Vibe Check

This article was published in Issue 2 (September 2021) of The Iffy.

Have you all been feeling weird and sad this summer too?

On one particularly hectic Friday night in July, I ubered to a birthday party in Kew Gardens, then to a housewarming in Ridgewood, took the L train to a rave in the LES, and ended up in a surprise threesome in Bushwick at 6am. I don’t bring this up to brag about my glamorous, sexy, neo-socialite lifestyle (your words), but in an attempt to capture a slice of the horny, chaotic, and frankly desperate energy of this allegedly “post”-COVID summer in NYC. 

Throughout this past year, a common topic of conversation could be heard at every outdoor bar and park picnic: how craaazy this summer was going to be. ”This summer is going to be insannnne,” I’m sure you all said at least once. Even previously self-identified introverts and homebody types with serious boyfriends/agoraphobia suddenly had definite plans to rail and get railed this summer. As spring came around and vaccines became readily available (read: HEAVILY suggested) to more and more New Yorkers, there was a palpable electricity in the air, a communal buzz of anticipation to be able to make up for the last year and a half of forfeited sin. Of course, some of us were still out making bad choices despite the flandemic, but it’s a lot less fun going buck wild confined to an NYC apartment. Even the underground raves and secret parties felt like sad imitations, cheap homages to the life we hoped was just around the corner. 

So when New York lifted restrictions in May, everyone expected the wildest summer of their lives. Despite our worst intentions, no one was really prepared for this the way they thought they’d be. Personally, I had imagined more of a gradual reintroduction into society, a chance to dip our toes into the waters of hedonism before diving headfirst. But when Cuomo (RIP) flipped that switch, all bets were off. The backyard of 3 Dollar Bill transformed into a writhing mass of sweaty gay bodies, Williamsburg just one long winding line for Union Pool. 

After a year and a half stuck inside, we were practically aching for a return to normalcy. The issue was, however, that we had forgotten what normal was. In our mad dash to pretend like everything was toootally fine, the pendulum swung past normal and kept going, reaching hyper-mania and delusion. Everything had to happen the most, and it had to happen right now. I thought I had dealt with my feelings of FOMO throughout the slamdemic, but they were just in remission, coming back in full force to 2019 levels and rising even higher! It often felt like it was less about making up for lost time and more so about being at the right parties, and being seen at the right parties. 

Because there were the new “right” parties. Despite (due to?) an overall drought of events and lack of variety, every party felt like The party. Every weekend, there seemed to be some “it” event, the most high profile opportunity to stand in line for 40 minutes as you start to come up, to convulse your body to middling hardcore beats and post a sweaty selfie, to see and be seen. Each and every weekend there seemed to be one event that all your coolest Instagram mutuals and Tiktok tweens would be posting about, as if the same handful of fags and hags wouldn’t be doing basically the same thing the next weekend, and the next after that, just in different outfits, likely a confusing, strappy basic from their most recent Cider order. This was especially evident during Pride, as the same cavalcade of DJ’s, drag queens, and whale-tailing twinks revolved through every discoteque this side of the Hudson. The weekend felt at times like one long fever dream from which you couldn’t wake, your sleep paralysis demon taking hits of poppers in the corner and chattering about the Gossip Girl reboot; the couple you saw hours earlier on the G train in matching ugly peasant tops making out astride the Lebain horse. 

Remember last summer? I had so much fun. I did yoga on my roof every morning and I read a new book every week. Just kidding I played Animal Crossing and drank entire cases of White Claw Season 2. But despite months of accumulated malaise, I somehow found the strength to do more cocaine than ever before. I threw some great parties on my roof and finally made friends with my neighbors. We were outside all the time, in parks and beaches and bike rides, tan and glowing. Maybe this is too Solar Power of me, but I felt incredible, despite doing whippits regularly. Covid was still a very real and pressing threat, but we had gotten comfortable enough to sit outside a bar or go to a house party. That blurring of social health protocols is where many of the best moments of Summer 2020 hid, weekend trips and rooftop ragers, illicit rendezvous fueled by the thrill of respiratory danger. Though there were fewer formal opportunities for amusement, the stakes were lower and we were just being funny and silly! Adversely, under Daddy Biden’s tepid direction, this summer felt almost stifling in its moderation. Besides the already daunting pressure, there were fewer venues and events overall, maximum capacities were drastically lower, and even takeaway drinks were re-outlawed. Maybe the best way to describe this summer would be: flaccid. 

Don’t get me wrong: I had a blast. During one particularly oontz oontz-y weekend, I realized I had forgotten how much I love drugs and just how much fun they could be (I hadn’t rolled in a year and a half!). I stayed up for the next 36 hours, finding my way into a cowboy outfit, a hotel pool, and a bar bathroom with [redacted]. And maybe here’s my gripe with this summer: the molly finally wore off, my chaps got wet, and [redacted] never texted me. It was a lot of fun, but where did it leave me? In my flop era. In our desperate struggle to cut loose, we forgot a lot of the lessons we learned throughout lockdown, about self care and moderation, about who we are as people and what we want and need. When you grow and change in a vacuum, it can be hard to tell if your progress is real, or if it will all come crashing down around you when you reenter society. And that’s not to say that any growth we’ve made in the past two years has been false, but more so to emphasize the importance of self awareness and self acceptance, and knowing that these things take time and are not to be rushed. 

So here I am, fat, nasty, and broke, coming onto this piece mad as hell. I sit here writing this on September 1, in utter disbelief that yet another summer of my silly little life has flown by. It may not have been the summer we wanted, but it was the one we needed, or whatever Spiderman says. I mourn the months that have passed, while already starting to make plans for next year. Besides, it’s not too late to take one last weekend trip to Riis. And when you go out into the ocean and look at our beach, our city, it’s hard not to smile, at least for a second.