when your family asks if you have a boyfriend
i heard the snl afterparty was on my couch so i wanted to get good seats
Hi Tumblr friends. My sister is currently trying to fundraise for her to-be self-published novel, The Most Beautiful Rot. I just read her latest version and my perception may be skewed, (bcuz sisters duh) but it is as beautiful and interesting as this cover up there is. It follows the stories of four roommates living together in a house, trying to escape painful pasts and create meaningful lives, sometimes together, sometimes not. I keep trying to think how best to describe their adventures and narratives, but the closest I can come is to say reading it is like sneaking out to a field to look at stars, eating diner pancakes at 4 a.m., climbing a hill to look out at a new city—moments that make you look forward to the next day instead of wondering how you’ll struggle through.
Her project is so close to being funded, and there are various benefits to donating—for example, $40 gets a copy of the book sent to you AND a copy sent to the library/queer youth center/prison/alternative school of your choice, and just having that option on there kind of sums Ocean up in a nutshell. Trying to care in a world that often doesn’t reward the people who do so, trying to put this story in the hands of the people who might need it the most. At the very least, don’t take my word for it: check out her indiegogo and her blog about making this book happen.
It was 22 years of never happening before it did, the first time. “Sweet Caroline” came on at the bar, the last bar, the one everyone went to before finding their way to a pizza place or an afterparty or bed. I didn’t think about how cliched it was, the “bah bah bah” part, and Puck had sang it that week on Glee when I still watched Glee so I jumped up to dance and right around the chorus I twisted my ankle and fell, palms hitting the beer sticky floor. An hour later a drunk guy in my kitchen tried to grab my ankle to see what was wrong. “What the fuck are you doing?” The next morning I dragged myself to the stairs, tearing up with each thump down, not wanting my roommates to notice how bad it was, wishing they could guess without me telling.
(To me, the word ankle itself sounds so small, like ankle, like inner ear, like red blood cell. But how small? How many ankles fit in a breadbox? Still, it is not much on a 5’10” frame, almost a nothing percentage. For most frames, come to think of it. No one has ever looked at a girl and said to their friend, “She is all ankle.”)
The second time one of my best friends from home was getting married, the bridal party housed in a condo that already contained several empty bottles of wine. I wanted to sneak in the pool with another friend, for no reason other than to prove I could. There was a fence, naturally. Thankfully, I still fit in my David’s Bridal heels, but just barely.
This weekend I tried to show off a kick I did in Zumba almost two years ago. I remember watching the more skilled members of the group do it, looking cool even in a puny gym class. Boots and a shiny floor, I learned, are not as forgiving as gymnasium floor and sneakers.
#1 Dong, Ma!
Hashtags aren’t easy.
-Jody, BL Show-
Twelve years ago, I had just moved to New York City. I came here with a friend from my college sketch group. Her name was Alana and we had big dreams. She got a job walking dogs for a member of the SNL cast, which of course meant that within six months, we’d both be cast members too. Obviously, we quickly realized that it was going to take way longer than six months. It was going to take seven months. We got to work immediately: we took Improv Level 1 at Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre, went to all kinds of comedy and weird performance art open mics, and observed the scene a bit. Having done that for a month or two, we pretty much figured we knew the deal. You write some material, perform it a few times, get noticed, and bam, you’re discovered. So, we started writing sketches together - stuff we could perform as a duo at open mics. Having had so much success in our college sketch group, we knew that our material was going to blow people’s minds.
The first thing we wrote was a sketch about a robot. I honestly can’t tell you what the hell the sketch was about, but I do remember that I played some kind of crazy German woman who owned a robot, played by Alana. It included lots of references to various robots in pop culture - Johnny 5, Small Wonder, and the like. Really edgy stuff. Now, we knew that if we were gonna impress the industry, we needed to fully commit to the premise. And that meant we needed a top-of-the-line robot costume. For weeks, we made trips to Home Depot, and constructed a robot costume from scratch. This thing looked amazing, but its construction was such that Alana could barely move while in it. No matter; we were fucking serious about comedy.
Finally, we were ready to debut the sketch. We chose an open mic located on Varick Street. It was in some weird venue with a multi-colored stage that lit up. There were lots of colors on the walls too. Thinking back, it may have been a gay night club. Alana insisted on wearing half the costume on the way to the venue, because it was so difficult to put on, and she didn’t want to mess with it too much once we arrived. After spending most of our money on the costume, we opted to ride the subway. She looked like a robot centaur. Human up top, robot down below. I didn’t look much better; I had slicked back my pixie hair cut with greasy gel, and was wearing a black turtleneck and tight black pants. The look was definitely inspired by (and let’s be honest, fully plagiarizing) the SNL “Sprocket” costume. Because that is what German women with robot-money look like. (Duh.) Meanwhile, I was responsible for transporting the robot body and head, also very heavy, in two giant trash bags. I wasn’t strong enough to lift them, so I dragged them. What I’m trying to say is that we looked cool as fuck.
A beautiful post about getting back up, following your dreams, being funny, etc. Heart emoticon
Sometimes I go through my tumblr “likes” and organize them, much like getting rid of worn-out clothes: discarding the ones that no longer speak to me, trying on ones I’d forgotten about. It is also because I am a nerd, and I like to find posts I read years ago, when I was reading it in my bedroom senior year of college, and then from my childhood bedroom, and then from my rented room in Evreux, and so forth. I like to imagine I can go back to any of these places, knowing this desire will only get worse the older I get, the more places I sleep.
I found a post from my friend Lisa titled “indie dumps” (sorry if I’m blowing up your spot bid) that she wrote after we graduated from Geneseo, when she was out west with Americorps NCCC. Just those two words, indie—which by senior year had become a caricature of anything different from the norm, occasionally twee—and dumps—because my housemates and I had the collective humor of a 12-year-old boy and liked to gather on weekend mornings, heads hurting, SATC queued up on the TV, facing us lumped together on the couch we named Linda, and hey, sometimes poop talk came up—
There are so many details I can pull from that year that I love. We put the corner section of that same couch in the kitchen, because it wouldn’t fit anywhere else, and when you sat down it meant the table came up to your chin. I would sit there waiting for the coffee machine to sputter and finish its job, maybe comment on one of the neighbors who had stepped outside to do something.
On the very rare occasions someone from one of our five bars came home with me, before anything else I would pull them through the winding doorway, showing off our patchwork decorations, our hula hoops, the weird small room the landlord wasn’t allowed to rent out. I was so proud of this house, even more so after a few gin and tonics. I was, and am, so proud of the group of us that called it home. All these memories because of a post called Indie dumps. Like a password. A silly one you tell your friends about, hoping one day they’ll use it, asking to be let in.