28. The Week in Me
First of all, thank you to everyone who checked in with me about Lugosi. For the last two days, he has been a cuddlebug, taking naps in our arms (something he has never done before), purring relentlessly, holding hands with me, even giving me one (1) forehead boop. He is still on a few temporary medications, which he hates taking but isn’t giving as much resistance as he could and quickly goes back to nuzzles. I know everyone says this about their children, but he really is a special little boy and his restored comfort has given me an abundance of peace.
Thesechickens don’t have mine’s exact faces, but they have a spectacular sense of rhythm.
This week was fucking nuts, in a way I hope you all include prodigiously when you produce my biopic.
I saw Metallica on Friday. I mostly went to hang with my friend Scot and see the opener (Mammoth WVH, fronted by Wolfgang Van Halen) because my friend Jon is in the touring band. They just released a new album, by the way, and it rips:
Incredibly tight live, studio quality live. I was impressed. Jon kidnapped me at one point to smuggle me into the inner sanctum of Metallica’s donut-shaped stage. Incredibly sweaty, incredibly worth it, even when I almost got kicked out of the show trying to get back to my cheap seats (security assumed I had snuck onto the floor, which I did, but I was having a Pamela Des Barres moment!).
Last weekend…I do hold some things sacred, but I had the best soup dumplings at Joe’s Shanghai on Bowery and had a long, long conversation about Ann Patchett.
And then Monday. The day of a Carly Rae Jepsen concert is always a glitter and a flutter: Does the outfit I picked out three weeks ago still fit? Is this too much glitter? Will she do “Your Type”? How many gay people I know will I run into?
I brought my friend Claudia, and we made it into all of four songs before lightning struck
. A voice of doom decreed over the PA system and side projectors that “this show has concluded,” and Carly ran off stage, only to briefly run back out and tell us that no one was “getting electrocuted tonight.” Claudia and I trudged away in the ponchos Pier 17 thoughtfully provided, her off to Taco Bell and me back to scrolling Twitter in my parking garage waiting out the rain, when I got FaceTimed by someone I know on Carly’s touring team. Private show. 11 o’clock. Let me know if you don’t get in. I called Claudia, peeled out of the garage and back into the city within 12 minutes, and was handed a tour laminate I wasn’t supposed to have so I could watch Carly perform three jazzy sets, rotating crowds in and out of Rockwood Hall to avoid capacity violations.
And then, after three sets, one of the craziest nights of my life happened. And then I woke up after getting home at five in the morning to see that The Fucking Drummer texted me.
I knew what he wanted before I opened the text, not with fear, not with longing, not with hope: he wanted Carly tickets. And I, like the good little dumb bitch I am, secured them for him. (I then told him to never contact me again. Thousands cheer.) I went to the Tuesday show, too, my third in 24 hours, looked perhaps the hottest I have ever looked, and had a goddamn ball.
On Wednesday and Thursday, I worked my new side job and loved it. I handled a drill for the first time in years! (Not a euphemism!) I helped
It was so gratifying to see the work I do appear, not to disappear like emails and scheduling conflicts. I lined a supersize Zoltar booth with fabric. I helped make sure signage was level. I drove 15 miles to find the best crystal ball Long Island had to offer and the idea of going back to an office job seems less appealing now. Hmm.
And then on Thursday, we went to a live taping of How Did This Get Made? and I guarantee you that this episode is on the tier of Drop Dead Fred.
To read:
“Check in on your hot, giggly friends who like to show off their cleavage. We are not always doing as well as we seem.”
I found this review of Emma Cline’s The Guest more compelling than the actual novel, which despite being the “book of the summer” I found to possess more humidity than heat.
This investigative report on Helen Wood aka “Dolly Sharp” from Deep Throat is tremendously sad but so respectfully written, honoring Wood’s legacy and dignity.
To listen:
I created a Vanderpump Rules themed playlist for an upcoming Scandoval literary anthology! I’ll share the collection when it’s released but for now, enjoy:
I’m never going to forget where I was the first time I heard this song:
I leave you with this:
And this:
And this:
Love you bitches,
TG