Spending Hanukkah in NYC (When You’re a Country Bumpkin With No Jewish Background Whatsoever)

So, ya girl finally made it to the Big Apple. It only took me thirty-two years to get there, but better late than never, right?

To be honest, I always felt like I belonged in the big city. I’ve always joked I’d be the quintessential Musical Gay™ had I grown up close enough to civilization to engage with musical theatre. My measly little school did not have the talent to pull off a full production of anything, let alone something like Rent. And I’d make a badass Mimi. I slay “Out Tonight” at karaoke any time I attempt it. But alas, my hometown is a teensy weensy Skittle in the grand scheme of things, and so my Broadway career was doomed from the start.

Still, when my best friend/bandmate/honorary little sister Ellie messaged me to tell me about a LIT ASS HANUKKAH PARTY in NEW YORK CITY, I was so immediately down. Said party was hosted by a chef influencer who is like, actually famous, and we are but crumbs whose band is still in its embryonic stage, but as fate would allow, we landed those sweet, sweet tickets. The trip was going to be me, Ellie, and Cole, our bassist, who I can best describe as “cool personified.” We all piled into Ellie’s little white car and began our ten-hour drive to NYC, with all three of us taking turns behind the wheel. The drive itself was not especially noteworthy, except for when we finally got to the city and it took us literally two hours to find a place to park, and then we finally said “fuck it” and parked in a big stupid garage that costed us like $200 overall. So yeah, uh, not everything about the city is great. The fees are astronomical.

Once we’d found a place to park, Ellie led us to her family’s Manhattan apartment, where we were promptly ushered in and offered some of the finest hospitality I’ve had the pleasure of encountering. Seriously, my wife has talked up Jewish hospitality (her ex and her best friend are both Jewish), and I can definitely see why, having now experienced it firsthand. Ellie’s Aunt Elana was the first to welcome us, whipping up a trio of dishes and presenting them to us weary travelers like starter Pokémon. Then, her grandmother invited me to play a game of Mad Libs with her, which was a lot of fun if not for the fact that I had to restrain myself from using “fucky wucky” as an adjective. At night, the city streets treated me to a serenade of Pavement and other indie favorites through my open window. We’d explore the city in the morning.

When we woke, Aunt Elana led Ellie, Cole, and I to a diner (ahem, deli) a few blocks away called Barney Greengrass. The atmosphere wasn’t too dissimilar from the Coney Islands we have back in the Detroit area, but the menu differed greatly, with more of a focus on fish and pickled stuff. I ended up trying lox for the first time (which, considering how much I love salmon, is a wonder I’ve not tried it sooner), and also had some lovely latkes. I restrained myself from eating the latkes with a savory tomato and vinegar paste (ketchup), as I would at home. In my defense, I am a. not Jewish, and b. not exactly a bastion of great culinary taste. (My boyfriend, David, on the other hand, eats latkes with hot sauce like a maniac, which I think negates all 10 percent of the Jewish ancestry on his 23andMe results.) The waiter was kind of rude in a charming New Yorker way that I appreciated actually, and immediately clocked me as not being a city native. He thought I was from Portland, and having watched many episodes of Portlandia, I can’t say I blame him for that assumption.

When we got back, Ellie and I put on an impromptu performance for Ellie’s extended family and their friends. We played our extended set with several covers and even threw in a few of my solo songs as a bonus. Aunt Elana even invited us back to perform again, promising to bring more of her friends from the city next time. After our little gig, we rested for a few hours. The main event would be that evening.

After spending that afternoon getting ready for the night, we crammed into a taxi and made our way to Brooklyn, and I mourned the fact that I couldn’t blast my favorite Beastie Boys song the whole way. During our hour-long journey, we got to see so much of the city. It hit me just how enormous this place was compared to Detroit or even Chicago. I was not in the Midwest anymore.

Once we’d gotten to the venue, we had about an hour or two to kill before doors opened. So we took that time to explore the stores on the block, including an art and imports store that sold everything from elaborate knives to ornate rugs and taught knitting classes out of the basement. The shopkeeper was a friendly older Arab man who was delighted that I was able to say goodbye to him in his native language (working in a Lebanese restaurant comes in handy). The next store we visited was run by another older man whose ethnicity I couldn’t quite place, but he was very kind as well. To be honest, most of the New Yorkers I met were very amicable or at least charmingly aloof. Having seldom left the Midwest, I’ve heard horror stories of how wildly unfriendly the outside world is, so it was a relief to have most of our interactions be positive ones. In fact, the only animosity we detected at all was while we were at that store. A few dudes there were talking mad shit about me and Ellie in Spanish — not realizing Cole is actually Mexican and knows Spanish. He decided against intervening, as he didn’t want to start shit and hadn’t clocked them as a real threat, but he ended up telling us about it after the fact for the laughs.

At last, we got to the event. The venue was smaller than I was expecting — a singular room behind a swanky hotel — but it was crammed full of elegant decor and twinkling lights. Ellie and I escaped to the ladies room before the event really got rolling, only to meet THE chef behind the party. I, being faceblind and stupid, did not register that this was her, and so I went on some rambling tangent about how girls should be able to Venmo titty to each other (I stand by this idea). I should also mention that she was like, really pretty. Like, astonishingly pretty. Everybody there was that pretty. Well, the guys were okay. But the girls. DAMN. THE GIRLS.

I have never seen so many sexy Jewish women in one room. Oy.

Then, the 400 milligrams of a certain herb that is legal in both the great states of Michigan and New York that I had taken prior to the party started to kick in. And suddenly I was surrounded by all of these beautiful posh Jewish girls from the city and here was my hillbilly ass pretending to fit in as the edibles made me extra strength autistic. I swear that shit intensifies the ‘tism. I clung to Ellie the whole time as I kept worrying the entire night if my face was making a weird expression or something. I did meet a few really cool folks, including a very sweet burlesque dancer and a guy who worked in Africa doing poaching prevention. Sadly, it was really hard to hear in the venue, due to a combination of the loud music, my head being sorely congested from an especially gnarly cold, and my issues with auditory processing, so I didn’t do as much socializing as I would have liked.

The stage would be filled with all kinds of performers and speakers throughout the night, including several talented pole dancers and a very silly drag queen, but I think my favorite moment was the kiddush, or blessing recited by the rabbi, who was, in fact, pretty fly. He spoke about how we need to preserve our sense our empathy for all things— “even the neo-Nazis” as he added, which blew my mind. It’s so easy to lose sight of the humanity in people who don’t recognize the humanity in you. The rabbi’s speech actually left me a little misty-eyed. As I drove away from the city the next morning, I kept his words with me. The world would be better if we all had a bit more empathy for one another. Maybe the first step is experiencing life outside your comfortable corner of the universe and seeing that deep down, we’re really not all that different. Jewish or Christian, Midwesterner or New Yorker, we’re all silly little creatures on this big weird rock in space, and we are all capable of love.

Happy Hanukkah, friends!

The Ballad of Old Dog Tavern

What is your favorite place to go in your city?

Alright, let me tell y’all a little story about how I found my voice in a little bar in the heart of Kalamazoo.

We’d just moved to the city not long after my ill-fated music therapy internship crashed and burned. At the time, I was feeling real down and out about my place in the world of music. My lovely wife, knowing I’m so extroverted I will literally die if I don’t get attention for thirty minutes every hour on the hour, suggested karaoke as a solution. And well, it certainly was the solution. We found friends here that are going to last a lifetime. We found a whole ass village out here, all thanks to the wildly supportive karaoke scene. It revitalized my love of music and even gave me some killer collaborators. And ground zero for this karaoke revolution was a little dive bar called Old Dog Tavern.

I don’t know a lot about the lore of the building, except that it definitely used to be something else. Just taking a cursory glance outside (because part of this was written on location, because I’m a weirdo who writes at the bar), it was once part of a paper company. The interior is dark and dingy, but in the way that gives a comforting old dive bar its signature vibe, with largely wooden decor and plenty of mirrors for ambiance. The main entrance opens up into a corridor with an adjacent room set aside for ping pong table shenanigans. But once you enter the main room, that’s where the magic happens. On that stage, everyday civilians transform into rock stars every week.

Where else could I take a picture this cool?

On any given Friday night, Finn will be manning the karaoke machine (well, laptop — it is the 21st century). Ask him for a song and he’ll put you up in his next round. Outside, the regulars are passing around joints and anecdotes, ranging from the heartfelt to the raunchy. A few of us are showing off our newest creations. One occasional regular is a visual artist who brings his materials to work with. Another frequents the open mics as a singer-songwriter and will regale you with stories from the best nights. Under the stars and fairy lights, you can see downtown Kalamazoo bursting with life. The merriment only lasts for a while, because once your name is called, someone yells for you to get your ass to the stage. And that’s when you come alive.

The Old Dog karaoke crowd is the most ridiculously supportive community I’ve ever been a part of, to the point where I often characterize karaoke night as my sort of surrogate “church.” As a recovering evangelical, I yearn for long nights of fellowship and music like I had in the church of my youth, only without the toxicity, nepotism, and homophobia. I feel like I finally found my “spiritual community,” and it’s not even a spiritual community in the traditional sense at all. But we live and love like Jesus did. And let me tell you, I bet Jesus would rather hang out with us than that weird-ass pastor who’d chastise me for voting for Bernie Sanders (when I like, never brought that shit up, yo).

I never even showed him the crocheted Bernie I have displayed on my living room shelf!

This is the kind of community that will cheer you on even if you attempt “You Shook Me All Night Long” and are panting for breath by the end. It’s the kind of community that will shake their asses off while you sing “El tiburón” and make you feel like a freakin’ king. We’ll clap and sing and dance and probably cry if you sing Billie Eilish. We’ll put in requests for our favorites from our friends. Everyone’s got a favorite song they wanna hear from someone else, and everyone’s got their song or artist. David “Karaoke Dad” Parent is known for his Elvis renditions. David “my boyfriend as of last week” Bannon sings the hell out of AC/DC. Mary Emma kills “Never Enough” from The Greatest Showman, and when Steve performs “Minnie the Moocher,” shut it the fuck down. Me, I’m known for Heart and Britney Spears, which probably makes me the only person on the planet who can pull off both Heart and Britney Spears.

You know, I bet Ann Wilson could totally make the snake thing work too.

My point is this place is something magical, and ever since we started going regularly, our lives have improved tenfold. It’s not a secret that we have a loneliness epidemic, to the point where I’m literally seeing the Michigan government putting up billboards that beg folks to just go outside and talk to people. This is the solution, guys. We need more spaces like Old Dog where you can simply go and drop the armor. The bar actually has a little sign up that I managed to snag a picture of, and I really love the sentiment.

It truly is a place where all the misfits and outcasts can be vulnerable and at peace. Every town needs a place like that. I’m glad I’ve found mine.

Farewell, St. Louis! A Look Back on Five Weeks in the “Show Me” State

Hello everybody! First things first — I’m alive and well. My socials have gone dark for the last few days for reasons that I can’t really get into at the time being, but just rest assured that I’ll be back posting your regularly scheduled unhinged shower thoughts and the occasional horny poem when the time is right. For this brief interim, I’ll be using this very blog to communicate my thoughts to the world.

And right now, those thoughts are kinda bittersweet. Because this is my final night in St. Louis, Missouri, a city that was previously unknown to me, but has since become something of a second home to me.

I remember when my boss first floated past me the idea of sending me via plane to train up some folks in a new region of the country. I should probably mention what I do for work before I go much further. I host game shows for local bars. I’m basically Alex Trebek for the drunken trivia enthusiasts of Kalamazoo. And occasionally, the parent company I work for sends me to new places to start up trivia and music bingo shows there. Like last autumn, I made a series of trips to Chicago. But even for those trips, I drove my own car. Getting shipped out to St. Louis was entirely new. The first few times, they flew me down, which was already a whole ordeal considering I was traveling with this thing in my suitcase:

The flights were mostly uneventful, although I found I enjoy killing time in airports a little too much. Did you know you can buy lipstick from airport vending machines?! I promised myself I wouldn’t waste money on anything stupid, but I did need a new dark red, since my old favorite was discontinued. As a result, I am now the proud owner of a Kylie Cosmetics lip kit. Well, as proud as I can be considering it’s got Kylie Jenner’s name on it, and she irks me to no end for a slew of petty reasons.

The hotel they put me up in for all five weeks was a humble Best Western, and honestly, I can’t complain at all. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s comfy. There’s waffles in the morning. Hotel waffles just hit harder, okay? And the front desk lady was a total dear. She came out to one of my shows, actually. I wish I could remember her name. If you’re reading this, Sweet Front Desk Lady, just know I appreciated you!

In fact, I met so many kind people in this town. The owners and bartenders of the first bar I hosted at, Brothers Beer and Bourbon, welcomed me with open arms, and I befriended many of the patrons as well, including a really cool silver-haired woman who loves green and listens to Sabrina Carpenter. We talked for a long time after the show last night, and that was really the first time it hit me that this is goodbye. The owner of the bar made me his special cocktail, the Hippie Mule, one last time to take back to the hotel with me. (It’s a nonalcoholic version of a Moscow mule that substitutes the vodka for THC liquor, so it’s perfect if you’re Cali sober like me!) I actually teared up a little as I sipped it. The trivia show I started there has begun to take off, and now my baby’s grown and ready to thrive on its own. It feels good, if a little somber.

The second bar, OSP Tap Haus, was also a lot fun to host at, even if they only had me for two nights. That bar has one of the best (and only) nonalcoholic porters I’ve ever had, Deschutes NA Black Butte, which I am going to proselytize to every bar in the greater Kalamazoo area until they start carrying it too. Music bingo there was a little more subdued than I’m used to — my main shows back home always get wild — but it was still a blast. I’m sad I didn’t get a chance to try any of the food there though.

That was just my shows, though. I took myself out on lots of field trips while I was down here as well. I figured I’d have way more fun exploring the city than sitting alone in my hotel room. I checked out the Missouri Botanical Gardens, which was packed with so much vibrant life. I really enjoyed the arid climate atrium, which housed a little oasis in the center that looked like it belonged in Marrakech, not the Midwest. The fountain made for a great impromptu photoshoot.

Definitely almost dropped my phone in the water for this shot. Worth it.

Here’s a sheep sculpture that was part of a series of sheep sculptures. The artist’s write-up said they intended the sheep to be used as benches and encouraged people to pose with them, which I thought was kind of neat.

And here’s some flowers:

The zoo was an enjoyable excursion as well. I managed to get real close to some hippos and a polar bear, and I spent literally a half hour watching an elephant play with her food. She keep picking up hay with her trunk and slamming it down, watching it flurry in the air. I also rode the carousel, because I literally do not give a flying fuck if I am well into my thirties now, I am holding fast to my sense of whimsy ‘til the day I die. Listen, do you want to be a stuffy adult who has no fun, or do you wanna ride an ostrich?

Blueberry Hill was the last thing on my list of stuff to check out here, and I made sure I swung by at least for a little bit tonight. I’d be remiss as a musician if I didn’t plan a trip to such an important and historic landmark in music history. Chuck Berry, a St. Louis native, performed there regularly, and he’s one of the founding fathers of rock and roll. It was certainly humbling to stand where he probably stood there at that bar. Sadly the stage wasn’t open for me to check out, but at least I got to take a look at some of the memorabilia scattered about. I wish I would have snapped a pic of one of Chuck’s famous gitfiddles that were sitting behind glass near the entrance.

As of writing, it’s almost 2:30 and I have to be up in two hours to catch my flight back to Michigan. I might not even sleep, to be honest. I kind of just want to sit up and let it all sink in. My heart is in Kalamazoo, but now I know I’ll always have a home in St. Louis. It’s funny — before I came here, I didn’t even know how to pronounce the name of the city. Like, I always assumed the “s” was silent (like in Louisville, Kentucky, where you will probably be crucified and subsequently fed to the local fauna if you articulate that “s”). I also never realized how vast and metropolitan it was. I’m a Midwesterner through and through, and while Midwest emo and Chappell Roan have done a decent job making us look cool in the media, we still have a reputation as “flyover country.” I’ve lived in this region my entire life and I’ve heard it again and again that Chicago and maybe Detroit are the only cities here worth visiting. This trip taught me that that’s simply untrue. There are so many hidden gems out there, and I’m blessed to have a job that allows me to go out and explore them at times. St. Louis has been so good to me, and I’m already plotting my next trip down here. I can’t not come back, even if it’s just for one more Hippie Mule.

Until we meet again, St. Louis!