The Worst Month In The World
A list of what's getting me through it.
I haven’t written a Babbling On post in quite a while. That’s because I’ve been rendered speechless (so speechle-e-iess) by recent occurrences in my life. I’m not really ready to talk about it here beyond revealing that I am now single and receptive to inquiries from gay guys with boners for me. I’m also in the middle of moving to a new apartment within New York City, a process similar to what Anne Hathaway’s character goes through in Les Misérables (Fantine? Eponine? Ketamine?). Rest assured, I have found a new apartment in Bushwick (which I cannot afford) with a private rooftop terrace. If you are interested in making out with me on said terrace, please subtly work the words “the” or “a” into conversation with me to signal your horniness.
At the risk of sounding like I’m glossing over the hard truths of life, I’d like to take this moment to list some of the good things that are helping me get through this extremely difficult time (don’t worry, I’m indulging in the pain quite extensively and openly — just ask any of my close friends or what’s left of the staff at Proper Real Estate in Greenpoint).
This will be brief — my mind has been left broken and empty by a combination of body-wracking tears and healthy dosages of MDMA… but I didn’t want my readers to think I’d fully abandoned them. I’m sure I’ll have more eloquent thoughts on this period of my life in the future. But for now, please enjoy some things helping me to survive. I hope they can do the same for you.
I took myself to the movies the other day and saw X. I’m not typically a fan of slasher films, but I felt like seeing people get decapitated on that day of our Lorde, and the A24 Brittany Snow vehicle did not disappoint. The film possessed that rare alchemy so lacking in today’s usual best picture nominees: X was both artfully made and exciting to watch. Even more important — it was horny! I’m tired of pretending entertainment without sex is worth indulging in. X follows a group of pornographic filmmakers into a spooky farmhouse owned by a creepy old couple with — spoiler alert — violent tendencies. Nagini animating the corpse of Bathilda Bagshot deserves awards buzz for her work in this.
I treated myself to a Sprite, mixed with some lemonade at the fountain just like old times. Sprite has been a surprisingly comforting indulgence during this era, as has Buncha Crunch, my go-to movie snack of choice. Anyway, naturally I had to run and pee midway through the film due to the Sprite coursing through my bladder, and in my haste to push the urine out of my urethra (scientists fact check this?) as efficiently as possible, I squeezed out a fart. There was only one other man (I used the men’s room, brag) in the bathroom at the time. Neither of us acknowledged my extremely loud emission.
Which reminds me of a quick story: there’s a play called The Laramie Project. It’s a very, very serious play about the horrible, gruesome murder of Matthew Shepard, who was beaten, tortured, and killed for being gay in Wyoming in the 90s. Please donate to the foundation started by his family here.
Not to make light of such a horrific incident, but I do need to share that I attended a high school production of The Laramie Project back when I was 17 and closeted in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The most intense, pivotal scene of the play is a monologue delivered by Matthew’s mom. A high school girl was performing the speech onstage in a crowded, but rather intimately-sized auditorium. She took a long, dramatic pause. Somehow, without being able to control myself, I let out a very loud fart. I swear it was an accident. But the whole room heard it. And the girls I was with and I had to fight back laughter in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever quite had to before or since.
I’ve been doing a lot of re-listening to The Fame Monster (Deluxe Edition), by Lady Stefani Gaga. In previous newsletters, I’ve argued Born This Way and Chromatica are her best albums. Today I have to say that in the end, we all know The Fame Monster reigns supreme. It’s so fucking good. “Monster,” “Dance In The Dark,” “Speechless,” “So Happy I Could Die,” “Alejandro”... there are not skips occurring on this masterpiece. And if you include The Fame as part of it (a whole other newsletter could be, and has been, devoted to the legality of that synthesis) we’re definitely looking at the most important collection of pop songs ever written.
The Worst Person In The World is the best film of the year. Seek it out. I watched it at home, but I’m planning to see it again in a theater, and post-breakup I feel it will wreck me even more. It’s so so incredible, and I’m ecstatic it won the Oscar for both best picture and best original screenplay, as it should! I’m also so happy the second best film of the year, The Lost Daughter, took home the prizes for director and adapted screenplay. Things finally worked out like they were supposed to! The third best film of the year, Spencer, won best actress, cinematography, costumes, and editing. I will not be commenting on the Oscars this year beyond that, except to say I had a great time watching them, and people who are constantly complaining about awards shows always will be complaining about them, no matter how they go. Those people are annoying as fuck!
Best dressed were Hunter Schafer, Zendaya and my fuck buddy, Timothée Chalamet:
What else… my lesbians Hayley and Callie run a wildly mouthwatering Instagram page called @lesbianfoodaccount. Definitely worth a follow — they are unbelievably talented, and they’ve cooked for me twice in the past few weeks, both meals being some of the best food I’ve ever had in my life. They are geniuses and about to blow up — get in as an early investor while you still can! Also, my friend Marty headlined The Bell House with his girlie Caroline! It was a night to remember! He’s Broadway bound! Do not miss his next show!
I read Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation in the days immediately after my breakup. It’s a masterpiece, mefears. I’ve heard criticisms of the book from a random girl I met at a party that it glorifies drug use, and that the book’s values don’t align with hers so therefore she did not appreciate its existence. I wholly disagree with her sentiment. I’d first argue that a book does not need to, and often does not, have an implicit set of correlating “values” associated with it, and that even if it does, isn’t the book more exciting to read if those values differ from one’s own? Isn’t that the whole point of reading — to be challenged to think in a different way? Or at the very least to be entertained, which this book achieves with flying colors. It also tells the story of a girl who is doing even worse than I am, which was delightful to immerse myself in. By the way, if that girl from the party ever stumbles onto this newsletter: I want you to know I actually thought you were really cool and pretty and smart — I hope this isn’t the beginning of a lifelong feud between us.
My mom came to town and we saw The Phantom of the Opera. We used to listen to the soundtrack in the car on the way to school every morning and we’ve wanted to see it together our whole lives. We sobbed hard! I want to be lusted after the way The Phantom lusts after Christine (locked in a candlelit dungeon, plowed on a canoe, and told I’m good at singing.)
I saw Jazmine Sullivan live — while I notoriously don’t enjoy most concerts, because I do not like standing up that much, I have to say Ms. Sullivan did things with her voice I did not know were possible. “Lost Ones” broke me. I’ve been revisiting the playlist I made when I first started this newsletter, and honestly, it really holds up.
I bought an amazing corset from this incredible queer designer I’ve followed for years named Koral Sagular. I love it so so so much. Yes it went on sale for 50% off moments after I purchased it! Go buy his work — just not the powder blue corset. I’ve already laid claim to that and don’t want to have to compete with any of my extremely hot readers.
I’ll close by acknowledging how amazing my work life has been during this otherwise extremely stressful time. I profiled/ interviewed some of the greats — Patti Harrison, Kodi Smit-McPhee, Diane Warren, Penélope Cruz, all of the Oscar-nominated hair and makeup artists, the producers of West Side Story, among others — all for The Hollywood Reporter. Some of it has been in print! Some of it has been digital! It’s all been groovy, baby! Thank you so much to the team there, all of whom have been so supportive and kind and welcoming. Especially my editor Tyler! If you’re reading this, or if you aren’t reading this — you’re the best! And apologies to any of my coworkers who follow me on Twitter and have seen me liking pictures of gay guys with photoshopped bulges.
Lastly, I’d like to acknowledge the incredible work being done by all the gentlemen who have *** ****** me these past few weeks. Your contributions to community, sociology, and literature do not go unnoticed.
"I’m tired of pretending entertainment without sex is worth indulging in." thank you