Tag Archives: nostalgia

Life in the Winchester House

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The Twin Towers have been rubble longer than they’ve stood.

Since then, I’ve watched the world move on.

Since then, I’ve tried.

Since then, I write something every year. As time goes on, each post gets less engagement. I wonder why I keep doing it, but it’s one of the most impactful days of my life, and I still don’t understand what happened.

Since then, nobody knows what to say to me.

Since then, I’ve been denied insurance coverage for mental health because 9/11-related trauma is a preexisting condition.

Since then, I’ve been told by psychologists I’m over it, let’s talk about something else.

Since then, I’d been told by a mayor that the air was a little smoky, don’t worry about it.

Since then, I’ve been told by doctors that my lung issues were entirely related to smoking and not Ground Zero.

Since then, I was estranged from a family member for nearly a decade because of something callous they said about people like me.

Since then, I was hired by a long-defunct marketing blog to memorialize the tenth anniversary in a drawing I tried to make solemn but came out kind of icky.

Since then, I’ve listened to politician after politician brag about what they were doing that morning.

Since then, I watched a president cower in an undisclosed location then step onto a mound of death with a bullhorn and a mandate.

Since then, I’ve heard people, twenty- and thirty-years younger, tell edgy jokes about it.

Since then, I’ve laughed at some of these jokes.

Since then, I’ve made some of those jokes.

Since then, I’ve noted the amount of selfie sticks and smiling faces at the 9/11 Memorial in New York.

Since then, I learned just how long I could stay drunk and high before I had to shuffle, blinking, into the real world (two weeks).

Since then, I watched memos flutter to the ground in Brooklyn, disintegrating in my hands.

Since then, I sat through a church service where hundreds of people stood up and asked for a prayer, each one progressively more cynical and defeated, without the slightest bit of hope to be found.

Since then, I’ve wondered what happened to the ash-covered yuppie who cut his time at the payphone short so others could call their loved ones, in what may have been one of the kindest acts I recall seeing in New York that day.

Since then, I’ve hunted for anything that will give my heart the jolt I felt that day, and everything, from a mugging to spectacle movies to an unexpected divorce to riding the Cyclone, fell short.

Since then, I’ve hungered for someone to talk who gets it. Those who experienced it through pictures and video, whether from thousands of miles away or in Midtown, will never understand, and I would never diminish the fear and confusion they suffered.

Since then, I feel silly because countless others saw and lost so much more.

Since then, I never want to forget.

Since then, I never want to think about it again.

Since then, I take this day off every year and try to do something alive to keep the ghosts away.

A Tale of Two Kitties

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This weekend, I had the pleasure of cat-sitting for Henry. During the five years Nicole and I lived together, we shared cats. Ever since I rescued him from the mean streets of Doha, Henry has been such a willful and energetic creature, wound tighter a White House press conference. Nicole fell in love with him instantly, and they’ve had a codependent relationship ever since.

True love or not, Nicole had things to do, and she often needed him mellow, you know, like a normal cat. She leash-trained him and took him for spins around the neighborhood. Eager to give her time to study, I often plugged into a podcast and let him guide me on long walks. He was always excited and curious, as a cat should be, and witnessing it never got old.

If you’ve been following me, you know that my attempts to duplicate this Zen with Oscar have resulted in terrifying disasters, including throwing myself into four lanes of traffic or diving into bamboo topiary. The opportunity to go walking with Henry, two old buds just chillin’, was too cool to pass up. Saturday morning, I hooked him up to his new harness, the one he couldn’t slip out of, and away we went.

Taking a cat on a walk is an exercise in patience. If you’re used to dogs, you know that they like to stop and sniff. Cats like to sniff, eat some grass, sniff some more, trot over to the next patch, lie down, and dart away. You have to be ready for every eventuality, so there is no relaxing or zoning out. This time, he did this in front of an elementary school, where a children’s birthday party was going on, and Henry wasn’t visible from their angle.

I’m going on a list.

Suddenly, he moved with purpose across the street. I saw what caught his eye. It was another cat. I let him lead me to it because he was curious, and the yodeling sounds he made were pretty funny. It’s not like they were going to get into a fight. They were a safe distance away from each other, and I had the leash wrapped firmly around my arm.

The other cat was not on a leash.

I dove into the melee and yanked Henry away, holding him either until he calmed down or he tore my arms to shreds. He opted for the latter.

Naturally, I dropped the little fuzzsaw, and he immediately slipped out of his harness. If he got away in this neighborhood, I was either never going to find him again, or he was losing an eye to the other cat. I sprinted across the street and literally tackled him, screaming, at the top of my lungs, “Fuck!”

Right in front of the party.

The kids weren’t interested. Green Lantern and Daredevil say the F-word these days, so they’d heard it all before. The parents, on the other hand, stopped sipping their wine in plastic cups and glared at me. I’m definitely on a list.

I was going to hang onto Henry, whatever happened. The look on his face was crazed, unlike anything I’d seen before. I knew he would go back to normal (i.e. begging me for treats) if I could get him home, but I couldn’t carry him.  Incredibly, I got him back into the harness, which he should stay in. It shouldn’t be a problem anymore because the other cat was—

On the opposite side of the sidewalk, pointing his fingers at us, then at his own eyes, and back at us.

I needed to get Henry back to Nicole’s place before I bled out, but I couldn’t drag him. What I did was pick him up by his armpits and sprint half a block until my out-of-shape lungs stopped working. The other cat was still there, yelling parting threats.

I made it another half-block, and another. Back on Nicole’s street, I put him down on the sidewalk, and he loped home. Still skittish, he calmed down when I gave him one of those puree packets, until he plopped down and went to sleep. Just another day for Henry. The memories of that ordeal chill me to this very day.

Sunny Days I Thought Would Never End

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I’m sitting here in the Brookland Arts Walk and Farmer’s Market in the summer heat. Crying and trying not to fall into disgusting sobs.

I had a rough night, and I overate some pizza, which was supposed to make me feel better, but made me sick because I’m fifty.

As my ex-wife always said, sleep is the great reset button. The next morning, I finished the movie I couldn’t finish last night, eating breakfast, drinking coffee, and petting Oscar.

It was a rough start, but I rode the Metro a stop to Brookland. I spent the early morning in a coffee shop, eating second breakfast and sipping a London Fog, watching to-go coffees passed out to neighbors in various stages of wakefulness.

I’m in the business of people-watching. And doodling them. I came to the Arts Walk to show my cool picture to Mina, the cool printmaker, and pick up a couple of things to tide me over for the weekend.

I found a bench to settle down with my pupusa (a doughy pancake stuffed, in my case, with spinach, cheese, and chicken) and pineapple smoothie while a blues performer played.

A couple of people had caught my attention, so I finished third breakfast and broke out my sketchbook. That’s when the musician broke out James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain.” It was the third time he sang, “And I always thought I’d see you again,” that it hit me violently.

Here I go, twenty minutes later, and here come the sobs. I tipped the singer twenty bucks on Venmo for, “Making me cry.”

I have so much to tell you, Shane. I have so much to show you. But you’re not here anymore.

Lady in Lavender 

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I haven’t danced around other people since I was mocked for doing so. Prior to that, I didn’t really think much about it, especially when it came to the dances of the high-school variety. Rather than even try to find a date, I spent all my time crying that I couldn’t find a date. There were a few exceptions.  

There was only one person I wanted to take to senior Prom. She wasn’t one of my crushes (who I was “in love” with), but rather a friend I had gotten very close to. I don’t know why I never fell for her. She was beautiful, she had a sexy voice and accent, and she was fascinated by me. We had a spot where we retreated twice a week and were completely open with each other. I would have shown her the time of her life, but she was taken.  

Instead of finding someone just good enough, I spent Prom night with Shane, at a pizza parlor, playing Samurai Showdown 2 for hours. I have sincerely never regretted this. 

I have been to zero proms and one Spring Fling that took place in an alternate universe where everything was made of fun. We occupied our own corner of the floor and danced with a tenacity that’s difficult to describe. We found out that the DJ wouldn’t play “Tequila,” because it promoted alcohol, but had no problem with spinning “Insane in the Membrane.” 

I have been to three Homecomings. One went so horribly wrong, I was grounded for two weeks, and my dad hit me. (To be clear, my dad never hit me. He raged, but he never laid a hand on me, except that once, and I deserved it.) 

The other was years after I graduated. This was almost as much fun as Spring Fling. My date and I were friends who barely knew each other. We just clicked. We weren’t romantic, just flirty. I was popular because I was the only male on the dance floor. While the boys mocked me, their girlfriends surrounded me. There were some slow dances, both with my date and her friends.  

It’s the third one that really sticks with me. As usual, I was too timid to ask anyone to the dance, so I wasn’t planning to go. Boone (as Severa was known back then), was in love with this one girl. She really wanted to go with him, but her cousin was in town. He volunteered me.  

I was expecting her to lack at least one of the following: Looks, brains, or sense of humor. Yes, I was shallow, but if a beautiful woman bored me, I’d wander off without looking back. We drove out of town to pick them up, and his date answered the door. She was attractive—she wasn’t stunning, but I could easily get used to that smile. She invited us in, and Boone was ambushed with flashes. The thing about Boone was that he hated to be photographed, even if it was her date’s family, and he was trying to make a good impression.  

Patiently, I waited for her good-enough cousin to show up. What I wasn’t expecting was an ethereal being. Her dress was Lavender, and her sandy-blonde hair was swept up, leaving a few strands to dangle precisely. Her eyes were a striking glacier blue, her nose was delicate, her skin glowed, and she was smiling at me, like she hit the jackpot. She held an elbow out, and I didn’t get it, so she took mine and led me on a night of pure magic.  

Who was this woman? Because she was a woman. She was eighteen, and we were only sixteen. Unlike most girls, she paid more attention to me than Boone, though she was a pro at playing the whole pack. We danced like the floor was electrified, except when it was slow, when I held onto her waist and couldn’t believe what was happening to me. 

There are two moments that endure the fog of thirty-five years. The first was a slow dance to “Lady in Red” by Chris DeBurgh, which was the kind of moment I’d hoped for since I started noticing girls.  

The second was pure art. The four of us were taking a much-needed break. When my date turned out to be a Dave Barry fan, I promised her I’d find the postcard I’d received from him, which I never left home without. (It read, “Dear Jeremiah, You are clearly a deranged person. This is a good thing. Dave.”)  

While we were chatting, she swept up a handful of glitter into her white-gloved hand and blew it on her cousin. It was a perfect moment. I’d never seen anything so beautiful in my life, and it has since only been topped once. 

When the dance was over, we laughed some more at Kristy’s until my curfew assaulted us. I couldn’t get her out of my head or her address out of him, Whenever I asked, he got really cagey about it. It turned out he was actually in love with my date the whole time, so he was cock-blocking me.  

This guy, who loved Nirvana, Ministry, and Megadeth, bought Chris DeBurgh’s album and listened to that one song over and over again, picturing the glitter and her cranberry lips catching the light bouncing off the disco ball. In the wisdom that comes with age, I have come to realize this was the best thing that could have happened. I never got the chance to ruin everything. 

As a result, I lived like Cinderella for a night. Instead of being an awkward, rude, self-absorbed little twerp, I was charming, good-looking, and a great dancer. I danced with the princess at the ball, but the clock struck midnight. Our carriage turned into a beaten-up pickup. I was just a nerd in his speech-and-debate suit, and my princess walked away forever. No shoe made of a weird material was going to bring her back.  

I can’t remember her name. 

A Demon on Wheels

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The summer of 2008 was a weird one. Kate stepped off a curb the wrong way, and all that was left of her ankle complex was smithereens. They had to construct something in her leg that looked less like prosthetic bone and more like a bookshelf, and it took her a long time to walk again.

Since she was confined to a wheelchair following surgery, we went to a lot of movies. One of them was Speed Racer, the Wachowski’s follow-up to The Matrix Trilogy. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was a Bad Movie. It was Hard to Follow and Cheesy. Plus there was an obnoxious little boy and a chimpanzee.

The problem was, I didn’t hate it like I was supposed to. I loved it. In 2026, it might be my favorite movie (maybe tied with Prey). It is, in my opinion, a masterpiece. On one level, it’s a devoted adaption of a legendary anime. On another, the cast is not phoning it in at all, like an Oscar winner would in an MCU movie. Emile Hirsh is a great Speed, polite and determined, Christina Ricci shows us with hard sass as Speed’s girlfriend, Trixie, and John Goodman and Susan Sarandon go right for the heart. It’s cheesy, it’s predictable, and it’s sincere. It’s a masterpiece of directing, art, action, sound-mixing, style, and hope.

I can’t remember all the movies we saw that year, but I remember the big two, and there wasn’t an ounce of sincerity between them. The first one taught you that universal surveillance was fine, as long as the person doing it is a The Big Billionaire Hero. If you’re a hero, you’re going to turn to evil anyway, unless you’re the guy who drives around in a tank and blows up other people’s cars for no reason. The second blockbuster taught that you can sell weapons that blow up brown children as long as you’re charming and smarmy and say, “Oops! My bad!”

While I enjoyed watching The Dark Knight and Iron Man, they were ultimately about rich people being better than us. Meanwhile, we have a colorful, optimistic movie where a working-class kid with talent, who is honest and polite, can overcome capitalism. America, being the cynical country we are, made the cynical movies hits while Speed Racer was labeled as terrible.

I loved the cartoon growing up. I had no idea how groundbreaking it was at the time, just that I needed to wear a red ascot. Speed Racer is the direct cause of a car crash in Hopatcong, New Jersey in 1981, in which an automobile on the top of the hill rolled into someone’s garage, which was caused by the emergency brake being released, and the five-year-old who did it refuses to accept responsibility.

I tried to watch it when it aired on MTV (RIP) in the mid-nineties. It wasn’t horrible, I want to be clear about that. I just couldn’t connect with it as well because of the animation standing on its shoulders, and the shoulders above that. I’d like to watch it now, when I would more appreciate the artistry of it.

I bring this up because, I came across an ad for a perfectly legal, you-can’t-prove-anything Lego kit for Speed’s iconic car, the Mach 5. (His name is Speed. Deal with it.) This weekend, I committed to building it.

Step 1: The Unboxing:

Step 2: You’re Starting to Get the Feel for It.

Step 3: The Skeleton

Step 4: I wish I had decals.

Jer-Z Nights

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I got this wild hair and started fantasizing about turning my New York-adjacent adventures into an animated series, populated by some of the people who made it so memorable.

[Names withheld to protect the innocent. It helps that my likenesses are rubbish.]

Character sheets: Drunken Philosophers edition.

Character sheets: Loved and Lost edition.

Character sheets: Found Families edition

Character sheets: Brothers

Weirdos in Disguise

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Christmas, you get presents. Thanksgiving, you get to indulge yourself. Halloween is that day when you get to be someone else, and that made it my favorite. I’ve been Optimus Prime, John “Hannibal” Smith from the A-Team, and a Ghostbuster named Murphy.

The coolest Halloween experience I ever had was generic Jedi for my seventh Halloween. (“Bow, or whatever, to the adequate might of Jedi Master Temu!”) On the other side of the barrier that separated the older kids was a generic Sith, carrying a red lightsaber to match my yellow one. He came over, and we talked over the fence for a long time. about Star Wars, we talked about what the fifth grade was like, and he wanted to get a better look at my lightsaber. After recess, I never saw him again, but I looked everywhere.

Years later, I wore the world’s worst Halloween costume and drank vodka in lieu of eating something and went to a rock concert and drank a lot of beer and had another jack and coke and said something to That Moby so bad it got me thrown out of the bar and soaked my friend’s couch with vomit.

Once upon a time, when I was much thinner, I’d shave my mustache, throw on a green T-shirt and go as Norville Rogers, with the nom de guerre of Shaggy. I pulled off an amazing Crow, thanks to the incredible makeup skills of my friend M.

Last year, I enjoyed the holiday with M in Colorado, walking the neighborhood and scoping out the decorations.

I’ve been doing it solo so far this year.

For pagans like Kate, Halloween, or Samhain (pronounced SOW-win; don’t say it like it’s spelled or a witch will laugh at you), is the most sacred day of the year. It’s Christmas and Easter rolled up into one, with all the celebration and feasts and prayers. It’s when the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest, and you can commune with those that have gone before. It is here I lost the true meaning of Halloween (candy and costumes).

I had a very, very nudge-nudge, wink-wink, say no more, say no more Halloween night in the East Village while the parade went by. On my own, I liked to stop in the neighborhood for a drink and watch Bleeker Street lit up with people having a good time.

Two years ago, I was recruited for the Pumpkin Task Force at work. We wanted to kill at the First Annual Pumpkin Carving Contest, so I said, sure, I’ll help. There were five of us. I bring this up because 20 percent of the group did all the work. I designed the pumpkin:

It was based on the mascot for the American Society of Hematology, Red.

I went to the art store that knows me by name and bought acrylic pens (on the company card). And I said, “You guys do the rest.” My boss offered to carve the pumpkin if someone would draw the face based on my design, but no one did. To say I was disappointed would understate it.

Imagine my surprise when someone asked if I was helping with his year’s contest, closing in two hours. I said no, not after last time. Later, I came across the pumpkin, and someone had written “CARVED” in large letters on it. I hauled it over to the break room and attempted to hose the Sharpie off. I had brought my art markers with me, so I applied them to the pumpkin, using my old design.

It was then that Sera, a work acquaintance, swept in with tubes of acrylic paint, and I was able to work in style. She used to paint, with oils, but she moved into a smaller apartment and can’t fit her easel. While I applied cadmium red to the face, she made hands out of paper plates.

We took it to contest, where it was clear we were not going to win.

Sera and I agreed that we would be more prepared next year.

The party was loud, as parties tended to be. There was an open bar, and I had a doctor’s appointment, so I didn’t stick around.

I was there long enough to puzzle over the group of people who all knew each other, dressed in yellow shirts and overalls. but this Every one of them was wearing glasses, but that’s not that weird. It was weird that they had all had nametags. At first, I thought they were the caterers, but they were all wearing different types of yellow tops.

The only nametag I paid attention to was the cute blonde, named “Lou.” I thought Lou was the best name for a pixie woman, but I also had to remember was that this was a costume. She probably didn’t even need glasses.

Someone dressed like Wednesday, someone dressed like Janet Jackson, Rhythm Nation. There was an axolotl. There was a woman riding “a goose,” “no, an ostrich,” “maybe a swan,” “that is an ostrich,” “that is definitely a goose,” “hey, what’s that you’re riding? I told you it was an ostrich.”

I went to the work party to see me win fifth place, and they announced that the pumpkins were going to be judged in twenty-four by a panel of the building superintendent’s Instagram contacts. So I left.

Then it hit me. They were Minions. They were fucking Minions.

Adventures in Anthropomorphism

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I just finished writing a bananas novel called Subterraneous Obscura, which has dozens of supporting characters, from baristas to the richest man in the world. I’ve tried to give memorable personalities to all of them, and the best way to do that is to give them names. I pluck my names out of my life, and along the way, I named seven characters after the pets who are or have been living with my friends, Steve and Meredith, my former roommate, Nicole, and myself.

Here’s Steve and Meredith’s:

Cooper (Ginger Golden Retriever): A doctor who always wanted to do theater. He thinks he’s auditioning for Little Shop of Horrors, but instead, he’s cast in a sex tape.

Harmony (Golden Retriever): The preppy herald of an underworld goddess. (RIP)

Inkling (Sleek Black Cat): The minions of an underworld goddess.

Stardust (Small Tortoiseshell): An underworld goddess. (RIP)

Next is Nicole’s baby, Henry (Black Egyptian Mau): An FBI agent used to getting his way. He’s a Momma’s boy, and his Momma is a crazed, shotgun wielding old woman.

Following is my beloved Newcastle (Maine Coon): A butler who took a vow of silence. (RIP)

Finally, my current roommate, Oscar (Fluffy Black Cat): A sleazy teenage data broker.

Everybody Flirts Sometime

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If you know me, you’ll know I don’t have much self-esteem. Even now, at fifty, with less fucks to give than ever before, I worry. I’ve never thought I was attractive, I’ve never thought I was interesting. Sometimes, though, I think I’m the greatest.

Once upon a time, someone—I suspect Evil Col, the editor-in-chief for The New York Post—threw a birthday party for Evil Col, the editor-in-chief for The New York Post. I arrived early because I arrived early for everything, and I found myself alone at the bar, waiting for someone I might recognize.

That someone was my office crush, Gretchen* who happened to be the most irritating person I’ve ever met in my life. We had interacted in the past, but not substantially, and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t recognize me if she ever saw me again.

That evening, she made me smell her hair, punched my arm affectionately, and ordered chicken wings that she performed unspeakable acts upon with her tongue and lips. While all of this was going on, an editor named Colin, Good Col, put everybody’s drinks on his card, promoting him to Great Col.

This was not when I felt like I was the greatest. Later, after my crush wandered off (I saw her the next day, and she had no idea who I was), I found my fellow copyeditor, Mike. We hung out for a minute, but he was itching to talk to someone more cooler. Before he left me alone, She swooped in.

I couldn’t see the color of her skin in the party lights, but she had the features of the Mediterranean. She seemed older than I, on the spectrum between skinny and curvy. She wore her dark hair up and an off-the-shoulder sweater, revealing an uninterrupted curve down her neck, as well as and her enticing collarbones.

Her name was Daniela.

I assumed she was there for Mike, who was better looking and more charming than I, but she kept turning to me for my opinions, or returning tangents to me. She was smart, but not high academia. She was well-read, and she appreciated Shakespeare.

At some point, Mike left, and it was just her and I. I don’t remember much about our conversation, just that she let me do all the talking while she sipped her white wine. She also laughed a lot, sometimes while touching me. Upon reflection, I think she was flirting with me.

We hit a wall of silence, and she drifted away. I didn’t know anything about her. Mike didn’t know her. She may have been a regular patron at the bar Evil Col’s mysterious benefactor had booked. If she was with The Post, the odds of her working on Sunday nights were slim to none. She was gone forever.

She struck me as someone who liked to meet people. Whether she held onto them longer than that, I’ll never know. She may have decided at the end of our conversation that I wasn’t worth the effort. Maybe she tried to find me later, but I had already gone home. I just know that, for half an hour, forty-five minutes, this divine, older women thought I was the most fascinating thing in a crowded bar.

___

* Not her real name.

And Now, the Weather

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Twenty years ago, Kate and I attended an opening-night screening of a movie called Serenity, based on a short-lived show nobody saw. Imagine our surprise when we saw the line.

People were in costume, and there were a lot of hideous orange pom-pom hats out there. One fan created her own steampunk look, not based on a specific character. She stood on her seat (which had probably lived through a lot at this point) and led a sing-along to the show’s theme song.

I’ve been to a lot of conventions since then, and I haven’t seen the kind of energy from that movie theater. Cut to years later.

Welcome to Night Vale was a huge hit while I was in Doha. I discovered it through some fan-art on Tumblr at the same time everybody else did. It made lists of cool and underappreciated entertainments in a lot of news sources.

It was enough to make me check it out. Starting from the beginning, the first thing you hear is a long announcement not to go into the new dog park. You are told not to approach the dog park and to ignore any hooded figures inside.

Welcome to Night Vale is a local radio show, hosted by the honey-voiced Cecil Palmer, played by Cecil Baldwin. He says something profound and/or spooky, and then “Welcome to Night Vale!” He reads the news, the community calendar, the ads, the horoscopes, traffic, and so on. Everything he reads has a twist of the paranoid and supernatural, as well as just plain ordinary.

Helicopters circle overhead because the government is watching everything you do. The producers of the Night Vale community radio station are insectoid creatures. I lost count of how many gods they had to make sacrifices to.

It is one of the cheeriest and uplifting shows I’ve ever enjoyed, soothing with its formula. I followed religiously for years, but sometime after I moved to DC, I stopped listening. Some of it was because I didn’t have the time, but some of it was because the formula was working against it. The quality of the writing wasn’t going down, but the juxtaposition of mundane life with cosmic horror didn’t feel as fresh as it used to.

They added new characters to keep things alive, such as Tamika Flynn, who once spent an entire night in the library, being stalked by those foul, insidious librarians, and Deb, the sentient cloud. They’re great, and the actors are great. They even got nerd favorite, Wil Wheaton to voice one. Along with storylines that stretched over much of the seasons, it was getting too complicated.

I saw the ad and debated going for a while. I thought I’d give myself something to look forward to on September 11, so I bought my tickets, took the short hop to the U Street station and pulled out my phone for directions to the Lincoln Theater. My phone told me it was not going to do that. I looked up to get my bearings and beheld the Lincoln Theater, right across the street.

You can’t nail down a demographic here. You saw the goth crowd, piercings and pink/blue/green hair. There were a lot of nerdy girls, two in lab coats, wearing goggles. There were men in business casual, women in their nicer dresses. There were older people, there were younger people. There were infants, and there were grade-school kids. This is fine because, for all the horrifying deaths, Welcome to Night Vale is a surprisingly wholesome show.

One of the reasons Welcome to Night Vale has such a dedicated fan base is that it is inclusive. Cecil will always call you by your preferred name and pronouns, his courtship of scientist Carlos, who has amazing hair, was the only long story arc I was invested in. The audience had a queer vibe to it because they felt welcome here. Welcome to Night Vale isn’t a gay show, but it’s a show where it’s okay to be gay.

To my left was a family with an infant. That could bode poorly. I didn’t have to listen to the kid’s wailing because, as soon as the kid got uppity, the dad took him out of the auditorium. I feel bad he had to miss the show, but thank you, sir.

To my right were the T-shirts, shorts, and sandals type. The feminine one talked non-stop about being engaged then not engaged, then pursuing boys, then what to call themselves now that since they can’t be called a wife. Maybe “spouse”? Then they talked about their wife. Then, when the show started, they and the masculine one took hands.

I endured the musical guest. She could play the guitar well, her voice was good, but I do not like Ani DiFranco music. Every time she finished a song, I had hope we’d see the main event soon, dashed when she started again. I haven’t been this demoralized by singing since I watched Les Miserables at the Kennedy Center.

The show went on, introduced by Jeffrey Kramer, the co-creator. Cecil Baldwin took the stage, and he’s just as good looking and charming as he sounds. Tamika Flynn worked the crowd. And it was fine. It was a bit stripped down from past live shows, and it stuck the formula. It felt like a an episode of the, which I could get for free (with ads).

What did I pay fifty bucks for? To see Cecil in person, for one. But mostly for the crowd. I didn’t know anyone who listened to Welcome to Night Vale, so I felt along in my love for it. I was surrounded by people who had been swept away by the imagination and the cleverness of everything. There were people there who felt seen by the show.

In the End Times, that’s worth more than fifty bucks.