45. The Week in Me
I didn’t go to Botch last Saturday. I planned to. I had a bomb little outfit put together1 and despite last week’s Substack entry, which is now my most-viewed entry and earned subscribers and comments from total strangers and has 994 views thank you!!, I have over the last few weeks been on Cloud 102.
But I didn’t go.
I love this band and I love my friend Greg, with whom I was going. This was going to be our first time hanging out in person after several years of online friendship! And then Greg fell sick, plagued by this awful goddamn RSVVhatever It Is attacking everyone I know. Any other show, and I would have been bummed but would have hiked up my little shorts and gone anyway.
But not this one. Not one where The Fucking Drummer3 would be. I didn’t get into Botch because of him (not when David Knudson’s practically autoerotic guitar riffs are right there) though in his commitment (at least he committed somewhere) to misunderstanding me, he’d make the allegation. It wasn’t because of him, but I found this band, like many, after he opened my little ears with their infected second-hole piercings4 to metal. Thanks to him. We talked about this band. I broke the news of their reunion single to him. He was impressed with me for having them in my rotation.
We haven’t talked in so damn long now. I didn’t know what dates of theirs he’d be attending. I don’t follow him on Instagram anymore. I don’t see his stories in my feed. I didn’t, as cute as I would have looked with my little yellow-tinted glasses, want him to see me there alone and think I came there to see him. Find him. Talk to him.
What does one say? Honestly, there’s a lot I could say. I could ask about his kid. I could tell him that the writer of our shared favorite movie read an essay I wrote and sent me the loveliest note. I could tell him I finally saw the John Ritter movie Stay Tuned, and I’m sure we could launch into a barely-related tangent for an hour, as we did about movies so often that all this time later, I dread watching them. I force myself, but it feels much the way that crocheting did after my grandmother died. And anything from 1980-1993? That feels I’m cheating on someone who didn’t give a flaccid fuck about me.
We’d laugh. We’d spiral into internal twin tensions. He’d make a hasty retreat but go home and look at my Instagram. I’d spend the night as Pepe Silvia. A text might be sent and a phone might be flung across the room anticipating and fearing a response - whose phone, whose room, I don’t know anymore.
But I hope it wouldn’t be me. I don’t want to make myself wonderful for him. I would rather buckle my tap shoes and dance around someone else. I feel sick at the idea of seeing him, at my distance and will collapsing, at my smile collapsing over a Fabergè neg he lays in my palm, which I can’t help but proffer to him. He torpedoed my confidence. I don’t want to see him because I will be reminded that I let him.
And I am so tired of our fine romance:
I’m seeing Botch tomorrow night. He’s going to be at the show tomorrow night, I am sure of it - unless, as my beloved Samantha wished, he gets a crippling headache and can’t go. The anxiety will coat my face like my NYX poreless primer. I will waffle on making the drive. I will phone a friend and ask the crowd (my alt twitter). But I. Am. Going. Tomorrow night I’m zipping up those boots, I’m running into at least 7 of my friends (including Greg!!) and might take to the mosh pit. Maybe I’ll find the drummer in the crowd…and make him hold my purse.
And now, the recs.
To read:
I’ve been reading at length about Hillsdale College, the conservative college whose 1776 Curriculum and BCSI (Barney5 Charter School Initiative) is taking over schools across the country and is absolutely a hellmouth for religious (Judeo-Christian, of course, you know the whites) education to infiltrate public school districts.
From a Bucks County Beacon article I read:
“Hillsdale gets around the issue of discussion by operating on the belief that all history is settled, that there is one Truth, and that anyone who tells you otherwise is operating out of some sort of bias or attempt to push their unfounded agenda.”
There is much to read. There is much to make you think “the hypocrisy is glaring” and then remember who you’re thinking this about and sigh and start stressing about running into your Aunt Karen (or, Qaren) at Thanksgiving. There is an affair between a college President and his son’s wife that ends so tragically. There is a prom king pissing contest upon Mike Pence by Donald Rumsfeld and Tim Allen:
Last year, Salon reporter Kathryn Joyce led a three-part investigative series into Hillsdale and its plan to proliferate charter schools across the country that preach values of “American patriotism” and girl, I don’t know, tuck a Two Minutes Hate in between the Pledge of Allegiance and the morning roll-call.
Unfortunately, this shit is working. (Here’s a great piece on Tennessee Governor Bill Lee, an uncooked Trump Steak of a man.) Parents are fighting back and you can too, by reading up about this and looking out for proposed charters and student voucher expansions in your community.
One of my favorite stupid little tidbits I picked up from this deep dive, quoted from this article:
“Currently, the right-wing Pacific Legal Foundation is arguing in federal court that the federal government lacks the authority under the Commerce Clause to protect an endangered species that lives in only one state.61”
I’ll be with the liberal side of the family on Turkey Day. Best of luck to y’all.
This excerpt from Harmony’s
post, linked here:
I enjoyed reading her post and finding her song “Shoplifting from Nike.” I also love a discount because reporting a particularly good one earns me a “That’s my daughter!” from my mother. Sorry to be a little paypig for my mother’s approval.
Another
from , which I loved in entirety so much that I hopped into Jayson’s DMs and asked to be friends. He sent me some Jay Z deep cuts in return. I thank him.
Two poems that did my heart in, shared by
. “I Grant You Refuge” by Palestinian poet, novelist, and teacher, Hiba Abu Nada was written on October 10th and is among the last pieces she composed before being KILLED by an Israeli airstrike on October 20th. “Gate A-4” by Naomi Shihab Nye offers hope in an airport, which as someone who hasn’t flown since 2019 seems impossible but go girl, spin your yarns!!
This is literally just Simone:
This is literally just Lugosi:
Actually my babies:
The children, from Matt:
Also, Matt sent this to me while he was pooping and I felt very attacked in this moment (I apparently bother Simone a lot I’m SORRY I’M AN ATTENTIVE MOTHER?????)
Tiktok failed to load.Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser
Various and sundry:
One of my oldest friends Fenn wound up being a bit TikTok viral and yes…this is entirely sincere and I love my guard dog big bro very much:
Tiktok failed to load.Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser
I’ve been watching King of the Hill for the first time with Matt. Bobby Hill is my son, in that he is Lugosi in every sweet way and also that I have adopted him as mine own spawn. I found this video of Brittany Murphy recording Luanne’s lines and…my Jersey girl, may she live on in love forever:
In news that still renders me with disbelief every time I say it, my voice teacher and beloved friend Chelsea was asked to join Pershing’s Own, the United States Army Band and therefore THE ACTUAL ARMY. Yes, if you join the army band you enter basic training like every other soldier. Chelsea is tiny, tiny in a way that makes me seem like a Harlem Globetrotter, and a sugar cube of a person: so sweet and pure and bright your teeth ache. I was so scared and ready to commit capital crimes on her behalf as she entered boot camp - I didn’t want these drill sergeants barking the shine out of her, and would have fought these bitches if they did. You know I would have. But she toughed it out with that (I’ve learned) unshakable joy and the determination that made her such a successful opera singer in the first place. She got to sing the national anthem at a recent Eagles game, and has found a way to bring her beautiful voice to the world full-time. It’s impressive in these times for any artist to do so, and for this and many reasons I am so damn proud of her. Love you, Chelsea!
Me and who?
If I was invited to Leo DiCaprio6’s 49th birthday party you bet your Celine Dion-hummin’ ass I’d dress up as the necklace from the overrated but chiliad of aesthetic delights7 Titanic:
I love Leo DiCaprio. I love Kendall Roy. That is all:
Love you bitches,
TG
My genuine, I-actually-have-it OCD tells me that odd numbers means I will die, a meteor will crash into the Garden State Plaza - or worse, the new Monk TV movie will suck.
23. The Fucking Drummer
NOW UPDATED with a playlist (available on Apple Music here) themed around this post: the unrequited, the used, the fed up, lend me your eards:
I know I say this a lot but I mean it this (and every) time: this is my mother’s fault.
Much like the Catholic church!
@ Tara. I like crazy people. It is so hard to be creative if you aren't at least a little bit crazy. I struggle with rationality - too rational! I'm reading a book for the 3rd time, "Technicians of Ecstasy", Levy. He tries to show you different ways of being creative, i.e. different ways of being crazy. You might like...
Thanks for following me. I look forward to reading what you have to say!