My campaign to go to the Warped Tour: Day ONE
Me: "I wanted to say something. Don't smile like that, like 'Oh, Daniel wants to have the sex talk.' It's not serious. It's just . . ."
Mother: (says nothing)
Me: "It's called the Warped Tour. A festival - no, not a festival. It's a . . . about thirty bands, and they go across the country (makes wide gesture) on tour. It's sponsored by Vans (raises foot) you know, my shoes, right? Yeah, it's all commercial. But the music's good, right?"
Mother: (nods)
Me: And, next month, they're going to Nissan Pavilion, over in Virginna. (Points to an imaginary Virginna). And I would like to go.
Mother: (long pause) At first, I thought you wanted to go on tour with them.
Me: (stares blankly, feeling quite stupid) No.
Eventually she said yes. I'm glad my mother is so trusting. Frankly, I thought Pastor Reed would require more explanation, but such is not the case. (Perhaps, during my mother's days at Woodrow Wilson High School, as baby Emo was being birthed, she too attended concerts.)
Today I drove for two and a half hours. Down Briggs Chaney Road to Blake, where I practiced parking, then up New Hampshire towards Ashton and on Route 108 towards Clarksville. I was having fun on 108, going through those sweet curves, the weather perfect, wind blowing through the car. But my mother was scared as hell because there were like six cars right behind me and they were impatient, so I had to pull over and stop driving. I mean the other drivers are assholes but I haven't since had the nerve to flick anyone off. It was my mother who yelled at the guy in the People's Community Church parking lot who started hassling us when I mistook the gas pedal for the brake and nearly ran into a tree. | 
