Hi hi, welcome to no. 3 of Disco Diaries! Thanks for being here.
This week I decided to stop mentally referring to the present as anything pandemic related, and to instead to revert to classic, simple terms like “spring” or “summer” or “Memorial Day Weekend.” It’s part of my attempt to shift from enduring to living, a dipping of the toe into the acceptance phase of grief. I’m moving words like “quarantine” and “coronavirus” into the “goes without saying” file, in hopes that I’ll focus more on what I can be doing each day, instead of what I can’t.
What lies beneath
I have been thinking and writing about basements — a lot. What began as a reflection on the most memorable finished basements of my life turned into a full-on meandering essay about the things we learn and fail to learn down yonder. That thought process is still working to reach its final resting place, so for now I give you a more concise commentary on the identity of basements.
There’s a hopefulness to finished basements that I find sad. The stage is always set for a party, but it rarely gets any action. A finished basement is like a too-desperate courter on Valentine’s day, waiting for you in the school cafeteria with a stuffed bear holding a heart, and chocolates from CVS. They are always in waiting, at once patient and delusional. They’re the architectural equivalent of the toy you thought you really wanted but end up never playing with.
The unfinished basement is perhaps a more earnest representation of the basement’s essence. It is a place to put things, most of which you’ll never use. There is no need to go down there, save for maybe laundry or severe weather. Further, no one is pretending that it sounds appealing to hang out in a cold, dank, dark space, even if there is beige wall to wall carpet.
A finished basement might include any of the following: a large, slightly outdated television set; one or more video game consoles; comfy furniture like couches, futons, and beds which are likely covered in cool, musty sheets that have been there since Aunt Linda slept over two Christmases ago; weird fad furniture like bean bags, inflatable chairs, or those annoying roll-out seats (see below); a refrigerator stocked with forgotten cans of pop or, for the mature crowd, generic, cheap vodka in the freezer; a toy chest of barbies or marbles or walkie talkies or whatever material items fell to the back burner.
To clarify, the finished basement that I’m fixated on is the kind that was a staple in many ’80s and ’90s midwestern suburban homes. In elementary and middle school, a number of my classmates lived in relatively new houses with finished basements, complete with carpet and shelves and the under-used second family room that so many of them offer.
Many of my basement memories were made at slumber parties, where my friends and I would sleep on a fat, pleather sofa in front of a big television with cable, and eat donuts and milk in the morning, sitting on the carpeted floor with the tv on.
The fact that we were given our donuts in the basement, and not at the sunny kitchen table upstairs, sheds light on what made the basement so strangely appealing. We were allowed to be independent, outside of the parental watch. We could play juicy games of truth or dare or stay up extra late, no problem. It wasn’t strictly about keeping down noise pollution upstairs, it was about providing the illusion of liberty and independence.
I’ve learned that this appeal extends to cultural groups other than middle schoolers. The last time I set foot in a finished basement was at an expensive house in the suburbs of Dayton, recently purchased by some middle aged dad that was a friend of the guy I was seeing. I was there out of boredom, depression maybe, and a morbid curiosity that borders on masochism at times.
It was 1 a.m. when we arrived. The dad had his pals over for a late-night party while the wife was out of town. I stood around and watched them drink their vodka drinks and snort lines of coke off of the built-in bar. These were some of the most boring people I’ve ever been around, and I remember wishing that the guy’s young kids were awake so I’d have someone interesting to interact with. Alas, they were upstairs asleep, oblivious to the mischief below.
A playlist for you
If you’re fixing to take a drive, sketch a still life, lay outside, make sangria, have virtual brunch with a friend, or engage in any kind of calm pleasantries this weekend, I’d like to suggest this playlist by moi. I’ve spend the last two weeks adding to it liberally, and will continue to do so. Prepare for sauntering, happy songs, nostalgic tunes, and, yes, one Shelly Duvall performance from the “Popeye” soundtrack. Lean into it.
Fortune cookie
Those who sample the perfume must live with it on their fingers.
Thanks for reading. May your holiday weekend be blessed with many grilled foods and warm walks.
Katya