u s e y o u r h a n d s

The first time I went to Disneyland, I was about six or so. I loved it, particularly this submarine ride. I remember how amazed I was, seeing all the starfish and kelp and schools of brightly colored fish. But when I returned a few years later and went on the same ride, all that excitement melted away. The scene was fake, so plasticy, Disneyland fake. The starfish were in need of replacing and the schools of fish were strung together and trussed up with wire and monofilament, like a dowager shot full of Botox and collagen. And as I sat in the submarine seat, just a few years older, I wonder what existed then that let me not see the wires and lines. I think about this all the time lately.

Just this weekend, I attended my friend Wendy’s birthday fete at the Hidden Cove, a karaoke bar on North Lincoln Avenue. I’d seen this bar before, and had wanted to go there. There was a time a few years ago when I had become a self-styled karaoke superstar. I can still sing Young MC’s “Bust a Move” at the drop of a hat, but it was only at a karaoke bar with a mic in my hand that I truly sold the song. I didn’t do it very often, but when I did, I enjoyed it with drunken, boisterous abandon.

A “good” karaoke bar, in my experience, generally plays host to a mix of people. And the Hidden Cove did as well. A dozen or so revelers crash landed at the Hidden Cove after the downtown St. Patrick’s Day parade. Whereas it’s ok for green-clad assholes to run through the streets of Chicago screaming fucking “Danny Boy,” it is decidedly a different matter to scream-sing “Love is a Battlefield” three times. But this group had competition from a warring birthday party. The birthday girl, doing her best Shakira impersonation, had obviously put on her “sexy” pants and chain-linked belt because she was shaking her bon-bon and running her fingers through her hair with wild abandon. These, too, were assholes.

It was loud. And of course nobody sang well, and even worse with all the cigarette smoke and Bud Lights. Plus, it was really, really fucking loud. I hated it more than anything else maybe ever — or at least that week. And at the same time, I wanted to participate because I know all the words to “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” But I just couldn’t.

I had to stop drinking earlier in the year for myriad reasons, but the one I tell everyone (because it’s true) is that alcohol interacts badly with this medication I’m on. So, ok, fine. But I’m pretty angry about this; I feel robbed. Alcohol acts as a happy blindfold so you can ignore the obvious, unfliching stupidity of your surroundings. Without it, reality gets brighter, louder, and far more annoying.

How, I always wondered, do those AA people live through these moments, without the “ah!” relief of a martini? And now, I’m one of them.

Although I did attend my prom senior year, I failed to get lit up about it to the point of distraction. This guy sort of asked me, I sort of accepted, we went. But I was not at the center of planning this event, so I didn’t care which balloons were selected, or the choice of theme, etc. It cost a lot and was sort of boring. So, basically, I had the same prom experience as 99% of the kids in America.

But since, I’ve developed an interest in catalogs, and specifically, prom catalogs. I have acquired three from Stump’s, Anderson’s, and my favorite, Prom Nite. All three catalogs are stunningly similar, from their goofy, pseudo-sexual, song-lyric-based prom themes to their Midwestern roots (Anderson’s and Prom Nite are based in Minneapolis, and Stump’s is out of Indiana). There are gems to be found in each one, as well as many, many follies most hootable.

Anderson’s Prom

The shining star of any prom catalog is the theme section. Sure, the bulk of the catalog is comprised of hundreds upon hundreds of picture frames, glasses, keychains and other such customizeable favors. But the hog queen of the prom parade is surely the theme. I imagine tables full of sit-com teens agonizing over the perfect theme.

Anderson’s theme section is no stand out. With ultra-tacky themes like “Hip Hop Prom” surely aimed at the Midwestern wigger audience, Anderson’s does not deliver a promised “Touch of Class.”

Plus, a lot of their other themes totally rip off the Elvish look from Lord of the Rings.

But where Anderson’s does pull out all the trashy stops is their painted souvenir glassware. I’m sure many high schools have thrilled their students with customized Hawaiian Sunset, Pink Rose, or Cloud flutes.

Stump’s Prom

Ah, Stump’s Prom. Ah, so! Where other prom catalogs only try to exact weird quasi-racist prom themes, Stump’s succeeds with aplomb! Instead of the Asian Delight Kit, why not just decorate your gym like a dry cleaners or a chess tourament? Couple your Kit with a coolie hat or two. Or, maybe, just throw up the Oriental Gardens Photo Mat. Encourage your senior class officers to dress up and mince around like corn-fed geishas.

Stump’s also caters to the high school for assholes. If you want to pose with your date during your “Coast Guard” prom, then carefully assemble your “Nautical Nights Arch.” For a faux-ironic fucked-up look for your prom king and queen, make those fuckers really ride life’s peak in a captain’s or gob hat.

Prom Nite

I heart the Prom Nite catalog. Yes, it popped my prom catalog cherry, but it’s just classier than the other ones. It’s Target versus Wal-Mart.

The crowns! Oh, the crowns! How can you choose among the Wendy, the Falling Star, the Sapphire Lumenescence, or the Raindrop set?

What I don’t understand (and I guess is some goofy wedding/prom tradition) is the whole garter thing. I have heard that proms actually have a garter tradition where dates pull garters off girls’ legs with their teeth. High school kids! The same kids we’re desperately trying to keep from getting knocked up. Logic.

Anyway, Prom Nite is the prom theme kit motherlode. This catalog doesn’t have as many as the other two, but their kits are classier. My current fave is “On the Bayou.” It’s all art nouveau without any of the weird Arcadiana that could have marred this otherwise elegant design. But I’m also excited about the trident-free Poseidon’s Paradise. No prom can be complete without wreckage.

I loved Spalding Gray. And it’s his death, more than the others this year or any other, that has been most jarring for me.

I felt a special kinship with Spalding Gray. This is, of course, not my way of saying that I’m as talented or as dark as he was. But we shared a compulsion to talk, write, and understand inner turmoil. We both searched in vain for answers — why the mind tortures some and not others, and how to find a place for pain in one’s life.

I saw him perform twice, met him once, and rented most of his monologues. And what always jumped out at me was the way Spalding Gray had bent his experiences to his own use. Instead of being trapped by them, he capitalized on them. Falling just short of exploitation, exposing his flaws and hurts seemed the best way to me to neutralize them.

And perhaps that’s why his suicide has been so hard for me to deal with. Because I feel that same compulsion beckoning. I always have and I assume I always will. It’s something I have resisted (obviously) but there’s this part of me that knows that suicide is this option, this door that has been opened by life experiences. And it can never be closed. Because Spalding Gray chose to walk through that door, I am reminded of my daily fight to walk past it.

It’s deplorable to me and to many that he left behind young children. But it also makes sense. My therapist calls those black-black-black moods — where your mind attacks and breathing seems like torture — rabbit holes. And would it be better to watch your parent try to crawl out of a rabbit hole, only to fall back down again and again? Or better to say goodbye with good time still fresh?

But he is gone, and by his own choice and design. And daily, I choose to stay.