Hey!
Things were getting a little serious around here, so I figured I’d tell y’all a quick story to lighten things up. It’s called “The Follow-Up Flush.”
It hails from a small, legendary all-girls’ prep school in Richmond, VA. In an era full of Double Dare, Don Johnson and the Doobie Brothers.
These were girls who had no cell phones. They didn’t text, they wrote notes. And they were thick as thieves.
They’d seen Animal House and Fast Times over the back of the couch when they weren’t allowed in the room. They kept contraband waxing kits under their beds, Dr. Dre CDs in their underwear drawers, and TV Guides with the Cinemax pages dogeared in their shoeboxes.
They wore white gloves on Saturday nights. They wore bikinis on Sundays—in the safe womb of each other’s company, on hot roofs, with skipping CDs and smudged yearbooks.
They were casual in cold stone churches. They kicked back at country clubs. They rose to fame in the Capital of the Confederacy—130 years after its fall.
They kept things sacred.
They found music they loved, all on their own, walking the aisles of Plan9 Records with flannel shirts around their waists, $12 in cash, and those Billy Corgan-fueled dreams. They were belly shirts and knit bajas. They were unintimidated, headstrong—equal parts good-humored and tortured. Average, but for the decade: nothing like the 90s had come before the 90s. The urgency of the era—that was their melody. The calculated dirt—that was their palette.
There was no Internet; there were auditoriums. There were no memes, but there was humor.
There was the Follow-Up Flush.
The FU Flush occurred after lunch, and before the afternoon classes began. We would dash down past the 6th grade lockers, Carey would quickly air hump the protruding tiled corner of the hallway wall as we rounded to the bathrooms. Then, we would all go in a stall to tinkle, then flush the potties together—arena wave style.
One of many memorable traditions. Thus it is known as the Follow-Up Flush. Sort of like a flash mob in the ladies’ room, but with coordinated use of toilets.
Music, a la commode.
Future wives of upstanding men (upstanding wives of future men?), directors of things, holders of prestigious degrees, mothers, punks, cooks, artists, and flushers.
A reminder to never miss an opportunity to make something awesome—rhythmic—cosmic—inspiring.
-Still air-humpingly yours,
C.
*story and story words courtesy L.H.O.
[Deets for the cheap seats: Rag & Bone skinny surf + old J Campbell fringed boots + Rag & Bone t-shirt + Anthro robe + Warby Parker Nash glasses.]
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