A great man has died.
I received an email from Facebook on Thursday, informing me that my friend Enzo posted a photo to the platform. Enzo must have been an assigned Facebook favorite because I have a deeply parasocial relationship with his three-pound chihuahua, Taco. I call Taco, for parasocial example, my own son, even though I did not vaginally or cesareanally birth him. I opened this email during a work meeting (more on that soon!) and my stomach fell all ten floors down to the lobby.
Taco Sangiorgio, my firstborn son, the world’s nicest man, had passed.
I routinely talk about Taco in unrealities that to me, having held this man for many hours in my arms while singing the Rocky 4 soundtrack, having once dogsat him and hand-fed him tortellini, are very real. Taco is a consummate tipper - always 22 percent, even for mediocre service. He lays his coat on the ground so you will never ruin your suede shoes over a puddle. He votes in municipal elections. He’s an ardent feminist in praxis over posturing. He has an exceptionally stinky head, which is not an indication of strong moral character but is a deeply lovable trait.
(proof of said Rocky IV singalongs)
And now he is gone. I called my mother and my ex-boyfriend; both were distraught. I told Matt. He sent his condolences. I talked to his mother and we shared our collective motherly grief.
He was a good man. I will miss him forever.
In honor of our sweet boy, I present you with a few random (happy, as this man made me every moment of our friendship) things that make me well up with tears in a way that death and breakups rarely even do:
If I need to summon a cry for reasons of being a pent-up Italian or trying to wring errant eyeliner/fucking RAGWEED out of my optical region, I pull up YouTube and type three magic words: “Susan Lucci Emmy.”
It is my Big Fat Greek Wedding Windex on everything cure, from my good Italo bitch (and once-intended namesake!) Erica Kane.1
I make time, 9.786 times out of 10, to pull up Rosie O’Donnell’s interview with Barbra Streisand immediately after the Luccinator, as Susan gives a teary little exhalation of “Rosie!” during her time on stage. When Rosie introduces Barbra, who sashays out with that gorgeous little shag and that outfit I intend to recreate numerous times in my fifties, I fucking cry. I lose it. Rosie, who idolizes Babs much like I idolize Rosie’s close personal friend Fran Drescher (can you imagine just having Fran’s cell phone number? can you imagine?!!?!?!), rearranged her entire stage setup to allow for Barbra to sit in the position that would best flatter her face. This I would do for my mother, Fran Drescher. And more.
Also, not related to the thesis of this week’s letter but do any of you know what your “better side” is? I have no idea. Can I pay one of y’all to determine that for me?
Kristin Davis delivers this “NO!” with the love of a mother, a wife, a friend. It razes me every time.
Man, fuck Big and the Peloton he rode in2 on.
“I wasn’t shocked because I won the Grammy but because Tony Bennett had said my name.”
That Sam Taylor-Johnson movie is going to botch this in ways that will bring me to my murderous end. This moment in time is, itself, a movie. Let it be. Let the poor girl rest.
Sob city, bitch, sob sob city bitch!!!
When the fucking train comes out during the last chorus of “Put On Your Sunday Clothes” in the 2017 Scott Rudin revival of Hello, Dolly!.
“Put On Your Sunday Clothes”…I would pay for a photo op with the train and additionally an autograph like…of the wheel inked and rolled on a piece of paper or somethin’. It’s so serious. I saw the 2017 production six fucking times in three different cities. I saw every Dolly and Bette twice (Donna Murphy was, of course, the best by far).
The first time I saw *the train* I wept, uplifted by the magic of theater. I had to hide my tears from my mother who would have chastised me for 1. embarrassing her in front of her sisters-in-law who are my literal aunts who love me and 2. embarrassing her as I do with most breaths I take. Cool. Cool. I did not take her to the next five times I saw the damn thing, and I openly sobbed each time with no fear (a little less during the Betty Buckley one, no offense to her, I think it was the Vandergelder that was flat for me) at not only the impressive work and love that went into rigging such a set piece, but all it represents: saying yes to life, and love, and mystery.
Because I’m not a fucking hack:
I highly recommend this Vulture article entitled “An Exhaustive List of Ways TV and Movies Make Us Cry” by Bethy Squires for a good laugh and a reminder to watch the ending of The Holdovers again soon, and on we move…
…but not before wishing my beloved, beloved grandmother a happy birthday, wherever her beautiful energy is swanning now. She would have turned 103 yesterday. I miss her. Every minute. Thank you to Ed, the only person who remembered. I am so grateful she meant so much to you that her birthday remains in your calendar year after year. I love you.
To read:
A little story about my years in Philly was included in the Philadelphia Inquirer newsletter! Thank you to my buddy Julie from
for featuring me and my story of meeting “Wesley” “Snipes”.I love Julie’s newsletter and really enjoyed this report on Torrence Rothmiller, a West Philly principal with a connection to Abbott Elementary.
The 1912 “Bread and Roses” strike which deployed literal child traficking as a profoundly effective propaganda tactic. Shit rules.
Speaking of labor organizing, my pal
is a super naturally talented textile artist and I savored this piece she wrote about her recent contribution to the Volkswagen union call.I didn’t know this but apparently GIFs are “cringe” now.
From
. This made me think of my grandmother, a crocheter for over 70 years and at one point, a community college knitting instructor. And it made me happy.A strong profile on likely future president Gavin Newsom, who I wound up talking about in my dream last night?? That’s good reporting,
!A thoughtful meditation on Pesach from “Velveteen Rabbi”
.To listen:
and my pals in Folterkammer released a song about JULIE D’AUBIGNY aka my gay ass hero for all of my adult life, also known as Le Maupin. Head in hands mouth open in awe shock at these dirty little mindreaders.My dad read my mind and sent me a banger of a track:
This is literally just Simone:
This is literally just Lugosi:
Putting the “Boob” in Boobieman.
Actually my babies:
Various and sundry:
Me when my hairds get a little out of control:
I like PHOEBE.
Deadass.
AHEM. (from
)AHEM!!!!!!! (from Sam)
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This is Zero and he is celebrating his Cat Mizvah. Shalom to him!!!
me having to stick my little feetie out of the blanket when it’s warm for temperature control
A reminder:
Love you bitches,
TG
My mom, who I have never seen watch a soap opera in my life, must have clocked some All My Children hours during maternity leave and decided to name me Erica. Everyone in the delivery waiting room was waiting for Erica. Out came Tara, the name of Erica’s enemy played by my enemy Karen Lynn Gorney. Karen doesn’t know me so we’re not really enemies but I loathe her performance in Saturday Night Fever. Let John Travolta and his hair live!!!
-to Hell
That video of Susan Lucci made me cry, too. That poor woman. 19 FUCKING nominations!! Lordt. And she never quit. She finally won (and then I would've peaced out after that. Done acting. That's all she wrote). That standing ovation was SO needed.
Your face has a lovely symmetry. No better sides. Consider yourself blessed. Invoice in the mail. ❤️😉