The Summer I Turned Silly

jkjkjk. I've always been a weirdo

Your AI-free reminder that you can find or create joy while also feeling fear, rage, despair, and other prickly crap.

Here are some things I did yesterday: I read the news and some think pieces. I caught up with group texts of teacher and community organizer friends. I voted. I did some planning for Patty’s 18th birthday. I searched #unwritten instagram reels.

You can guess which of these crushed little pieces of my soul. I used to think there was a precise line one could walk which allowed them to stay informed about the state of the world while yet still feeling somewhat optimistic, or at least completely not hopeless. That non-existent line was a mirage, it’s actually a precipice I am dangling dangerously over: agreeing that this whole thing [indicates everything] is a simulation. How else to explain this timeline? In this version we’ve reached the cheese-in-a-chocolate-fountain portion of the simulation.

huh?

Tasty Hoon, a Korean mukbang (eating show) star, set himself up to dip fried chicken and other brown crispy foods into an idyllic stream of luscious, gooey, drippy cheese. He poured mostly-melted cheese into a chocolate fountain contraption, expecting, well, smooth cheese flowing like that golden elixir pumped over gas station nachos at 2am.

Except chocolate and cheese have different melting points, the chocolate fountain couldn’t reach the higher temperature necessary, and the cheese was too thick when he spooned it in. The fountain pump, made for a liquid, couldn’t cope with the thick clumpy cheese. It was a big Nope fest. What followed is a most spectacular show of spiraling cheese thwapping about, flailing and flinging long arms of itself at high speed. The machine breaks apart, also sending its parts flying, taking cheese with it. It all happened so fast, less than 30 seconds. Tasty Hoon could do little more than shield himself with his arms until the fountain’s motor spent itself of the cheese and all of its moving parts. He cries for the camera as he reaches over and shuts the broken unit off.

In this simulation metaphor, I can’t be sure which role we humans play: The cheese— too rigid, ill-prepared, and ill-suited for what we were about to be put through; the chocolate fountain— ill-equipped for what is being asked of us; or the fried food— waiting for what we are sure to be warm gooey goodness to envelop us.

I can make a case both for and against us being Tasty Hoon. We are most certainly Tasty Hoon in that we (species, culture, society) are operating with what we thought was a great idea and innocent intentions but are so woefully ignorant about how truly ill-considered and poorly thought through our actions are. We really shouldn’t be surprised by the psychic cheese thwapping. Conversely, we are not Tasty Hoon, because he is The Simulators™. We, the simulatees, in conjunction with the experiment/Simulators™ have pushed our existence to such ridiculousness that The Simulators™ have finally thrown up their arms saying “I don’t know, just do whatever with them. Make them the cheese in a chocolate fountain.”

And thus, we are all at once the cheese, the fountain, and the fried chicken, at the mercy of the rainmaker Tasty Hoon.

What are we, the big-hearted, the broken-hearted, the lovers, the artists, the helpers, the joy-seekers in this Post cheese-in-a-chocolate-fountain (CIACF) era to do?

I look to the sage words of the prophet Hunter S. Thompson:

When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.

I officially declare this the Summer of Silly. Playing it straight didn’t stop our metaphorical cheese from flying around the room or our pump from over-heating. Let’s treat summer like the free-wheeling, fun-fest some deep part of our psyche wants it to be: snacks for dinner, gas station ice cream, dance parties under the moon, stalking snails, the smell of bug spray and sunscreen, picnics anywhere, hanging in third spaces, reading trashy novels on benches.

We have to get down to the serious business of raising our freak flag and allowing it to unapologetically flap freely in the summer breeze. This most likely means semi-regular run-ins with that bloviated inner-voice holding us back from putting ourselves in the path of many joys: the judgy bitch. Fuck her.

The fastest route to silly joy is singing and dancing, moving our body and breath, making and being a part of music. (Hula-hooping and roller-skating also count.) But the stupid self-conscious muscle keeps flexing, setting off alarms in our brain telling us we feel stupid. I’m sorry, what?

Singing and dancing are our oldest forms of celebrating and expressing joy. How is anyone too cool for that?

When I watch (or spot people filming) dance videos my first reaction is insane jealousy. Why aren’t I dancing and singing with my squad, having a blast? How can I create more opportunities like this for myself? How can I get people to do it with me? It’s a scientific fact that you can’t be in a shitty mood while singing and dancing.

This brings me to #unwritten.

Spend a few minutes with people singing this 2007 Natasha Beddingfeld song Unwritten and you, too, will want to open up the dirty window, let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find. You’ll see videos of a 200 person chorus singing together, an NYC street corner erupt in an impromptu song and dance party, and my favorite, the lip sync videos with kids, family, and friend groups banging on pots and pans in time to the music, playing trombone as a toilet paper roll on broom. Ten minutes of this will inspire you to release your inhibitions and feel the rain on your skin. (No one else can feel it for you.)

It’s a far superior experience than a slap of stringy cheese.

Caveat: primum non nocere

First, do no harm. If your freak flag involves anything non-consensual, racist, xenophobic, misogynistic, homophobic, or unaliving anything, that’s not weird, that’s a personality flaw. Please unfollow and get help.

Epilogue:

I regularly pop my head outside my front door to check in with the world. Taking a break from writing , I open the door and peek out. Parading down the sidewalk are four adults trailed by a bunch of kids between ages 4 and 10. At the end of the line, several steps behind her peeps one girl is laden with important treasures gathered from the park: 3 giant sticks, a large scroll of bark (shed in a recent rainstorm), and a giant hunk of moss. I can’t see, but I’m sure there are rocks and stones in her pockets (she’s too young to have a bra to tuck them in).

She is the idol we need.

I’m always open to ideas, suggestions, shenanigans, tomfoolery, collaborations, cheese, snacks, and field trips.

You can find my art here and here. I offer custom workshops and design. I am the proud guardian/custodian of a 17 3/4 year old cheeseburger named Patty.

If you are a free subscriber, please consider supporting my efforts to make the world a less shitty place. Pick an annual price that feels comfortable for you and allows me to get paid for my work.

All photographs and art are by me, Rubi McGrory, unless otherwise noted.

I occassionally use affiliate links. Support the arts however you can.

words and images © Rubi McGrory 2021-2026