To avoid blushing on the page (hey, my aunts read this!), I’ll let Schulman describe her stage antics: I was first introduced to Everett in 2014 when my friend Anna offered me and my now-husband James tickets to a late-night performance of Everett’s “Rock Bottom” cabaret show at Joe’s Pub. But we will say the through-line is a kind of radical remorselessness: I dumped the dude, I’m better for it! Could a man get away with writing with such a gives-no-effs take here in 2022? Probably not! Are we okay with women doing it anyway? Damn right! Here’s to the year of the tiger (who else is getting the sweatshirt ?).Īs the nation continues to reel from Michael Schulman ’s takedown-or-was-it on Jeremy Strong/Kendall Roy, the New Yorker writer has come out with yet another can’t-miss pop-culture profile, this time on a hero of mine, the bodacious, bawdy alt-cabaret-singer-turned-HBO-comedy-star Bridget Everett.
The American Conservative had this to say of Jones: “She ought to be ashamed of herself…the fact that it was written and published at all-is profoundly emblematic of the moral bankruptcy of our culture.” Eye roll? Sure. Of course, this kind of lady pluck always riles up the right wing.
And Tuesday, novelist and Harpers Bazaar executive editor Kaitlyn Greenidge published an opinion piece in the New York Times about her own pandemic divorce, which has led her and her daughter to move in with her mother and siblings redefining their family, she argues, has benefited her child. In her newsletter, Jill Filipovic followed up with a lengthy rehash of Havrilesky/Jones, giving thanks for her own marriage while urging us to question the societal conditioning that makes nuptials hard on us modern women. In a beautifully wrought Atlantic essay, mother of three Honor Jones walks away from her renovation fantasy-the house and the husband and the infernal crushed Cheerios underfoot, though not the Cheerios-crushing children-to view the world once again through no one else’s lens but her own.
#New yorker bridget everett windows#
As we round the bend into year three of this pandemic, with Omicron wafting under the doors and clambering through the windows of our once-safe refuge-taunting us with the possibility of yet more months of forced togetherness-marriage itself seems to be the question of the day, in a steady stream of essays by women describing marital dissatisfaction and, in some cases, dissolution. Or maybe the whole darn bottle.How many of us fell into bed one night this past week, existentially wrung out by the particular heaven/hell overwhelm of family holidays, and scrolled through advice queen Heather Havrilesky ’s marriage essay 1 in the New York Times- reading a little guiltily, perhaps tilting the phone slightly away from our partner, lest he make out the bold font: “Do I hate my husband? Oh yes, sure, definitely.” Why bother hiding when chances are, said partner was reading the same thing on his phone, 18 inches away-wondering how he’d lasted 11 years handcuffed to the Grinch. Everett would not shy from storming off the stage and forcing a glass of wine down my throat.
#New yorker bridget everett full#
But I came quickly to my senses, knowing full well that Ms. (Watching “Murder, She Wrote” is virtually the only one that doesn’t involve messy sex.)ĭuring this interlude, I was briefly tempted to announce my general aversion to chardonnay - and share my own mortifying recent binge-watching of old “Murder, She Wrote” episodes. In the show’s title song, she gives the metaphorical finger to anyone averse to her favorite grape, and relates in robust detail all the good times that her love of a fine chardonnay has provided. Such is her love for her favorite tipple that she makes it the subject of a funny rant followed by some give and take with her backup singers decrying the Sauvignon snobs and the Gruner groupies. Everett swigs from a brown-bagged bottle of chardonnay throughout the evening.
If sex is a primary focus of the show - and God knows it is - booze plays the major featured role. Everett’s singing has grown more nuanced since I last saw her, in the show “At Least It’s Pink.”) But she also scales down the size of her instrument and brings a suppler tone and sense of emotional authenticity to “Why Don’t You Kiss Me,” a straightforward, lovely song about a girl yearning for a boy. She can rock hard, and does, on the driving numbers, using her mighty belt to whip the audience into a lather. Everett could be just another filter-free oversharer if she did not possess both a dark, savage humor and, more important, a rich, rangy voice to match her outsize attitude.
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