It’s been one year since Stacy Campbell left us. Her sense of humor was as legendary as her eye for beauty, and the world hasn’t been the same without her. She was sarcastic, dark, absurd, brilliant, and compassionate, and she touched each of us with her words, her photos, or her soul. She was my soul sister, my best friend, and one of the great loves of my life. And here, at the one year anniversary of her death, I knew that it was time to elevate her to the same level as every celebrity I’ve ever fake interviewed by fake interviewing her. She is a celebrity – she was Jürgen Nation. She was Indie Ink. She was Anastacia. She was Stacy Fucking Campbell.
Me: Hi, Stacy.
SFC: Well, harumph! Never did I ever antici . . . pate that I’d be the subject of one of my bestie’s interviews, but *she says while fanning herself furiously*, I didn’t think it would take THIS GD LONG. There’s only so much waiting a lady can do, sitting idly whilst hemming and hawing until her bearded devil man shows up to ask her a bunch of questions that will, natch, bring about the gnashing of teeth and tearing up of the eye-parts that I imagine occurs regularly when he plies his authorial skills.
Me: I really should have done this a while ago, but I wasn’t ready. Not that you can ever be ready for this. And to be honest, I was mad at you. Hell, Stace, I’m still mad at you.
SFC: Oof, let’s explore that. Are you mad because (A) I stood by my words and did what I said I was going to do and even you, with all your manliness and super powers, couldn’t convince me not to, (B) I forgot to send you the power-of-attorney, resulting in a bevy of vituperative and borderline despicable actions being taken by those whom never meant a lick to me, compared you and my closest besties, or (C) it’s easier than being sad, even though sadness is an emotion we need for that chance to really, truly, indubitably, zoobilee zooily FEEL happiness?
Me: D, All of the above, plus E-Z?
SFC: *checks with judges*. Looks like we’ll allow it, but I counter with this, dearest Addy: Life is a highway (unintentional hat-tip to Tom Cochrane) with people getting on and getting off, and all of us just scurrying around (like rats because it’s a rat race – METAPHORS!) waiting for our exit, and maybe you’re mostly mad (which is like being mostly dead, but without Miracle Max running around yelling Humperdink) because my exit came up before yours. Huh? What do you say? You can’t argue with my logic?
*drops mic* *dances a little, realizes nobody’s dancing with her, asks Steph why nobody will dance with her*
Me: Maybe a little. But I’m also mad that you had all of us, and you didn’t come to us. You had Stephanie, Tom, Krystyna, Tia, Racheal, and me, as well as everyone else – all of the family and friends and people out there – and we would have moved mountains for you. If you’d only asked.
SFC: Oh, my dear Addy, don’t you know how much I knew that? I knew that I could pick up the phone, and you’d be there, shovel in hand, not to move the mountain, mind you, but to help me bury the bodies. That’s how much I knew I could count on you.
Me: Yeah, but instead, we buried you.
SFC: Ooof, she repeats, taking another solid blow. Not nice to try to lay ye ol’ guilt trip on your bestie when she’s already been gone for a year. First of all, I’m like Teflon, baby, and guilt just slides off me like a pair of fried eggs. And secondly . . . well, wait, it’s time for me to ask you questions. Would you say that I was a relatively (compared to gen pop) intelligent and savvy gal with an equally savvy understanding of the world? *bats eyes*
Me: Yes, absolutely. You had a level of understanding that most people don’t even realize is possible, and can’t even try to aspire to reach. You were someone who just knew when to be there for someone, and what to say to make their lives better. It’s why you were my beautiful soul sister, and meant just as much to so many others as you did to me.
SFC: A simple yes would be sufficient. Flattery is unnecessary! Next question – was I someone with no brain waves, an individual under the age of consent, or a non-human (none of whom can give consent anyway), or was I a fully (relatively so) functioning adult?
SFC: NO SIGHING IN BASEBALL, ADS! Answer me. Yes or no – was I an adult?
Me: Yes. You were an adult.
SFC: So, if it pleases the court (even though it appears the judge is not wearing pants YET AGAIN), would you in fact say that my choices were mine as a functioning, intelligent adult, and that your anger is less about me, and more about you? That you, in frustration of your lack of control, have decided to be mad because that’s something you can understand?
*picks up mic, drops it again*
Me: Fucker. I’m used to being the one who’s always right, you know.
SFC: Ha! I say again, HA! You, like every other of us who is trying to sort through life, make mistakes. Our flaws are us. They’re why you’re as beautiful as you are hairy (and won’t you reconsider letting me give you the name of a nice laser removal gent?) and why I love you so. I know you’re mad. But cut that out, starting now. This was my exit. Don’t go away mad, just don’t go away (apologies to the auteur Vince Neil).
Me: I’m still here. Always and forever. Even if we only got to have one true adventure.
SFC: But it was an adventure for the fucking record books! Thrusting trepidation to the side, trespassing while traversing the tangled theme park (alliteration totally INTENDED). And we had so many more planned – the catacombs, ghost hunting, a commune and life together with the most creative and wonderful people in the world, Australia, the world, just me and my bestie.
Me: I miss you, Stacy. So terribly.
SFC: Quit it. You had me! You got me on a level that almost nobody did. And you have memories and pictures and the Story of Us, and that will never change. But missing people is what sad people do. Don’t miss me – go make more memories with people like me. People who inspire you, who believe in you, who know who you truly are (even if you keep sticking to that tall tale of you being the meanest Becky on the block, I’ll always know the truth, the whole truth, and nuthin but it).
Can I get back to the highway analogy (looks like the judges said yes) and say that when you’re racing that sporty little red Miata with the hot blonde, and she gets off at her exit, you don’t get sad. You find another car to race, a billboard to read, a guy picking his nose to make fun of. You keep driving, and you don’t stop until your GPS says (in a sultry Stacy Bot voice) “Take the next exit”.
Me: And then?
SFC: And that’s when I’ll see you. Drinks are on me.
Would you potentially be interested in a coffee table book that collects all of my and Stacy’s photos (like the ones below) from our journey through the abandoned Six Flags in New Orleans? Leave your name and email address below to be notified when more information is available:
Today’s post was brought to you by this song on repeat:
“You should let your beard grow out,” she cupped my chin with one of her hands. For almost ten years, I’d kept my beard maintained with weekly trips to my neighborhood barber shop. In my head, there were two options: a close trim or looking homeless. It never occurred to me that there was another way.
I turned my head on my pillow to face her. “You think so? Don’t you think it would look disheveled and awful?”
She dragged her naked leg slowly up my body and pulled me closer to her. Along her journey, she discovered, not-so-subtly, that I might be ready for round two. “I think it would look sexy,” she whispered in my ear, and the might bes turned into definitelys.
So, I grew my beard out. Didn’t take long. Now it’s been over a year.
It’s a fine line, however, between looking like a boy who doesn’t know how to use a razor and a man who’s breaking in the wild horse on his face. My barber visits each week became focused on shaping and edging instead of trimming. Keep the neck clean, keep the head clean, tame the sides, let nature do what she will with the front. The wiry hairs were coarse, and I worried about the pain it might inflict on the women who would deem me worthy of their time. I worried about chafing their cheeks, scraping their thighs, breaking their hearts.
That’s when I learned about the world of beard care. Beard oils and treatments. Products designed purely for softening and taming. Smelling nice and feeling good. Things every man can get behind.
Preferring to support local business as much as I can, I reached out to a company based out of Orlando called Beard Adventures. They provided me with a set of three beard oils to try for free: Lumberjack, Outback, and Black Pepper. I chose those three out of a bevy of beard care scents including spiced rum, bourbon, whiskey smash, mojito, black coffee, and more. I went home, and each day, after a hot shower, I’d choose one and rub the oil thoroughly throughout this monstrosity that has taken over my face, taming it down.
I’d travel to my daily haunts – my local restaurants, my local strip clubs, my local comedy club – supporting my local vendors, servers, and single mothers. I’d approach my friends. And strangers, because I felt emboldened.
“Smell my beard,” I’d say. Some were equally bold, planting their nose firmly in and inhaling deeply. Others required convincing. “It’s not a trick, I just want your opinion.” Some still weren’t convinced. “I’ll give you a dollar.” The last resort always worked.
And the responses were unanimous:
“Wow, that smells sexy.”
“I like that!”
“Where did you get that from?”
“Can I smell you again?”
“Now do you want a lap dance?”
Beard care can turn you from a sweaty neckbearded child into a sultry badass with a dark past. From an unhygienic nerdblaster to the savvy king of the geeks. From Hagrid to Gandalf. And I wholeheartedly recommend Beard Adventures for all of your beard care needs. And in fact, if you or a loved one has a beard that needs some tender loving care, how about an opportunity to win a free set of three beard oils with beard comb?
Disclaimer: I was not paid for this review, and I received the products for free from Beard Adventures. I also got three lap dances, but they were free, mostly because my beard smelled so fucking awesome.
In January, I told you about the amazing opportunity I had in Melbourne, where the owner of Open Mike’s gave me an hour and a half to just tell stories. Like an autobiographical one-man show, this was a chance for me to branch out from comedy a little and see if I could be interesting and entertaining beyond being shocking and telling dick jokes.
You be the judge. I’ll say that the first half is rougher than the second half, because I had no idea what I was doing, but in the end, I’m proud of this as my first effort, and can’t wait for another opportunity to bring this unique show to life in another venue. Next time you have 90 minutes and want to listen to someone talk about marriage, divorce, death, affairs, love, loss, pain, depression, anxiety, happiness, and comedy, I present to you “Tales From The Avitable Camp For Wayward Women.” Thanks to John Sluder for shooting it, Mike Della Cioppa for letting me perform, and David Alan and Em Strange for performing!