Things PT 3
Doozy Edition- hold onto ur butts (and each other)
Ding dong big dawgs, how we livin’?
I hesitate to put any precursor here to explain my off-the-dang-rails runway train sort of vibe I’ll be bringing to this post, so I’ll just say this: What the god damn hell?
If you, too, are sitting in the middle of this season, lighting a cigarette from the ashes you’re slowly rising from, hey friend, take a seat. Here are some things that grounded me amongst the ambiguous celestial chaos. Let’s dive in.
Watching The Halloween Franchise Shout out to Andrew Lemkulh, the Halloween King, who knew immediately that I was on number 8 of 13 of the Michael Myers Marathon when I posted this screen grab of Busta Rhymes on my Instagram story. Part of becoming friends with someone is becoming familiar with their lore, and I love that 44 years of a masked maniac is part of his. Mine? Being filmed by teens whenever I eat in public.
I digress.
The pictured Halloween movie is 2002’s Halloween Resurrection, preceded by Halloween H20: 20 Years Later, featuring a truly bogus haircut on a young Josh Hartnett. Did someone flat-iron the sides just for the sick hell of it? Is this an early nod to Aunt Gladys, and did one of her minions take an oversized pair of scissors to his head while he slept? Imp to note this is also the haircut that carries him through The Faculty.
BUT WE’RE NOT TALKING ABOUT THAT. We’re talking about Halloween Resurrection, a movie that includes this banger of a line:
“You like sushi, mother fucker?”
Who else is in this movie? Tyra Banks. How does her character die? We don’t really know. We just sorta…see her tangled up in some wires later. A deleted scene will tell you she was, in fact, strangled by Michael Myers. No final cut death? Cheated!!!!!!!
Also. Remember when she pretended to have rabies?
I’m no Andrew Lemkhul, and I’ll be offending some real deep cut Halloween Heads here, but the 90’s- early aughts movies really rise to the top for me. The early birds are, of course, classics, but H20 and Resurrection pull at my 90’s kid heartstrings in the way that all ’90s slasher flicks do. A small coastal town that is perpetually in fall, a group of high school kids (including a rich jock with sharp eyes who drives a mercedes and a well meaning boyfriend from a troubled home who’s dad is a mechanic), a barn or house party that ends in disaster, a final girl and her sassy best friends, big oversized shirts/sweaters, BANGS, the Wonderbra, and a masked killer.
Of course, this formula was not created in the 90s- Craven, Carpenter, and others gave us the goods in the 70s and 80s, but the 90s really took it and cranked out every version they could think of, fueling every slumber party from 1994-2003. When I rewatch, I’m back at Blockbuster with my friends. I’m fake-fighting over which movie to rent while trying to look cute for my 6th-grade crush. He’s standing in line with his dad, Mortal Kombat in one hand and Buncha Crunch in the other. I roll my soffe’s up one more notch and yell at someone to “stop tickling me”. No one is touching me. I giggle louder. He looks our way. Life is good.
Crying In the Bathroom Of A Dive Bar With Your Friends. Earlier this month, I turned 37. What an age! You add 7 years of livin, lovin, and lustin to 30 and this is what you get. Giddy up late-30s, here we come.
So far, 37 has felt like a year in my 30s where I actually *feel* the age. Like wiggling your arms into a shirt and saying, “This fits! I’ll keep it!” Blame it on the pandemic, time being a flat circle, or having to confront Kristi Noem’s dead, lifeless, marble eyes in every airport in the Southeast, but so much of time passing has felt like floating.
This is not to say I wasn’t happy to be passing the time, no matter how slippery it was. Inevitably, I am glad to be here. There is so much to be wide-eyed and bushy-tailed about1. And while I tend to categorize years of life into “good” or “OOF”, they were all everything, just like everything is still everything right now and will continue to be everything until I take one big breath at the end of my tiny little life. It’s all confetti. 2
37 was a good birthday. One that the grief around my dad didn’t smash its fists into my cake before I could eat it. Instead, I got to buffer the week before seeing Laura, Lou, Shaina, Sam, and Maggie in New York and Hank, Georgia, and Claire in Mass. I landed back in Chicago to snow and a warm spa day with Leila. When I got to her house to eat before we headed downtown, she had ordered me a sandwich with all my favorite things. They really do mean it when they say to be known is to be loved. We ate an edible, then spent the next three hours floating in pools, then getting a couple’s massage. Being naked with your best pal and giggling after the masseuses leave the room gives the same sort of feeling as prank calling at a slumber party after the parents go to bed. At one point, mid-saltwater pool float, I gently raised my head out of the water to peep at Leila floating next to me. Her eyes were closed and her fingers lay on top of the water like lily pads. How rarely we are all so still with each other. What a gift.
And NOW we get to the dive bar bathroom and the star of the show: crying.
Every year for my birthday, my friends and I flood the usually empty Christina’s Place to scream-sing karaoke and crawl around on the floor like rats3. Before getting there, the place is usually empty save for a few locals playing pool and/or doing the type of will they won’t they flirting that has a 30-year track record. After we arrive, it is full of this:
The DJ just sort of arrives when he wants to. No matter the season, he is wearing grey sweatpants and a loose T-shirt. I can only assume he lives in the apt above the bar and comes down when he’s done watching YouTube clips of The Swan.
The night was cold. The bar was hot. The drinks were tepid. Laughter bounced against the small room, and there was always a hand on my back.
And look, sometimes despite it all, the urge to cry cascades over you. It starts at the top of your skull, right where your hair parts. You lean your head back like you did when you were a child in the bath, and the warmth spills over your eyelashes and nose and lips like honey. Your friends are yelling, “Get in the picture!” and someone’s handing you a shot of Malort, but if you stay, you’ll cry, for no real reason at all.
I mumbled and excused myself, something I’m gonna assume sounded like “uh oh,” and rushed to the bathroom. On the way, Sierra made eyes with me, and all of a sudden, it was two of us in there. I started crying. She left to get my bag, and when she returned, Paula was with her.
“Is there a line of people waiting?” I whimpered.
“No! No one has to pee in here, don’t even think about that.” Paula said, wiping a tear from my eye.
With good friends, you don’t have to explain why you’re crying. You can just sit on the toilet until you’re done. And if you want to throw out some reasons like “mushroom chocolates”, “hot bar”, “luteal phase”, or “grief”, they’ll nod and say things like “sure, of course, we get it” because they do. And then it’s over, and you’re better. That warm feeling of dousing your head with suds returns, but it doesn’t leave you cold.
The rest of the night was exactly as it always is: very strange and incredibly fun.
Three funny daughters: When I imagine the person I want to spend the rest of my life with, it’s the future father of Three Funny Daughters. Not that I want to have three kids. Time, MONEY, the earth becoming increasingly more inhabitable, the list goes on.
I want to be with the kind of person who vibrates with the energy of someone who would do absolutely anything for his Three Funny Daughters. He sits back at family functions and giggles in an armchair while they perform a 10-minute improvised play that the oldest obviously planned, and the youngest was forced into. He calls them things like “turkeys” and “rascals”. He carries their most embarrassing yearbook photos in his wallet and shows them to strangers at the grocery store while he’s picking up Diet Coke and 15-20 boxes of tampons. He repeats the jokes his middle daughter taught him to his coworkers, always giving her credit. “Janine told me that, isn’t that funny?” he says, genuinely in awe. When they get married, he’s all teary-eyed smiles, especially at the toasts. At some point in the wedding, he excuses himself so he can step outside and let his breath turn to mist under the starry sky. He takes a deep breath and feels all that he was, all that he is, and all that he will be as he watches his Three Funny Daughters’ lives surpass his. A drunk groomsmen stumbles out and offers him a cigarette, but he declines.
I’ve seen so many parent-child dynamics at the weddings I’ve photographed, and Proud Dad of Funny Daughters is my favorite. There’s just something about a man being softened by the gift/curse of raising of couple of hard-headed, mischievous, self-realized gals. Lots of love to witness at a wedding, but this one takes the cake.
Pigeons Have you seen this pigeon taking a shower? I would step in front of a speeding downhill bus for this pigeon. In a world where Sarah Paulson is dedicating full ass interviews to these winged heroes of war, you’ve got to be crazy not to hop on that bandwagon.
But- before there was Sarah, there was Paula. Paula Skaggs, the People’s Pigeon. No one has put in the pigeon propaganda work quite like her. CC: Pigeon Purse.
So next time you’re trying to trash-talk pigeons, take a long, hard look in the mirror. Sure, you can send a text, but can you carry secret codes across enemy lines? Doubt it, boomer.
The Song True Love Will Find You In The End
True love will find you in the end
You’ll find out just who was your friend
Don’t be sad, I know you will
But don’t give up until
True love will find you in the end
This is a promise with a catch
Only if you’re looking can it find you
‘Cause true love is searching too
But how can it recognize you
If you don’t step out into the light, the light
Don’t be sad I know you will
Don’t give up until
True love will find you in the end
Talking To Your Neighbors and specifically saying “and tell me more about that” when they say something really out of pocket. Lean in, baby! There’s almost always a good story. These days, people are itching to talk.
Take my neighbor (Human name unknown, Dog name Panini), who, when I posed the completely banal run-of-the-mill question of “how are ya?”, he decided to answer with “Not well, I’m full of shit.”
“And tell me more about that” led us down a three-day journey of over the fence updates about what medication he was on, how it was affecting his bowel movements, and inevitably, his sleep. Our dogs sniffed each other and barked over sticks while he detailed how bowels led to stress, stress led to disagreements with his boss at work, work led to wanting more free time, and free time led to how much he loves playing Dungeons and Dragons in his friend’s basement in Batavia. I learned so much about him. He’s single. Doesn’t really talk to his parents. Has a great group of friends, though, and they all love Panini. Did I finally learn his name? No. Lol. And I never will.
This strange quest finally ended when he peeked his head over the fence that separates our yards and yelled, “Hey! I finally took a shit!”
“Oh! Congrats!” I said back as children raced past our fences on their way home from school.
“Yah,” he said, huge smile on his face, “There was a lot.”
‘Ok!” I responded quickly. Another family passed. “…Awesome!”
“Thank you,” he said, tears in his eyes. I nodded. He nodded. I nodded again.
“Ok,” I said
“Yah,” He said.
And that was that.
The Store Molasses in Lincoln Square This one’s a goody, y’all. Recently relocated from a smaller spot on Damen to a larger and cozier spot right across from The Davis theater on Lincoln, this is such a lovely store with lovely stuff. Even if you’re just in the mood to browse and touch pretty things on a snowy day, stop on in. If you’re in constant search of a great vintage ring that you can one day gift to your Scorpio daughter or Taurus son like I am, Mollasses has some gorgeous pieces. Other perfect stores to stop in: Ponnopozz (Hi Hope!!), Merz Apothecary, Bon Femmes, and Bad Luck Club
Throwing A Good Ass Party, big or small. God, I love a gathering. I think everyone I’m lucky to love is the funniest and nicest person in the world, and getting them all together to eat, drink, and laugh is extremely horny to me. My kitchen is open concept, so every party I perch at the counter like a sentimental pervert and look out at everyone cozying up to each other.
My parents threw lots of parties. I have memories of smoozing through the kitchen and living room as an 8-year-old saying things like “Yah, if I’m not a veterinarian, I think I’ll be a spy. Maybe an actor, who’s to say, I’ve got time” and “Little brothers are crazy, amiright?” It all felt warm and fun, and I liked the feeling of weaving through people, their elbows grazing my forehead as I looked up, catching snippets of big boozy laughs and intense conversation.
We were also a “sit at the table for at least an hour after eating dinner and talk” sort of family. I never wanted us to get up and disperse. The type of conclusion that came with the clearing of plates felt too formal. Why not let this feeling bleed into homework and bedtime and the next day and next? Aren’t there always more stories to tell?
As an adult, I’m always trying to carry this feeling wherever I go.
Inspired by this great essay I’ve started a monthly supper club, and baby, I can’t recommend it enough. Fill ur home, fill ur heart.
Each Other There is so much to drag us down and keep us there these days. Life is hard, but it is also everything else, all the time. If nothing else, we’ve got each other.
Oh god, what else is there to say except “I love you”?
Thanks for reading, friend- here’s a song to see you on your way.
A new coffee shop by my house, going to the grocery store with friends, getting the aisle seat, making friends with a flight attendant and at the end of the flight she gives you a handful of snacks, dogs, the water taxi, coffee in bed, kissing, sitting around Hilary’s dinner table, eating cake on the floor, Supper Club, having a glass of wine on the porch and watching the rain, movie nights, road trips, antique malls, talking to your neighbors, getting to know the USPS person, getting a handwritten letter, laughing, sitting in the car after you park to keep talking, you and you and you.
Absolutely SICK that I watch this monologue at least once a month? I’m doing fine, and I *have always been and always will be* chill, normal, and cool.
The first year we did karaoke here, Paula and Caitlin, and I spent the majority of the night pounding the beer-covered floor with our hands and taking every song as an opportunity to spin around and perform a little interpretive dance down there. The DJ spent the majority of the night yelling over the music, “Up! Up! You floor rats! Up!” Through the Champagne of Beers and a couple of peanut butter whiskey shots, a regular playing pool bought us, we heard Floor Rats as Flourettes, and that’s what we’ve been since. The Flourettes.
Absolutely freaking amazing!