five minutes of sitting down. It’s actually kind of surprising that Christina doesn’t play professional women’s football.

“Fair warning, my twin daughters play for the Sharks, so I might get kind of loud,” an older man who bore a mild resemblance to Laura Palmer’s Dad (but enough so that I would run with it for the rest of the night) said cordially as he sat down next to me. “Wow, Pittsburgh’s sure got a big fan base. Look at that!” he enthused, pointing across the field to the home bleachers. I thought he was being sarcastic, because there didn’t seem to be that many people there, but then I remembered that this was WOMEN’S football and we all know that no one cares about women’s sports.

Passion’s Impressive Fan Base.

Did you know that the players have to pay for this shit themselves? It’s true! Kristy told me. And they all have to have regular day jobs too, unlike those fat NFL rapist douchebags. So I was able to overlook my hatred of football by convincing myself that I was actually there to support girls doing shit. Because I’m a girl.

I took this picture when we returned after halftime to illustrate how sparse the Sharks section was.

Laura Palmer’s Dad was a pretty laid back guy and I didn’t mind that he was trying to lure conversation from my clamped mouth because was mildly charming. But then 10 seconds into the game, he fucking EXPLODED with rage and bulging forehead veins.

“PAIGE!!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!?!?!? CONTAIN!!!!! WHERE’S THE D?!?!?!?!?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME, REF?! WHAT WAS THAT!?!??! HEY REF, YOU NEED TO BORROW SOMEONE’S GLASSES BECAUSE YOU CAN’T SEE!”

And on and on and on. Kristy slowly looked over at me and we totally lost it. At this point, he was standing on top of the back of the bench, leaning against the fence behind him for balance, and every time he yelled, it sounded like angry jets were being launched from his throat and into my ears. And then another dad on the bench next to us joined in, the two of them volleying disparaging reviews of the ref’s competence back and forth between them in their thick New York accents. Laura Palmer’s Dad kept marching over to the Sharks bench and reaming out his daughters, Paige and Jenna, but it seemed like poor, fuck-up Paige was taking the brunt of it. She just stood there with her head down, shoulders rolled forward, probably wondering when she was going to have time to finish digging her dad’s grave in the woods.

Please, please, please watch this dumb video.

Laura Palmer’s Dad was screaming so hoarsely, that I feared he was going to have a stroke. I was honestly afraid to turn around to see what he looked like while verbally battering the entire Sharks team and officials. I half-expected to catch him deep-throating an entire horse out of unchained anger.

I kept getting misted with Haterade every time he screamed too, so now I can say Laura Palmer’s Dad showered me.

Meanwhile, my brother Corey was texting me because he saw my video on Instagram, so then it became even funnier to me, knowing that it was this funny to Corey, also. You know who definitely didn’t think it was “that funny”? HENRY. I kept texting him with a play-by-play to NO RESPONSE. He was just jealous because he wasn’t there and he probably knew it was only a matter of time before I fell in love with Laura Palmer’s Dad. I mean, he was totally my type. I bet he has sexually harassed an impressive amount of secretaries in his day.

Or Henry was just sleeping.

Laura Palmer’s Dad in a rare moment where his lips were demonstrating what some people might recognize as “a closed mouth.”

What? You guys don’t take shoulder selfies?

The other angry dad is standing next to the guy stroking his chin, who was actually with Laura Palmer’s Dad but not nearly as loud. Occasionally he would bellow “SHARKS!” but I felt like it was more because he didn’t want Laura Palmer’s Dad to be disappointed in him, too.

Here’s one of the twins getting berated.

And the other.

He reallllly wanted them to “contain it,” whatever the fuck that means. And see, that was a big problem, not understanding the game and terminology. I would have to wait for my Sharks peeps to cheer or clap to know how to proceed, but sometimes I was confused because the Passion fans would also be clapping and I thought we hated each other? Anyway, when one of the Sharks got the ball-thing and started booking it down the field with no one close enough to stop her, I knew to stand up and do jump-y things and yell. And I also knew that when things weren’t going our way, to blame the refs. That’s universal. And if I hadn’t known that, Laura Palmer’s Dad would have taught me real fast.

The Passion scored enough times for the speakers to bleed out “Girls, Girls, Girls,” “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” and “Single Ladies.” You know, just in case we forgot we were at a girls football game.

Too bad we were losing pretty good (I guess?) by halftime. I was pissed when we came back from not getting stabbed during our halftime drinks at Jack’s because KRISTY lied to me and we were LATE getting back to a sporting event I don’t even care about, except for when I do, so we had to stand off the field and wait for the quarter thing to end before going back to our dumb bench. THANKS, KRISTY. I was so concerned that we were going to be ostracized from our elite Sharks section. But as soon as the clock turned to 0:00, I speed-walked across the field back to our bench.

“Hurry! I don’t want to get in trouble!” I kept hissing at Kristy. And approximately 3 minutes after I said that, Laura Palmer’s Dad and Other Official-Hating Dad came together to throw a joint temper tantrum so histrionic that the ref literally turned toward us and screamed, “NO! YOU SUCK!” blew his whistle, made a violent motion with his arms, and stomped off the field.

The fucking ref stopped the game and stormed off, you guys. IT WAS FUCKING FANTASTIC!

But….then the Sharks lady (I learned after the game that she is the CEO or CFO or COO or some acronym equally as important) marched over and said sternly, “I told you that you had to knock it off. Ref wants you gone. ALL OF YOU.”

Laura Palmer’s Dad said, “No! You guys stay. I’ll take the hit on this one.” MY MOTHERFUCKING HERO. Oh god, please let me be Laura Palmer’s Dad wife. Oh, who am I kidding. Laura Palmer’s Dad’s penis coozy is good enough for me. He can scream at me to contain the D all night. Yell at me like I’m one of your disappointing twins!

“Ref wants you ALL gone!” Important Sharks Lady repeated. So we all got up and dejectedly walked off the field, Kristy with her rolled-up Sharks poster, basically the entire Cupples Stadium watching.

This is what Womens’ Football Game Ejection looks like.

And just in case one of us was planning on resisting the ref’s request, two cops were sent out to make sure we left peacefully. It was the most ridiculous thing ever and I was so afraid I was going to pee from laughing so hard.

“Womp womp,” Kristy said with mock sadness into her rolled-up poster, and that just made me laugh even harder.

Once we were off the field, we all kind of stood in a cluster, laughing nervously by the concession stand. I was glad to see that Laura Palmer’s Dad was also laughing about it and not snapping metal rods over his legs in fury like I had anticipated.

“Sorry guys,” he said, with a shrug and then he flashed that good old Laura Palmer’s Dad smile at us and I melted. UGH HOW CAN I BE MAD AT THAT.

By then, one of the Passion broads had learned about what happened, so she decided to intervene. I guess because it was the ref who kicked us out and not the actual Passion team, she let us back on the field. They tried once again to get the gate unlocked for us, but then realized no one had the key. So the compromise was to move one of the benches further away from the field and have one of the cops babysit us.

“I feel like a red-headed stepchild,” Laura Palmer’s Dad laughed as he helped drag the bench away from the rest of the benches. Kristy and I opted to sit on his bench rather than return to our original spots, because I wanted him to see that we were IN THIS BITCH TOGETHER.

I just like being a part of things, OK?

Anyway, the game resumed after the ref rubbed the hurt out of his butt, and it didn’t take long for the two dads to get all fired up once again.

“OH NOW HE THROWS A FLAG!” the other dad bellowed, his voice cracking under the weight of the sarcasm.

This was right after the ref called an illegal formation, whatever the fuck that is, and that set off Laura Palmer’s Dad and his Partner-in-Scream-Hemorrhaging all over again, to the point where I thought for sure they were going to cause us to make the 11 o’clock news. FUCK YOU AND YOUR ILLEGAL FORMATION, REF!

Our babysitter.

This lady refused to leave when we got kicked out. I guess that’s her daughter. She popped her shoulder out.

And then, after it was all said and done, Laura Palmer’s Dad STOOD ON THE FIELD, yelling for his daughters’ attention. He was relentless.

I LOVE THAT IN A MAN.

During the final minutes of the game, “Girl On Fire” warbled out of the cheap sound speakers, and we just lost it. I wish they had put as much effort into their concession stand offerings as they did with the girl-centric stadium anthems.

Anyway, the dumb Passion beat the Sharks and I’m 99.999999999999999% sure it was fixed. We hung around after everyone left, watching the Passion do some sloppy Electric Slide thing to a really terrible pop song while the Sharks sat in a slumped huddle and cried. For a girl who hates football, I felt surprisingly really sad. Once the Sharks started to mill around on the field, Kristy and I went over to say goodbye to Katie, who hugged me twice which I thought was really nice of her but I think she was really just using my torso as a Shamwow for her sweat.

“What was going on over there?” she asked us, and we got to giddily tell the story of Laura Palmer’s Dad, a story that I look forward to retelling over and over and over again for the rest of my life.

SHARKS 4 EVA.

I have a story to tell you guys about a football game I went to with my friend Kristy over the weekend, but every time I start writing about it at work, I crack up alone at my desk. Which would have been in the past, but where I sit now is A SUPER QUIET ZONE. So, that story will have to wait until I get home. Until then, here are some photos that have been collecting dust in my phone.

I made this “Fuck Yeah, Breakfast!” painting as a housewarming gift for my friendos, Bill and Jessi. I hope it gets along with their other breakfast art!

Henry bailed on me one day while Chooch was outside playing with the neighbor kids and within 2 minutes he was injured. I called Henry approximately 87 times and then texted him with the 911 but can we please focus on the fact that it took him THIRTY MINUTES to respond to me?!

Henry came home and examined Chooch’s wound and asked me, “Did you even look at this? It’s not a splinter. It’s just a scrape.” Sorry bro, my eyeballs don’t do wound exams.

This is what Marcy does anytime someone wants to play games. Once, many moons ago, that little brat waited until I had finished a 1000+ piece puzzle and then casually jumped on the table and pushed it off onto the floor.

FUCKIN’ ICE CREAM, MAN.

Finishing Chooch’s and his own, as usual.

Henry was nervous when we went to Dell’s for ice cream one night because some guy was there that he knows from work, GOD FORBID, what if Mouth One or Mouth Two embarrasses him.

Celebrated my friends Chris and Monica’s engagement a few weeks ago with vegetarian meatballs at Emporio: A Meatball Joint. That was one good goddamn meatball sandwich, you guys. My brother Corey used to call them “meat ballps” when he was a baby.

I appreciate it when ice cream shops provide spill troughs. Page’s Dairy, you’re A+. Except when you have long lines. Then we will drive past you and go to Dell’s.

We had to wake up Chooch to give him his ice cream and he was such a jerk about it. Dude, we’re waking you up to GIVE YOU ICE CREAM. Shut your face.

Chooch is still going strong with his piano lessons, which just warms my heart. He mentioned a few weeks ago that he wants to take voice lessons too and it just so happens that Bradley Walden, the new (and BETTER THAN JONNY CRAIG) singer for Emarosa, offers voice lessons via Skype, but Chooch got all weird when I suggested it and then later said, “I’m too shy!”

He’s like me when it comes to band guys.

It took 10+ years, but Marcy and her grandma kind of have a relationship now. Judy got to pet her for the first time ever last week and was so excited about it!

OK. Those are my pictures. Now I have to go back to work.

On July 12th, 2005, I was in the car with Henry on the way home from Cleveland, crying because I had just met Anthony Green of Circa Survive. I didn’t know how to tell him how much his band meant to me, and how it had helped to calm down the madness in my head, so instead I mumbled, “You guys were great tonight, will you sign my CD.” So goddamn lame.

I still remember that I was wearing my brother Ryan’s old blue soccer t-shirt that had the name of my Pappap’s drywall company on it. It’s weird what we remember during moments of emotional agony. Oh, haha.

I met a guy at that night at the Grog Shop who told me that Anthony actually gave him his phone number after the guy told him he was suicidal. “I called him one night and he talked me through it,” he told me. “He saved my life.” And if it weren’t for that guy taking me over to meet Anthony after the show that night, I probably would be telling you the story about how I’ve loved Circa Survive since 2005 but have never met Anthony Green.

2005 was a shit year for me: mentally, emotionally, and financially. That May, I experienced what I still to this day believe was a nervous breakdown. Things were just bad. I had nagging thoughts of driving my car off the road. I would go so psycho on Henry that I wouldn’t be surprised if he considered calling in a priest at some point. I actually called a church at one point to seek help, because I didn’t have health insurance and had no idea where else to turn. Janna even had to come and babysit one day after I bit myself, so be thankful if we weren’t friends in 2005, I guess.

But one of the shining points for me, as always, was music. Circa Survive’s debut album, Juturna, came out that June. I had been eagerly awaiting it, after having already been a fan of Saosin, the band that Anthony left to start Circa Survive.

Something about Anthony’s unconventional voice over top the most beautiful music that I had heard in quite some time just really did it for me. It sounded different from everything else that I was listening to back then. It was obsession, and I drove Henry crazy with it, making mix CDs of every single bootleg demo, live recording, B-side I could find of Saosin, Circa Survive, and Anthony’s solo work. It was the Year of Anthony Green and Henry wanted to slit his throat.

That music calmed me down. It helped me think straight. I would take it to the cemetery with me and cry, but they were good tears. And, after three months of not writing due to my nervous breakdown thing, I decided to start writing again.

Juturna reminds me of the beginning of my pregnancy. (Because, yes, let’s cap off one of the most tumultuous, bipolar summers of my life by having a planned pregnancy. Good old inpulsives.) Being so excited to have this child and play “Great Golden Baby” for him. That was my favorite Circa song for a really long time. There are still times when, out of the blue, I hear the line “This changes everything” in my head. If I’ve ever made you a mix CD anytime after 2005, there is a really good chance that there is at least one Circa Survive song on it. I wanted everyone to know them and to love them.

I know, I seem so melodramatic when it comes to this stuff, but this is Truth. This is honestly how I experience music. And I cry every time I write these blog posts, haha!

When Henry and I went to see The Sound of Animals Fighting last March in Philly, that was the first time I had seen Anthony since 2008. I still liked Circa Survive, and I kept up with all their subsequent releases, but if I’m being honest, none of their other albums ever fisted my heart the way Juturna had. But when I saw they were coming to Pittsburgh in July, something inside me said, “You need to go see them again.” So I bought a ticket without hesitating. This show was announced back when I still had my old evening shift at work, and normally I would always ask to work half-day or just take the whole day off before even buying the ticket, but this time, I was like, “I don’t care, I’ll deal with that part later.” Because this was important to me. I’ve been trying to find ways to let go of my 20s, because that was a really bad decade for me, for the most part. And I thought, maybe seeing them again after all this time will help me heal.

It just felt like more than just going to a show. It was something I needed.

Originally, I was going to go alone, but then Henry ended up going with me too because I panicked and didn’t want to be alone. I knew that I was going to cry and I didn’t want to be That Person standing alone and sobbing. So Henry went too and held my hand through most of it. And thank god for that because I felt like my heart was exploding from the moment Circa walked on stage all the way up to when we were in the car leaving.

The opening band was Ume, by the way, and if you love female-fronted bands that are actually fantastic, I suggest that you check them out. It was like the 90s all over again, in a good way. And then while we were waiting for Circa, I noticed a guy standing in front of me, and because I’m obsessed with the Dupree family (please see: Eisley), I thought to myself, “That looks like the back of Garron Dupree’s head.” And then I looked to the left and thought, “Huh.

That looks like Reed Murray. And that looks like Fred Maraschino.” And it turned out it WAS all of them, because they’re all currently in the band Say Anything, who was actually in town the night before, playing at the same venue. So I had a total fangirl moment and thank god Henry was there because he actually knows all of these names by default so I was able to squeal about it and have him understand what was going on.

Interestingly, Say Anything was supposed to be the headliner when I saw Circa Survive for the first time in 2005, but they dropped off the tour after their singer Max Bemis had a mental breakdown. (I can relate.) So it was kind of like this surreal full circle moment for me, knowing that Say Anything was there at Mr. Small’s that night, watching. It’s so awesome when bands support each other.

Then Henry pointed out that Anthony Green had walked right past me during Ume’s set but as usual, I had no idea. This happened like 57 times in Philly too. It’s hilarious to me that Henry, Mr.

I Don’t Give a Shit About These Bands, is always the first one to spot band members.

I don’t really know what words can do justice to the show itself, other than saying it was like a religious experience for me. Anthony Green is one of the great voices of my generation, and it always feels like an honor to be in his presence. And unlike Jonny Craig, he is a NICE GUY. Here’s a singer who kicked an addition, married a great girl and made two beautiful sons. He’s an inspiration, and an example that some singers can be charismatic without also having God complexes.

(Ahem, Craig Owens.)

All Anthony has to do is whisper “Come” into the mic while making a beckoning motion with his hands, and the room literally lurches toward the stage like a horde of Palestinians throwing themselves at Jesus’s feet.

I used to try to hold back tears at concerts, but then I finally realized that it feels so much better to just let it go. So…my face was pretty wet that night.

^^^This song. Me = gutted. The “Don’t stop talking to me, I haven’t been listening” part used to be what I used for my mom’s ringtone. You know, back when I had her number in my phone. When they played that part last week, my legs turned to Jello.

They played for about 2 hours and totally satisfied my Juturna cravings.

It was the perfect set list, the perfect night, and the perfect way to say goodbye to the ghosts of 2005.

I love this fucking band so much.

Saturday night’s Artifex Pereo show was at Mahall’s, a vintage-y bowling alley in Lakewood, OH. Henry and I have never been to this particular venue before, so we utilized our typical “walk in and stop abruptly, looking confused and lost” method of entering a building. So goddamn awkward. Merch was set up right by the door, so we at least felt confident that we were in the right place. Then we figured out where Will Call was set up, used the bathroom, and then proceeded to pick up right where we left off: standing in the way and looking like yokels.

I was so stoked on the bathroom that I had to take a picture for my friend Alyson, who LOVES LOOS. In fact, when were checking out places to have my baby shower back in 2006, I sent her a picture of the bathroom at the place we chose, because I knew she would down with it. And she was!

After lurking like creeps, we made our way into the room where the show was going to happen. It was small, with limited seating, and all of the bands’ gear was strewn about along the back walls. No matter where we stood, I felt totally in the way, but then Henry put a can of cider in my hand and I quickly quit caring.

Henry with his second mason jar beverage of the day. Look at his dumb mouth. Hyuk, hyuk.

There were two local bands that opened: A Work of Fiction and Slow To Speak. I liked them both, but I totally fell in love with Slow To Speak and found myself openly weeping several times. They moved me. And I promise you it wasn’t the cider talking. (Or weeping.) They played honest, beautiful music that I kept getting lost in. For real, one second I was standing in the back of Mahall’s, the next, I was floating somewhere far away from Henry and his stupid mason jar. I love when a band doesn’t need gimmicks and can rely solely on their gorgeous song-writing. Simple, uncluttered and raw. I implore you to check them out. Don’t be a bitch:

And hey, if you liked that—PASS IT ON! Like them on Facebook! Go see them if they come to your town! These guys deserve the recognition.

Henry didn’t mind them (that’s considered a “good” review in the Henry Music Magazine) and the only opinion he really contributed was that their drummer resembled our friend Lisa’s husband Matt. At least I know he was vaguely paying attention.

The next band was Icarus the Owl. I was stoked that they were on this tour because they’re my kind of band: that perfect combination of frenetic, poppy and melodic pandemonium. There are times when the singer reminds of me of another band that I used to FUCKING LOVE: Armsbendback (RIP, great band). And, like Armsbendback (shout out to Twin Peaks!), it was their name that originally made me want to check them out awhile back. Icarus the Owl is a great interest-sparking band name.

I’m surprised I didn’t beat myself black and blue with all the hard thigh-slapping they were subconsciously making me do.

Meanwhile, the room was filling up with more and more people in Envoi shirts, and that’s when it occurred to me that, in spite of the band order on the tour poster, Envoi was going to headline that night’s show since it was a homecoming for them. And judging by the amount of older people in attendance, it was pretty clear that there were a lot of family members, which I thought was kind of adorable, and of course this made me start daydreaming of Chooch being in a band someday. Sigh. My luck, it’ll be a Kenny Chesney cover band.

You have no idea how bad I want him to be in a band. But, you know, a good one.

It was finally time for Artifex Pereo and Henry made fun of me for not knowing that basically the whole band was standing next to me throughout the night (one of them was right behind me, and I only found out after I checked Instagram real quick between sets and saw that the Artifex Pereo account posted a picture of the stage from the back of the room and the back of my dumb head was RIGHT THERE). I’m sorry, but I don’t always know what bands look like! I’m not that type of groupie, I mean, person.

I made Henry move up closer to the stage right before they started and one thing you should know about Henry is that he HATES being close to stages, but he silently obliged because he knows to pick his battles wisely. (I would have just moved up without him, but you know how I like to be his puppeteer.)

And then they started. You guys, I was stunned. I don’t know why I was surprised, because their album is aural perfection to me, but seeing them up there on that stage and hearing the beautiful music they were making together, it honestly took my breath away. I’m going to just go ahead and say that from my perspective, they were utterly flawless. Every syllable that fluttered out of Lucas’s throat was pitch perfect and grabbed me by the proverbial balls. I could not take my eyes off that stage. I didn’t take any pictures or video because I absolutely felt frozen in place.

When they played “Hands of Penance?” Don’t even get me started. I think it was the first time that tranquil crowd showed any signs of life all night. It was like everyone was ignited and recognizing that they were witnessing a Really Great Band before them. Lucas’s vocal gymnastics is like a perfectly blended compound butter melting atop a rich, instrumental Wagyu steak. (I watch a lot of Master Chef, Ok?) Their sound translates flawlessly from album to stage.

It felt like the shortest goddamn set ever, and I wanted a pitch fork to raise up to the ceiling while chanting “BRING ME MORE MUSIC, SON!”

I need to see them again, immediately. Please, please, please: GO SEE THIS BAND. And do it soon, while they’re still playing intimate venues, because I’m pretty sure they’re going to explode.

Usually Henry says noncommittal things like “They weren’t bad” or “Eh” when I ask him if he liked a show, but after Artifex Pereo, he said, “They were good. I liked them.”

They earned the Henry Seal of Approval! Usually it takes a band 8 years for that accomplishment. (See: The Used, Dance Gavin Dance, Chiodos, Circa Survive.)

I’ve already posted Artifex Pereo songs on this blog before so now it’s time for everyone to just go out and buy their album.

My family and I used to go to Wildwood, NJ every summer and there was this one dark ride-type attraction that had a recording of a ringmaster yelling enticing things to get people to come over, and then he would command, “Run, don’t walk!” My dad would mock that recording endlessly, and then for weeks after vacation he would bust out with a theatrical “Run! Don’t walk!” for every last mundane thing. Like, dinner time: “Run! Don’t walk!” And that’s what I want you guys to do to buy this album: “RUN! DON’T WALK!” But considering you’re probably going to buy it online and are already in front of a computer, then pretend your fingers are your legs. Run those fingers across the keyboard to iTunes, Amazon, Tooth & Nail, wherever you buy your music.

The headliner of the tour was The Orphan, The Poet, whom we have seen a year ago when they opened for Dance Gavin Dance and I drunkenly shadow-danced with the singer on the way to the bathroom and then obviously imprinted with him. Anyway, I like their music but for some reason they don’t hold my attention. Henry doesn’t like them at all, but please see the part where I imprinted with the singer.

And as I mentioned earlier, Envoi got to close out the night with their set, which I guess is because they’re from Cleveland and a pretty big deal there. Since it was already 11pm and we had a two hour drive ahead of us, Henry and I decided to leave before they started and I was pretty bummed about it because even though I’ve seen them before, they have a new singer now (a girl, and she’s actually good!) and are essentially an entirely different band from when I saw them open for Craig Owens in 2011 (also in Cleveland). I have a feeling we’re going to be hearing a lot more from Envoi though, so I’m sure I’ll get to see them again soon.

I bought an Artifex Pereo shirt and wristband on the way out and even while Henry was swearing loudly because he took the wrong road out of Cleveland (happens EVERY time), I was in such a happy place. It might sound dumb, but I felt really incredibly lucky to have had the chance to see such a memorable show in that perfect little room. I hope it never stops feeling like that.

Throwback to last Friday when my son wasn’t acting like a 2-year-old crack baby who had just been uncaged in front of a bunch of my co-workers and making me want to melt into a puddle of humility. Apologies to you, my work friends. Sigh.

We let him experiment with some colored hair gel to see if he wants to dye his hair for real. Henry was all, “I’m not going through the hassle of bleaching his hair just for him to change his mind.” I love that Henry just knows this would be his responsibility.

Contrary to popular belief, this is not actually our house in front of which Chooch is posing.

Ours is a little smaller.

****

Still collecting my thoughts on the two shows I went to this past week. Hopefully tomorrow I will slap together a muzik post. Maybe you’ll read it. Maybe you won’t. I probably won’t find out. (BUT MAYBE I WILL.)

You guys, I’m so excited to tell you about my friend Kendahl‘s brand new line of nail polish: Firecracker Lacquer! It was just officially launched for public consumption on July 1, but I have smugly been modeling a select few colors for a couple months now because I got it like that. And let me just tell you, I have squealed every time more arrived in the mail!

Ah, the benefits of having talented friends, you know?

And because Kendahl is so generous, she has offered to give away two bottles of the winner’s choice, right here on this old blog!

DISCLAIMER: I’m not exactly world-renown for my polish swatching skills. The below pictures are casual examples of how you can work various shades, but if you would like to see better representations, please check out Firecracker Lacquer on Etsy! The swatches there are gorgeous and professional-looking and not like someone let their club-handed, blind milkmaid paint their nails for them. (I’m just always in a hurry, OK!?)

So here you will find PINK! over top of some random Sephora brand green. I love PINK! as a topper because it works over pretty much anything and it’s so PINK and sparkly, like Barbie’s hopes and dreams all ground-up and paper-shredded and crammed into a bottle. Every time I wear it, I feel like I’m going to a birthday party but then I remember I don’t have any friends. :(

Just kidding. I have a few that I found on Craigslist.

Oh man, this one is my favorite. A planetary homage, it’s called Your Mom I Thought I Was Big Enough, a beautiful shimmery mauve exploding with multi-colored glitter. Here I have it over top of a Sephora brand black and the dimensions on this polish is staggering. It has a different look depending on which why the light hits it and sometimes I get distracted and will catch myself sitting there, tilting my hand from one side to the other, watching the color shift. Over black, it’s like a ready-to-go galaxy mani.

Here’s the official description, because I don’t know all that fancy polish lingo:

Your Mom Thought I Was Big Enough is a multi-chrome lacquer, shifting through blue, purple, orange, and red. It’s also got a smattering of linear holographic as well as some holographic glitter.

It does shift! I really does do that and it’s so incredible to watch. I hear that this is a dream over top navy blue, also.

Here it is with no base color, alongside Punked on my accent nail. It reminds me of a chiffon dress that someone might wear to a Golden Girls-themed dance. That color just screams BLANCHE DEVEREAUX to me for some reason.

And here we have Frosting over top of a Sephora brand pink. It works best as a topper, but I wore a couple coats of it with no base and it was just as glorious. It’s like wearing crushed diamonds on my fingertips! Flashy enough for Rihanna to wear to Barbados, yet still classy to wear to a funeral. (I guess?) Jesus says so.

I tried to get Henry to let me paint his nails last night, but he was like, “Seriously? I think I do enough for you.” So I gave him a reprieve for this go-around. Then I spent all morning at work hounding Glenn to be my hand model but he doesn’t like having fun. He did seem mildly interested in the polishes though and even picked one up for closer examination on one of his walks past my desk. Just give in to it, Glenn.

(If this is your first time visiting the garbage dump of words that is Oh Honestly, Erin, Glenn is my work frenemy and I’m constantly on the prowl for new ways to make his days suck. I’m a good person.)

My work friend Nate was much more agreeable and offered up a fingernail to be slathered with Crawlin’ Queen. Nail polish remover was provided, but he decided to leave it on so he could show it off in an afternoon meeting. THAT IS A REAL MAN. Take some notes, Glenn.

I really think Crawlin’ Queen is a great polish for a man: the gray is just masculine enough to complement the lovely blue and pink speckles. It’s so CREAMY. I’m sure Nate will agree.

OK, now for the part where WINNING is involved. If you would like to try your hand at winning two bottles of this brand new line of nail polish, just fill out the form below.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

The giveaway starts NOW and will run until Monday, July 14th, where I will pick a winner at the arbitrary hour of 7PM EST. Please make sure you include a valid email address when you enter, so that I won’t accidentally be emailing some Appalachian manure packager to see what two polishes he would like. But hey, your loss, his gain!

This is my “Going on a Date-Thing” face, I guess. Fake smile? Check. Vacant eyes? Double check. DON’T LOOK TOO EXCITED, ERIN.

When I asked Henry to go to Cleveland with me to see a show on July 5th, I figured we would do our usual routine of leaving home with just enough time to maybe grab some quick food before the show. But instead, Henry planned all on his own to leave Pittsburgh at noon so we could have a full day of “quality” time together.

Haha, quality time.

Of course, everything was fine until we parked the car downtown Cleveland and realized that every restaurant we had considered eating at was closed until 5pm. So that set off my internal hunger time bomb and I got real attitudinal with Henry, but he’s used to that, so it’s not like we broke up or anything. (Except we did. But not on Facebook this time, so it’s cool.)

Henry, searching for our wandering waiter.

We ended up at this new-ish soul food joint downtown called Stonetown. I was unimpressed with the name, but it was the colorful chalkboard sign outside alerting us to the home cookin’ desserts they were offering that drew me in. The menu on the door said FRIED GREEN TOMATOES and CANDIED YAMS so I turned to Henry and said, “This. This is the place. I can feel it in my heart.”

But Henry wanted to keep looking, which made me panic because it was already 3pm and I wanted to have time to go and look at the lake. (“For what?” Henry sighed, and I was like, “YOU KNOW HOW I LIKE TO SIT BY WATER.” I mean, do I, though? Not really. But I thought it could be romantic-like and lord knows we need some of that shit up in our lives.)

Anyway, I threw a micro fit and we turned around after a block and went back to Stonetown. Right before we walked inside, some man said to me, “Hey I saw you guys looking at the menu before and I just want you to know that I just ate there and it was really good.”

Oh OK, thanks guy.

And then his two friends were like, “THE CHICKEN WAS GOOD, YALL” and then the first guy was like, “The service is…kind of slow…but the food is worth it.”

So we went in and the hostess immediately hated us, except that I think she just hates everyone because she never smiled at anyone. I watched.

The table we were seated at was wobbly and Henry was 100% fixated on it. At one point, he got down on the ground under the table and I shit you not, I thought he was going to whip out a screwdriver, but it turned out he was just picking up his napkin.

But still, what a typical white person thing to complain about.

Anyway, my whole intention of going there in the first place was for CANDIED YAMS and SWEET POTATO PIE but they were fucking out of CANDIED YAMS and then I got too filled up on fried green tomatoes, Hoppin’ Johns (that’s black eyed peas for all you dumb white people out there), collard greens (which turns out I don’t like) and FRIED OKRA to have any room left for SWEET POTATO PIE.

Sorry, my inner soul girl is making me use all caps. We likes our food soulful, y’all.

And for fuck’s sake, service was slow as…what do they say in the south, molasses, right? Yeah, service was as slow as that shit. It took us so long to get our check that my skin was starting to twitch. Hi, we had shit to do, not go home and lay in a hammock while drinking sweet tea from another fucking mason jar.

Meanwhile, the couple behind threw a fit because the broad didn’t know how to read the menu right and her fried chicken came with grits (which Henry also got and had some alarming sexual experience with them right there at the table) and she didn’t want grits, she wanted something else, and the waitress tried to explain that there was a $1.50 upcharge for side subsitutions in that situation and the bitch lady was all, “BITCH THEN I DON’T WANT THIS” and shoved her plate back at the waitress, who was about half a second away from losing her shit, god bless her.

So the waitress sighed and said, “Fine, just pay for your drinks then,” and it was really depressing watching the waitress take these two plates of untouched food and scrape everything into a garbage can. People are such wasteful assholes sometimes and it makes me so angry. Perfectly good food, in the garbage, because some bitch ass pig wanted to argue over a dollar and fucking fifty cents.

I WAS SO ANGRY.

But at least I wasn’t HANGRY anymore. Regular angry is more tolerable for those around me.

Anway, it’s a good thing I didn’t have room for dessert because we probably would have missed the show. Fucking molasses-ass service. The food was decent enough that I would maybe go back if I had absolutely nothing else to do and nowhere else to be. But only because I want that damn SWEET POTATO PIE, ugh.

Naturally, I had room for ice cream after approximately 3 minutes of leaving Stonetown, but Henry was being a twatbucket and wouldn’t stop at any of the ice cream places in the vicinity, and then had the audacity to say we didn’t have time to walk to the lake, so instead we had to DRIVE to a different part of the lake a little ways out of the city. It was this little park area that had a snack booth offering the most basic softserve of all time, so I complained about that too. No, I wasn’t hangry again, I was just being my normal brat-self.

Things improved about 20 minutes later when we arrived at the venue in Lakewood (Mahall’s) and still had about an hour to kill.

So we walked around and discovered that we were a block away from the Museum of Divine Statues that we visited last summer! For as many times as I have been to Cleveland and its surrounding neighborhoods, I still have no directional bearings. It was a real “connect the dots” moment for me.

We ended up discovering this no-name junk store, which I had seen from the car and felt pretty confident that it was going to end up being a bust, but I still wanted to at least check it out for a minute. The proprietor and his helper were sitting on the front stoop, painting a chair.

“Are you open?” Henry asked.

“Yeah, you can go on in,” the man said, flashing one of those avuncular “You can trust me little girl, get into my car” smiles that always make me nervous. Because I’ve been kidnapped so many times.  “Maybe you can find something in that mess,” he laughed as we stepped inside. Literally, there were just piles of things and stuff and furniture and mismatched earrings. I felt claustrophobic and panicked and nothing was really catching my eye (I am terrible at thrifting—one cursory glance and I’m done) so we started to trip and stumble our way back to the door just as the owner came in and leaned in front of it.

“Did you guys get to watch any of the fireworks last night?” he asked casually.

And in my best deer-in-headlights, please-don’t-kill-us voice, I said, “NO WE’RE FROM PITTSBURGH.”

“OK,” he laughed. “Do they have fireworks in Pittsburgh?

” he asked, slightly patronizing me. And then, thanks to my big mouth telling him where we live, he proceeded to spend the next 45 minutes talking to us, starting with the fact that he was a driver for an envelope company and his route for 27 years was in Pittsburgh because no  one else wanted it since it’s so hard to drive there. (Is it? I guess I wouldn’t know since HENRY is always driving.)

“You had to tell him we’re from Pittsburgh,” Henry whispered. I was starting to feel like I was in captivity at this point, like it was some fucked up junk store version of Wolf Creek and I was about to be impaled by an antique bicycle spoke so that someday my dried out hide can reupholster a 1964 bar stool. I just got that feeling from him, that’s all.

After hearing about how Ed (he’d tell us later this was his name) is a part-time pastor and how refridgerators just aren’t built as well as they used to be, Henry interrupted him to ask about an amber swag lamp hanging in the corner.

I HADN’T EVEN SEEN IT. See what I mean? Thrifting is not my forte.

Ed told us we could have it for $40, totally an easy sale. I love midcentury things so much!

As Ed was writing up our receipt, I asked him if he ever comes across any old wheelchairs.

He snapped his head up and looked at me. “Nah,” he said, shaking his head and laughing.

WHY IS THIS SO WEIRD?!

But then he started thinking about it and decided that I should give him my number and he’ll call me if he ever comes across any. (Henry thinks he just wanted my number in general and has asked me chidingly every day since then if my new boyfriend Ed has called yet.)

(No. No, he has not.)

I thought we had escaped, but Ed followed us out of the store and continued to talk to us for another fifteen minutes and my skin started doing that twitching thing again. Maybe he should get a job at Stonetown.

And then his sidekick, this Amish-y looking man who spoke only in grunts, I’m not joking, slowly approached me, pointed at my purse and started to grunt. I looked down and realized that my purse wasn’t zipped up all of the way, so thank you, Wolf Creek Sidekick.

We finally broke free and walked super fast back to the car before any vintage weapons were flung at us. Just kidding, Ed was a gem and I’ll definitely stop back next time I’m in town. Especially now that he knows the shit I collect.

Seriously though, totally worth the 45 minutes of small talk in a dusty junk store. And so was our date day. Sometimes you need to get away from the back-talkin’ children, you know? Bonus points if a concert is included. We even held hands for maybe a second.

Alternately titled The Purge: Brookline

Henry and I drove back from Cleveland after the show Saturday night and were a few blocks away from home when Henry pointed out the window and said, “Oh look, a drunk guy on our street. What a shocker.”

It was about 2:30am by this time, and I had been fighting to keep my eyes open pretty much the whole drive home (I always force myself to stay awake out of solidarity to Driver Henry, so stop saying I’m a bad girlfriend). But since this drunk guy was staggering only a few blocks from our house, I decided I could postpone collapsing onto my bed for a couple more minutes so I could feed my disgusting addition of clandestinely recording strangers.

Also known as: being a creepy stalking motherfucker.

Henry was not OK with this and kept telling me to stop, but thank god my penchant for being a dickhead won out because that guy ended up falling in front of my house, right onto the street.

We could hear the thud of head against concrete from our house, and Henry immediately called 911. Drink Guy was still breathing, but he was knocked out for several minutes. I was terrified that a car was going to smash him into a puddle of guts and vodka, but thankfully my neighbor’s parked car was blocking him from oncoming traffic. Still, he was pretty far out into the street.

He started to wake up right as Henry was finishing up the 911 call.

“You done?” he kept slurring, trying to pick up his head. “You done? We done here? ‘Scuse me.” Then he started to sit up and Henry told him to take it easy.

“You done?” Drunk Guy mumbled again, using the telephone pole to pull himself up. It’s sad that we live in a world where Henry and I were too afraid to offer the guy a hand, because god only knows if he’d turn volatile. There was already one fatal stabbing in Brookline earlier that day*. ON MY STREET, TOO! So we just stood there, helplessly watching him struggle to his feet.

*(Oh, and also someone got shot in the shoulder on Brookline Boulevard about an hour before we came home from Clevelend. I mean, what ever happened to just spending 4th of July weekend blowing yourself up with black market fire crackers?)

Henry pointed out that the man had some blood on the back of his head.

“You done? We done here? I’m going home.” he repeated again, like some drunk baby toy.

“You ARE home,” Henry said to him, using his creepy ‘I’m Teasing a Child’ tone.

“Why are you talking to him like you’re his kidnapper?” I asked. Meanwhile, the guy had steadied himself on his feet long enough to take off down the sidewalk.

“Follow him,” Henry sighed, calling 911 again.

Friends (and enemies), I am so grateful that this idiot was on foot and not behind a wheel. I’m just really not a fan of drunks. Stay the fuck home if you want to drink yourself to death.

Drunk Guy staggered at a quick pace down the sidewalk and then ran into the street, right in front of a car, for fuck’s sake. All I wanted to do was go the fuck to sleep, not witness vehicular homicide. By the grace of the god, the guy managed to make it safely to the other side of the street, where he collapsed on the steps of a nearby church. I stood and watched from a distance, making sure he stayed there so I would know where to direct the first responders, who were thankfully quick to arrive. I saw the firetruck idle next to Henry, who sent them my way. I pointed to the church steps and then went home. Too bad adrenaline prevented me from achieving the state of sleep that I had been craving for the last 3 hours.

“Hey, what did say to the firetruck people?” I asked Henry as we got ready for bed. God forbid I should miss anything!

“Firetruck people?” he repeated in a patronizing tone. “They’re called firefighters, Erin.”

Anyway, that’s the story of how I ended up babysitting a drunk stranger.

****

Brookline exploded again the next afternoon, starting with a landlord/tenant dispute two houses down that began with a simple disagreement over lawn-mowing and culminated into a screaming match and a visit from the motherfuckin’ popo. This sparked my other neighbors to emerge from their house and talk loudly about how our landlord has “another thing coming” and I’m like, “Can we wait until I move? Can we also not stand in my front yard while shit-talking the land lord?”

Meanwhile, some older gentleman slowly biked past our house and screamed, “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU AND YOUR DOG” to my neighbor who thinks the landlord has another thing coming, who was standing in the yard with his dog. This prompted said neighbor to scream, “COME BACK HERE AND FIGHT ME YOU FUCKING FAGGOT” so yay, now we have delightful slurs happening in front of the children, too.

And then an hour later, a neighbor on the street behind our house paid us a visit because OUR SON threw a rock and broke one of his garage windows. Luckily, Henry and the neighbor remained cool-headed and even shook hands and laughed about it, because that is how normal people handle confrontation.

I mean, that sucks it even happened—bad Chooch, bad! But thank god Chooch was the perp and not our landlord-hating neighbor’s son, who was the accomplice, because the police would have probably had to come back since that family is incapable of handling things peacefully. That’s all they do all day is scream: parents screaming, kids screaming, dogs screaming. They’re like a goddamn Yinzer screamo band.

So that’s how our weekend ended: Henry having to pay to have a window replaced and our son grounding himself and putting himself to bed without dinner at 7PM. (I mean, I was just going to be like, “Stop throwing rocks, dumbass!” but whatever gets it done, son.) Henry and I just kind of sat numbly on the couch for the rest of the night. I think it’s safe to say that buying a house not on this street is our #1 priority at this point.

And that’s the story about that time Brookline broke.

I loved Frankenmuth so much that I’m already dreaming of my next visit, where I will definitely be staying in the Bavarian Inn and inviting all my Michigan playas out for some water slide and schnitzel action. I might even want to write my own travel guide for Frankenmuth because that’s clearly what the world needs: some obscene version of Fodor’s full of sex analogies and dirty motels.

However, Chooch was NOT a fan. Which isn’t surprising because really nothing we did there that afternoon was kid-oriented, because four against one. It wasn’t until the next morning when I learned that the visitor center had some kind of Find the Gnome action, where kids have to go around and, you know, find the gnomes, for a prize.

Whoops.

Oh, wait there were horse-drawn carriage rides that had him dangerously close to throwing a fit, but they were $40 and this was no romantic getaway, boy.

Chooch, running away after terrorizing Bill in the Frankenmuth Visitor Center bathroom.

Looking for awnings off of which to smack Chooch’s face.

Ah, the goddamn Cheese Haus, home of chocolate cheese. I sampled the mint chocolate variety and was floored by how much I liked it so I bought a chunk of it and tried it once since then but I guess it only tastes good in Frankenmuth, because my second impression was “What was I thinking?”

Also, this is where I had to teach my select learning disabled son not to motherfucking double dip with store samples or, you know, EVER unless you and your fucking cheese dip live alone. Don’t worry, people who were in Frankenmuth that day: I grabbed his wrist right before he was able to complete that dreaded second dip.

You guys, I think someone shot the Zehnder’s chicken in the face.

My peeps. Coincidentally, I found out that Jessi used to play the accordion when she was a kid so now I’m going to need her to relearn this for my entertainment. Also, she could come in handy when Chooch is ready for me to be his post-hardcore band stage mom. Having an accordion player is surefire way to set them apart from the rest of the bands at Warped Tour.

We can make this work, you guys. It’ll be hot.

And of course we visited the Lager Mill, where we took a tour of their brewing memorabilia and I made Henry buy me and Jessi a bottle of chocolate peanut butter wine, which we drank that night over a frivolous game of Cards Against Humanity, and yes, we let Chooch play because…frivolties.

Another successful moment in parenting.

…is it time to come back, yet?

Henry and I are going to Cleveland for the Artifex Pereo show today. They’ve been around since 2009 but parted ways with their singer after their first release, so they never got to tour. Now they have a new singer, a new album, and finally: a tour!  I have been really looking forward to this because Artifex Pereo has bowled me over with their latest release and I predict big things happening for them in the future. So yes, Henry, I need to go see them now while they’re playing at a bowling alley in Cleveland. Thank you for understanding.

(FYI: Those other bands on the bill are no slouches, either.)

Chooch is staying at his aunt Kelly’s and Henry and I are planning on leaving around noon so we can, OMG, walk around Cleveland and pretend like we’re a real life couple, doing couple-y things like driving around aimlessly for parking spots and arguing over where to eat.

And then on Monday, I’m going to see Circa Survive here in Pittsburgh (and I didn’t have to request a half day of PTO at work since I work DAYLIGHT HOURS NOW, what!)  so my soul is basically fucking engorged with joy. I know it seems like no big deal, but I haven’t been to a show since that fucking Jonny Craig shit fest in Allentown last May and I am like, dying over here. Bring me the music and put it in my goddamn ears.

Please enjoy an Artifex Pereo jam, and if it makes your heart feel pretty things like it does mine, considering purchasing their album. Here is a handy link!

It’s that time of year again, friends: AnthroCon a/k/a Furry Season! Honestly, it just hasn’t gotten old yet. I love that they have chosen Pittsburgh as their mecca.

I got stuck working the late shift today, which ended up being OK because Henry and Chooch wanted to come downtown after I got off work to do some furry-hunting.

It’s kind of a tradition by now.

If you’ve ever met Chooch in real life, you probably know that he’s pretty outgoing. But you should see him around furries. He gets shy.

SHY.

S-H-Y.

Verklempt, if you want to be fancy about it.

He loosened up a little bit after playing fetch with this dog.

I think the furries can sense that Chooch is one of them. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about that. It’s almost like they target him, like they can smell his inner fur.

ZOMBIE FURRY, YES! I was in love with this one.

I wish I had gotten a video of this, but someone had a dog with them who was going NUTS watching a furry high-five a little boy (I think maybe the dog belonged to the boy). It was hilarious because the dog was so confused and angry and acting all GET AWAY FROM MY HUMAN, YOU FAKE DOG-THING! I guess I never thought about how furries must seem from a dog’s perspective.

SEE?! Furry-watching is basically a brain-boosting activity.

These two were so awkward and it took them forever to position themselves for this picture. I mean, shouldn’t they be used to having their picture taken by now? They must be n00bs.

I don’t know why, but this furry reminded me of my brother Corey.

I sent him this picture and he was like, “Um, I assume you mean the one in the green hoodie and not that lady with a tail.” I mean, obvi! I don’t know, they’re both tall and kind of stand the same way, so…easy connection.

Skunk/badger thing creeped me out a little.

This dude came over and just posed like that randomly.

It took Chooch a million minutes to work up the nerve to approach this one. After I took their picture together, they high-fived each other, and right as the…

cheetah? WTF is that thing?…started to walk away, Chooch lunged at it and gave it a hug.

Then he ran back to me with his hands over his flushed face.

He’s so fucking ridiculous.

Then we went to Eat n Park on the way home, where I made Chooch cry by insisting that he actually came from a sewer, not from me. Another successful day of parenting.

It might seem weird since I’m a vegetarian and all, but what I was most looking forward to in Frankenmuth was eating at one of their famous Bavarian chicken joints. There are two to choose from: Bavarian Inn and Zehnder’s, and they supposedly HATE each other. My friend Michelle told me that the two families basically built Frankenmuth so no matter which place we picked, it would be a big deal.

I mean, if you’re like me and give a shit about these things.

Zehnder’s and the Bavarian Inn really are right across from the street from each other, but there were no picketers or chicken dinner sabotage that I could see. No one was egging each other’s windows or passing out derogatory flyers. But since Roadside America mentions their rivalry, I know it must be true. I just wish it was more blatant and spectator sporty.

I personally wanted to eat at Bavarian Inn, because it just had more of a Black Forest aesthetic to me, but Bill kept piping up with the merits of Zehnder’s, which just looked like some dumb colonial slab and not at all lederhosen-y. Turns out Bill might have eaten there once sometime in his liftetime and I think he forgot to tell us the part about how a Zehnder’s busboy saved him from choking on their world famous chicken dinner so now he feel indebted to them.

But then Jessi mentioned that she has eaten at the Bavarian Inn before and liked it, so PRAISE JESSI, we settled on the Bavarian Inn because girls rule! There was no blantant anti-Zehnder’s propaganda inside the doors of the BavInn (my new, sweet pet name for it), but I should have at least wrote “for loose bowels, call Zehnder’s” in one of the bathroom stalls. Ah, hindsight.

Fuck you, Zehnder’s.

I want shutters like that on my imaginary never-house. 

I anticipated a long wait, since this  seemed like the type of place that was like the Disneyworld of Old Country Buffets* for elderly tourists, but we had a table within 15 minutes!  And even had a scantily-clad Bavarian beefcake entertaining us with an accordion. (I mean, he was showing a lot of thigh and calf, but not a lot of below-knee, because that was covered with a modest swath of wool.)

*BavInn isn’t even a buffet so I have no idea why I wrote that, other than the fact that it’s 150 degrees in my house.

I told Chooch that this place was going to be like the Hooter’s of Frankenmuth, with Bavarian boobs spilling out of corseted beer garden dresses. Partially because I was trying to get him stoked on eating there (he’s at that age, guys; boobs are everything), and also because that’s what it looked like in my hopes and dreams. Turns out the waitresses’ costumes were way more modest than the accordion player and his scandalous leg-skin.

There was no cleavage to be had. Not even of the accidental variety.

Back to being a vegetarian: I was pleasantly surprised that the Bavarian Inn had an entire vegetarian menu! Bill said he only asked for it because he overheard someone in front of him asking for it. It wouldn’t have even crossed my mind to ask because places like that usually don’t cater to my kind and I was fully prepared to just get some side dishes but instead I got to have vegan chili and BY GEORGE it was fucking great. It had quinoa and perfect little cubes of sweet potatoes and was just a true delight my tongue even though I can’t imagine a real Bavarian eating that on their lunch break at the cuckoo clock factory.

It didn’t matter, because I still ordered a side of SPAETZEL. You guys, spaetzel. That is my ultimate comfort food because my Pappap, whose family was from Austria, made a huge pot of these buttery Alpine dumplings every Christmas and they were just spectacular. After he died, my mom tried to carry the torch but they just never tasted quite right. And then I asked Henry to make them one year for Thanksgiving but his came out really small and pathetic because he doesn’t have any of the good European regions in his genes, I guess. I  mean, I still ate them of course because anything coated in that much butter is still going to taste rad. But I just haven’t had any as good as my Pappap’s, not since 1995.

And these noodleturds were by no means bad! Bavarian Inn has their shit together but these were just seasoned in a way that deviated from my Pappap’s spaetzel perfection. I still ate the ever-loving fuck out of them though. Why wouldn’t I?

Can we talk about our amazing waitress Kristi for a minute? Chooch spilled his lemonade all over the table so she swooped in and moved us to a clean table right next to us, all without making Chooch feel like a heel for being a normal 8-year-old who spills things in restaurants. And she brought us copious amounts of this delicious sweet bread (bread that’s sweet, not sweetbreads) which we enjoyed with ridiculously magical homemade strawberry jam. And our lunches were delayed so Kristi also brought us out bowls of German potato salad, coleslaw and something else that I forget now, but it was all perfect and made me want to book a Globus tour ASAP.

Chooch was really anxious to sayeth Prayers from the Psalms before he ateth his chickeneth. (Everyone at the table got chicken, because duh—Bavarian Inn is world famous for that shit. Maybe one day they’ll be renown for their faux-chicken too. Now I wish I had ordered the fake chicken patty on pretzel bun. Oh well, there’s always next summer when we go back and stay at the Bavarian Inn, because yes, they have a huge resort-y hotel too. WITH WATERSLIDES.)

My second favorite part of the experience (hello: Spaetzel #1) was when I mused out loud about the comfort of the waitresses’ dresses and then a few minutes later, upon Kristi’s return to our table with more iced tea for Henry, Bill asked her what might have been the creepiest thing she had been asked by a man all day:

“Excuse me, but is your dress comfortable?” he asked casually, like he works for Cotton and it’s his job to determine a woman’s comfort as research for the next commercial featuring some random blond actress who can also kind of sing alright.

The Fabric of Our Lives: Dirndl Edition.

“You know,” she said after thinking about it for a few seconds, “it really isn’t too bad. It’s the nylons that drive me nuts, though. I can never wait to get home and peel them off, you know?” And Bill nodded knowingly.

PSHHHHH. You wish, Zehnder’s. In your dreams.

This is the back of the glorious Bavarian Inn. Surely there’s a nook or cranny somewhere in which I can live undetected.

You know I must have been stuffed full of spaetzel when I declined dessert, and they obviously had streudel, you guys. Motherfuck, do I love streudel. My grandma’s side of the family always made some sick streudel.

Streudel and spaetzel. These will be served at my pretend wedding. By Bavarian beer maidens, all named Gretchen.

Jesus, is it any wonder I’m a slut for Bavarian things? My childhood memories practically reek of edelweiss.

Guys, the furries are coming back to Pittsburgh this week! I don’t think the beloved Walrus Royce is attending this year, but I wanted to repost this anyway because he’s awesome, furries are fun, and this was such a great experience for me last summer. 

*****

Weird Al’s version of “Born This Way” plays from an iPod attached to his chest—right next to a fish-shaped necktie—as Royce Cobblepot shuffles and flaps around the lobby of the Westin Hotel. It’s probably as close to dancing as one can achieve while having their hands and feet covered with plush flippers. “I just love Weird Al!” he shouts through a prosthetic snout.

Royce is the popular walrus attendee of Anthrocon, a furry convention held annually in Pittsburgh. In case you recently moved back to civilization from a secluded mountain cult, “furry” is, in the simplest sense, the pet name for a person who has an interest in anthropomorphic animals, which may also culminate in dressing up as a mascot-type animal.

Furries are also sometimes misunderstood, and, being a devoted fan of the (upcoming pun in 3…2…1) underdog, I wanted to spend some time getting to know one, and Royce was kind enough to oblige.

I didn’t register for the convention, so I couldn’t get all of the way inside to check out the panels and members-only events, but Royce was given the go-ahead to answer some of my questions in an effort to shed some positive light on this social subset that most people seem to think is synonymous with sex, like furrydom is the seedy underbelly of the cartoon porn industry; this is all thanks to media outlets like Vanity Fair portraying them on the whole as sex-obsessed. To be quite honest, I had never heard of the furry phenomenon until one fateful day in 2004 when I posted a picture of the Froggy radio station mascot and myself on my LiveJournal and jokingly wondered if there was such a thing as “mascot porn.” Someone commented and said, “Yeah, it’s called ‘being a furry.'” So this tête-à-tête with Royce Cobblepot was just as much to enlighten myself.

The fact is, there are always going to be people who can sexualize anything. It even happens with Harry Potter fandoms, yet people don’t automatically assume that someone who enjoys reading the Potter series must also be into writing fan fiction about Harry and Draco riding each other’s broomsticks during Nude Quidditch matches. And it’s OK to dress up as your favorite superhero and attend Comicon, but as soon as someone suits up as a purple fox and isn’t getting a paycheck for it from an amusement park or ballfield? Alert the sex police.

According to Wikipedia, the subculture is said to have originated at a science fiction convention, not the basement studio of some bored and desperate 1970s porn director looking for a new kink to sell some films. Growing up with a sci-fi novel obsession and love for cartoons with anthropomorphic characters are generally what seem to lure people into furry role-playing as adults. Royce himself credits cartoons and his love of stuffed animals as sparking his interest in anthropomorphism, but it wasn’t until he watched a documentary in 2004 on the The Learning Channel about the subject of animal impersonators that he decided to take his love of animals to the next level, thus seeking out a community where he could talk to other people who shared these interests.

****

In a scene ranging from half-suits (people who choose to wear only ears and tails) to full-blown animal fursuits (foxes, cats, and bears being the most ubiquitous as far as I can tell), it’s rare to see something as unique as a walrus, which was one of the reasons Royce chose this animal as his animal persona, (or ‘fursona’, as they call it)”, after originally joining the furry community as a were-bear named Furio.

“Walruses are such wonderful creatures,” Royce explains proudly as we sit together on a bench in the lobby. “When we see them in movies, they’re always personified as older, dignified gentlemen.” In fact, he was inspired by Karl Malden’s portrayal of the Walrus in the 1985 version of “Alice in Wonderland,” which is my favorite Alice film, so my interest is really piqued at this point. Royce tells me that there is enough furry inspiration culled from Alice in Wonderland that at another furry convention, he headed an entire panel on the subject: Furries in Wonderland.

Another inspiration was Royce’s very own grandma, who has showered him with support. He was even given his grandfather’s cane to accessorize his costume. My grandma only ever supported my body image issues and wavering self-worth, so I’m impressed!

Royce’s walrus get-up was a labor of love, from the donation of the cane to his friends and neighbors assisting with fashioning flippers out of regular old bedroom slippers and oven mitts. Royce worked with a Canadian prosthetic company to create the mask, which fits the contour of his face and moves along with his jaw when he speaks. He only gets the opportunity to don it about four times a year, at various conventions and showings of the Rocky Horror Picture Show in his hometown in Virginia. Royce typically only attends Anthrocon every other year in order to keep his character fresh and novel.

****

Our conversation is interrupted frequently as interested and curious people (even other furries who are presently disrobed of their fursuits) stop to compliment Royce on his get-up and ask for a picture, but I don’t mind because I enjoy watching Royce in his element. I’m also not surprised at the attention he garners, because of the furries I’ve seen around town, Royce is the most unique and eye-catching.

“Thank you so much!” he gushes when I tell him this. “But at the same time, that actually makes me sad.” He explains that while the attention is nice, he doesn’t want anyone to think that he’s better than anyone else out there, because they all work so hard on their personas, even if they only have ears and a tail to show for it. Royce stresses the fact that every furry has something unique about them, and that there is certainly no hierarchy in their community. “We all know that there is still a person under there,” Royce explains, and I find it kind of alluring how much love and respect flows freely within this community. “Everyone here has something to offer: one person is an amazing puppeteer, another person is a veteran. Many people here are involved with wonderful charities. One guy can play the most beautiful music spontaneously, without knowing how to read music, it’s the most incredible thing!” he gushes. So it’s a good thing that Anthrocon has a talent show, in which Royce and some of his friends participate.

Moments later, Royce blurts out, “Oh, wait until you see who’s coming—it’s my nemesis!” and together we watch the revolving door of the hotel as a slender fox in a tophat emerges. “Oh, he’s so dapper!” Royce gushes, and it’s clear that they’re not actually nemeses and that Royce has genuine admiration for the fox’s slick attire. It’s a shame that some people are too busy fixating on the negative aspects of furries instead of enjoying the artistry and ingenuity behind some of these costumes.

****

We’re walking down Liberty Avenue to visit Fernando’s Café, the first furry-friendly establishment in Pittsburgh. Four days a year, you’ll find chalk paw prints leading up to the front door, furry-centric items on the menu, and food served in dog bowls. Their name even temporarily changes to Furnando’s. But that’s not what makes the owner a legend in the Book of Furry: During Anthrocon 2007, Fernando himself stepped up and defended Anthrocon attendees in his restaurant from getting harassed by a local Pittsburgh meathead and wound up taking a brick to the head for it. The furries thanked Fernando later by raising over $20,000 to help him keep his restaurant when he was in danger of losing it. It’s a pretty sweet love story, if you ask me, and Royce wants to stop in to thank them again for their hospitality and support.

En route, we pass a bar on the corner of Liberty Avenue called Tonic, which offers outside seating in the warmer months. “Oh, these people just love us!” Royce says, brandishing a flippered hand toward the presently-empty line of tables. “People sit out there with their drinks and cheer at us and just have so much fun!” I’ve seen it too during the times I’ve hung out in front of the hotel to engage in one of the newer Pittsburgh sports called “Furry-Spotting.” It’s almost become somewhat of a game for downtown professionals to collect photos of themselves engulfed in furry embraces, which inevitably wind up on Facebook. But this is a good thing! Because if my city can (mostly) ignore the naysayers and have fun with it, then that has got to give the furries hope that they can win over others, slowly but surely.

Just outside of the cafe, we run into one of Royce’s best friends, Comus, who has experience in the animation industry. He is on his way to one of the many Anthrocon events taking place in the Convention Center, but is kind enough to stop and briefly chat with us. When I tell Comus that I’m not a furry, he hands me the schedule of activities to peruse, and I’m surprised at how much they jam into these four-day conventions—it’s almost like flipping through a small college course guide. There’s everything from financing (have you seen some of these furry get-ups? they’re not cheap) to Native American totems to puppetry skills. And yes, there is even a panel for all you bronies out there—adult men and women who love and relate to the cartoon series My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic—which excites me because this is a whole other subculture that I find completely fascinating; I’m not shocked that there is a crossover between this phenomenon and furries.

I excitedly mention this to my fur-company, which leads into a brief discussion about the show’s cultural irony and clever adult-relatable storylines, so now I feel like I need to revisit My Little Pony. Because to me, these aren’t much more than plastic ponies I used to get in my Easter basket.

Inside Fernando’s, the walrus-sighting draws out employees from the kitchen. Everyone wants to either talk to Royce or take his picture, further exemplifying the appeal—to be just a regular person, working a regular job, but then have these moments every year when you’re such a hot commodity? I kind of want that. Especially when it quickly dawns on me that I am the only non-furry in this joint. The Fernando’s staff is actually looking at me strangely for not even at least sporting a tail and I have to laugh at the absurdity of the situation—and also marvel at the progression that my city has made in these last eight years of being Furry Headquarters.

While furries are quick to dole out hugs, shrugs, and photo-ops, many choose not to interact verbally with their un-furred fans. Royce, however, gives his walrus a more approachable edge by speaking affably with anyone who stops him.

“I think it puts people at ease,” he explains, after thanking an admirer for his accolades. I think of horror movie icons like Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees, mute behind their masks and communicating only through head tilts, chainsaws and machetes, and I’m suddenly very thankful that my new walrus friend isn’t answering my questions with blank stares.

While Royce’s avuncular voice perfectly complements his tail and top hat, touching his whiskers gets you a boisterously anthropomorphic “aarf,” which is a real crowd-pleaser!

Outside of Fernando’s, we encounter a furry in her human form who, like everyone else, is anxious to get her minute with Royce. She is here from Canada, and the two of them seamlessly fall into a conversation entirely in French. Afterward, Royce says to me, “Yes, I speak French—a little, and not very well!” So humble and self-deprecating.

Another reason some people might be drawn to anthropomorphism is the power and confidence that comes from shielding your insecurities beneath a mask. “Sometimes,” Royce explains, “finding an animal persona can bring out things in a person that they didn’t know existed.” I mention Robert Smith, the singer of my favorite band The Cure, and how I once read that the reason he wears lipstick and eyeliner is because he’s so painfully shy, and makeup is enough of a mask for him to be able to walk out onto the stage and perform. Royce agrees that there’s a correlation there. “I’m definitely a shy person,” Royce says, and admits that becoming a walrus has had a positive impact on his human side.

Royce is eager to talk about the oft-overlooked aspects of the furry fandom, the most important point being how it’s all about making people happy. He tells me about how his favorite moment of this year’s convention happened just the night before, when he danced with a disabled woman in a wheelchair. Her husband was even inspired to join in.

“How many people get to say they danced with a walrus?” Royce laughs, and I can see just enough of his eyes beneath the mask to tell that he’s tearing up a little at the idea of being able to leave some sort of imprint on someone’s life. That’s a pretty cool thing. And I think for a lot of Pittsburgh adults, it’s a chance for them to act like a kid again, running around on their lunch breaks, high-fiving neon bears and bunnies in bustiers. “I like the idea that I might be a special thing in someone’s life that they may never see again,” Royce muses. “At the end of the day, I’m tired and sweaty and my back hurts, but I’m laughing—I just love making people happy.”

When you break it down (and, if you’re a prude, ignore the “darker” side of the movement), furrydom doesn’t seem so “weird” or “creepy” after all. People dress up as zombies and gather in hordes because they like zombies. People volunteer at haunted houses because they like horror movies and scaring people. And no one says anything about them. And to all of the people out there who say things like, “I don’t want one of them hugging my child, knowing that they’re going to be having furry-sex”? Think about this: that broad who gave your kid a lollipop at the doctor’s office may have went home and banged her girlfriend later. Your kid’s third grade art teacher? She might have a closetful of whips and toys. Maybe your mailman goes to Revolutionary War Sex Parties. PEOPLE HAVE SEX. All kinds of it! Stop letting it affect you and go hug a fucking furry.

[These views & opinions do not reflect the furry community as a whole and should be regarded only as one individual’s experience as a furry. Thank you, Royce Tuxford Cobblepot, for your graciousness and time!]