It has occurred to me that over recent months my sense of humor has taken refuge in a dark, dank, cave making its rare appearance to, oh I don’t know, use the bathroom. Its hibernation is not something I’m fond of and in attempts to pry it into wakefulness I’m forcing a retrospective on 2020 anecdotes that lend themselves to the giggles. The nature of the world right now makes it easy to wallow and I’ve taken to bathing in it. Restless nights filled with obsessive thoughts and panicked breathing do not bode well to finding the humor in anything, especially as I see my city turn into a post-apocalyptic nightmare. My humor historically allows me to find perspective and ease the stings of the world. Whether or not that is healthy is for me and my therapist to work out, but it’s apparent to me this forced experiment of intensive seriousness has not been wholly successful. So let’s pry apart the rare humorous happenings of my bazaar 2020.
Partying with the drunk Irish. It was late in February that my friend and I stumbled into Haswell Greens to see The Big Woozy cover band. We ordered some zucchini chips and drinks as the band built up to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” hit. We moved to the dance floor screaming along with complete unabashed joy. Toward the front of the stage we spotted a young, spirited woman molesting the bouncer. She would hump, grind, hang and sway about drunkenly taking his hands and placing them all up on her bits. The bouncer, while not entirely displeased, was a bit dismayed at how to best manage the lass, looking toward her friends to intervene. Each time they attempted to pull her away, she found her way back at him, like a sexy, magnetic, disaster. As magical as the written word can be for an event such as this, I won’t deprive you of the video footage taken (see below). Eventually her friends convinced her to leave the poor bouncer be, and I lost myself in the the soothing sounds of Dave’s base solo (yeah, we made friends with the bassist, #supercool). Apparently her friends were able to convince her to leave the bouncer alone only by offering her MY ZUCCHINI CHIPS. She scarfed them down in seconds so there was no time to confront her directly, but I made nice with her friends and opted for forgiveness. They were far more sober and willing to take full responsibility for this damsel in dis-mess, and I returned to the floor. Never trust the friends of a drunk Irish woman for as they got up to leave I barely caught her walking out with my coat on. The Irish-maiden-turned-thief and her thugs had lulled me into false safety by being a mere comedic element of the evening. She almost got away with not just my coat but my wallet and keys. Her friends apologized and I chose to believe this was not in fact a plot to overtake my belongings and happily took this tale as recompense.
Breaking an apple cutter. It’s not much of a story, but within the first week of pandemic-enforced work-from-home, I attempted to offer myself a nutritious snack. My apple cutter decided it would foreshadow the year to come and snapped apart, slicing my finger as I pressed downward. I no longer trust these devices and would rather use a samurai sword to cut an apple than those heinous contraptions.
Bulldogs in the park. Over the summer, I braved Manhattan under lockdown to spend time with my family. We made our way to the American Museum of Natural history to listen to some music in the park. And though we missed the performance, it stopped us not from drinking openly in the park and making fast friends with the musicians and their patrons. The patrons are of note due to their large affinity toward the French bulldog. There must have been 15 of them walking their owners around the small side park. I watched one of these adorable gargoyles circle around for 5 minutes attempting to sit down. It seemed this genetically mutated dog could not quite properly find ass to ground, and it turned desperately, finally perching its buttock on the bag of my brother’s-in-law. Tragically, the poor beast could not find comfort for very long and switched to a front-facing, more intimate position with the bag. It seemed a romance unrequited, so we separated the beast from the bag. If anyone can tell me the results from the experiment of the West 82nd street community collecting these animals that cannot even sit themselves down or easily breathe for that matter, I’d love to hear it.
Pathetic commitment to hobbies. Looking back on the pandemic period, I foolishly set out to tackle a myriad of new hobbies that would be doomed from the start. Ryan and I thought it would be fun to build a little wooden robot together. It was not. We quit a third of the way through. I thought I might paint artwork for my apartment. I did not and rather threw out a painting I did years ago because I could no longer stand the sight of it. How about learning Italian? The app remains unopened on my phone. Tap dancing would be great and my sister-in-law is teaching! Fail. Tennis lessons should be easy. I love tennis & we have courts across the street. I’ll ask one of the instructors that’s there daily for his rates. Rates are reasonable, I just need to book it. Rather than book it, I continue to awkwardly say hi to him every day when I go on walks around the park for 298 consecutive days. Not at all unpleasant. Then the herbs died shortly after planting them. I attempted a podcast, which died about 6 episodes in. And now she’s onto a newsletter that likely has an expiration date closer to that of a cheese wheel than a decent bottle of wine.
An Elton John COVID Performance. In April, a massive undertaking for 24 hours of streaming performances to raise funds for . . . the world? . . . took place. It was the first of its kind in the pandemic and many big names took part. There were many beautiful performances and collaborations but one stood out among the rest and in a way that easily dropped me into a fit of giggles for months. To this day it’s a low bar catch phrase used at home for an easy laugh. I know it’s wrong to mock the gem that is Elton John. But I am not a decent person. And if you mispronounce “I’m Still Standing” after having singing it 6,500 times, I may mock. If you don’t hear it, you’re a better, more evolved person than me. If you do hear it, and don’t find it funny, please don’t tell me (click ahead to 2:58).
The frenchies are my favorite! So cute!