Happy February!

The past few weeks have helped me remember why I’m so hooked on living in my hometown. A Sunday afternoon crash helped me remember why sometimes I need to leave.

A few things worth crashing for: a Thursday afternoon talk between Julia Holter & Jenn Pelly about Julia’s new record, followed by River Ramirez’s show, “Art is Dead” (including a set by Ruby McCollister); a Wednesday night spent line dancing to half-speed Lady Gaga and Lola Kirke at the Ukrainian East Village Restaurant; a last minute open rehearsal with Kelela (who praised the lucky few ticket holders for their “on-it-ness”) at Public Records; and Bitter Melon Mochi Balls at the Golden Unicorn, to name a few.

When a friend and fellow New York native recently tried to describe their imaginary version of my high school experience, it was remarkably accurate with the exception of a few sartorial choices. This seemed trivial until it sent me down the nostalgic spiral through the annals my hippocampus to rectify the nuances of an identity I had so scrupulously cultivated in the cocoon of adolescence.

This was long before Tumblr, at the dawn of AOL Instant Messenger, when I poured over a dELiA’s catalogue like the best of us and spent hours in chat rooms debating whether or not No Doubt qualified as Ska. Puka shells made way for ball chains and a bottle cap belt, and despite my best efforts, I never acquired a pair of coveted UFO pants. I had a large extended family, and fortunately, we all loved hand-me-downs. My cousin’s L.L. Bean plaid flannel was present at every band practice, and I loved my mom’s bell-bottom jeans so much that, despite their ripped-beyond-repair seat seams, I marched precariously to the school dance with a sweater tied around my waist. If any of this is starting to sound a lot like Pen15, I have often wondered how the show hit the mark in a way that made me feel so painfully seen. The knock-off jewelry in S2E9 took the cake. I still wear a forfeited gift around my wrist to this day.

As I get older, adult anxieties have replaced childhood memories as the reigning champion in the ring of my ruminations. An occasional bath in the waters of nostalgia after a long day of chewing the cud can be a cooling relief from the tedium of staying on top of things like income taxes and health insurance– things my childish self didn’t foresee coming to consume a staggering amount of my precious time on earth.

After discussing the imaginary version of my teenage years, I asked my friend if he’d ever read Joe Brainard’s, I Remember, and when he said no, I immediately secured a copy at the Strand. I encourage you to do the same at your local bookstore (here is an excerpt to tide you over). And even if you never find yourself with a copy in your hands, I encourage you to take the form for a spin. Just get your favorite pen, write down the words “I remember,” and take it from there.

So here is a small handful from my notebook, 90s high school edition, to get you started.

• I remember serving detention for wearing midnight blue knee socks when the uniform dress code clearly stated navy

• I remember Sister Anne, our elderly Irish geometry teacher, becoming flustered by the outburst of laughter when she uttered the phrase “two turds” (name that fraction).

• I remember calculating every cost in increments of CDs; ie, this concert ticket is two CDs; this milkshake & fries is half a CD; this prom dress is too many CDs.

• I remember circling my ballpoint pen around the space marked for the white circle inside the black half of the yin yang symbol in my five star notebook.

• I remember calling my parents collect (1800-CALL-ATT) on a payphone to let them know I was safe and coming home.

• I remember my confusion at Christmas dinner when my uncle asked me if I had stolen ketamine from the animal hospital. I couldn’t tell if he was joking and I had yet to hear someone refer to horse tranquilizer as “special K.”

• I remember getting pink eye at jazz camp and playing a one bass solo over Autumn Leaves.

• I remember a week long period when the flasher living across the street from my high school regularly exposed himself during math class from his 3-story window.

• I remember running around the central park reservoir wearing our track team’s jersey with a misprint that read “Your running behind a Marymount runner”

• I remember a basketball game in which my teammate whispered “I love you” into the ear of an opposing ball-handler as an offensive surprise tactic.

I remember I have a zoom meeting in 20 minutes. I love you.

🖖 Keep reading 🖖,

Cassandra

p.s. Catch me on radio free BK tomorrow (Friday) live at 3pm est