i’m okay: 8 lies we tell in the club

what we say when we need to pretend.

(everyone in this photo is lying, especially charli)

I once friend-ghosted the mother of the groom. I was still a junior planner then, but I’d done enough weddings to know the drill; the bride and groom do their tipsy, choreographed introduction, there’s a speech or two, then everybody eats, drinks and dances. Once that starts, the wedding planner’s job is to look busy, stay out of the way and hope to God somebody brings you something to eat.

I remember taking a break to smoke a joint and it was then, on the back porch of Tavern on the Green, that Judy and I really talked for the first time.

I remember trying to wave the smoke away from her direction, (I was on the job, after all) when she sighed:

“Ohhhhh, I remember that smell.”

She declined my offer to partake, but joined me nonetheless.

As the mother of the groom, your role is often limited to just being there, while the husband signs the checks. The “real” wedding responsibilities were the domain of the bride and the bride’s mother. Not that it bothered Judy much, she didn’t want to spend any more time with them then she already had to.

Judy had been drinking champagne.

I remember the tight curl of her short silver hair and the impossibly huge diamond broach pinned to the lapel of her floor-length gown as she told me about marrying her high school sweetheart and raising accomplished sons. She admitted that while she loved her life, she was incredibly bored. It was the kind of naked honesty only strangers can share.

I must’ve been gone a very long time, because when the senior wedding planner (we’ll call her Voldemort) appeared in the arched doorway with a hand on her hip, I knew my time with Judy was over. We hugged and exchanged numbers. She texted me the next day, thanking me and hoping we’d see each other again soon and that she still had a single son. winking face emoji

I never texted back.

I’m no saint and you are no sinner, but every time we go out, we must commit to our own little performances in order to keep the party going. It’s all part of the social contract of the nightlife experience.

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”

Shakespeare didn’t lie… it still tracks. Especially in the club. We show up, performance-ready in our best looks, playing our part to make the night magic. Since we all know a lie or two is required to set the scene, protect ourselves and maintain the fantasy…

Here are eight I’ve heard, I’ve told and often found necessary:

Lie #1: “I know the DJ.”
It’s 2025. Parasocial relationships are status quo. Where social media follows distort real life connection. But until you’ve hovered over room-temp chicken wings at 4am, nodding thoughtfully while that DJ rants about the heaux that left them on read, you don’t really know them.

Lie #2: “I love to dance.”
Here’s the thing, I don’t even think most people are lying when they say this, but you start to wonder where that zest is when you find yourself alone on the dancefloor and that person who loves to dance is in the backyard talking about it instead of being about it.

Lie #3: “Let’s hang out soon.”
The mother of all nightclub lies; and we’re all guilty. You meet in the bathroom line, bond over that one episode of Black Mirror and even though you only caught every other word because the music’s so loud, that final hug makes you genuinely believe you’re gonna get lunch next week.

Lie #4: “I don’t have a boyfriend/girlfriend.”
This one’s just a flat out, dead ass wrong lie, but it doubles as a subtle call-to-action. It’s you letting your target know you’re good to go, even though you know you’ve got a lady at home (or a guy texting your ass right the hell now).

Lie #5: “I’ll text you.”
The companion lie to “Let’s hang out soon.” The most messed up thing about this one? It requires the least amount of effort in the end, considering all you gotta do most of the time is raise your damn arm since your phone’s already in your hand.

Lie #6: “Oh my god, I love you so much.”
Sure, this lie is often drug or booze-induced, but the heart of it’s in the right place. I know you don’t actually love me, but like so much true love, it can be instant and fleeting. If you’re one of these types (and we’ve all been there), keep it to one declaration. Two, max.

Lie #7: “I hope my ex doesn’t show up.”
You do hope they show up. You definitely do. Or at least you know there’s a very good chance they will. This lie is more of a self-soothing mantra, a quiet hope that maybe this time you won’t throw a glance their way every time you hear them laugh, won’t get the impulse to do back-to-back shots, or just flee the scene entirely.

Lie #8: “I’m okay.”
This one isn’t unique to the club; in fact, it’s the most universal lie of all. It’s a reflex, a survival tactic, a distraction from the truth that maybe, actually, you’re not doing that great.

But sometimes “I’m okay” isn’t denial. It’s a prayer or a whispered declaration of the progress that brought you to the club in the first place.

We all tell little white lies to survive the theater of nightlife, to add to the spectacle and the fleeting, unpredictable moments that fade like bummed cigarettes by morning.

But behind every exaggeration, is the thrill of maybe.

Maybe we will get lunch next week.
Maybe they will text like they said they would.
Maybe we will stop posting up and actually dance.

There are no guarantees when it’s last call and the lights come up, but that’s just how the party goes. Nightlife lies are acts of optimism. They’re the tiny delusions that keep us hopeful, especially in times as fraught as these.

Sure, we may not always fulfill those little promises like we should or when we should, but there’s always next weekend.

And who knows?

Maybe next weekend we’ll tell the truth.

XOXO, Pleasure Savior

frank ocean took one for the team

and gave us a masterpiece.

(blonde - the album cover of my dreams)

I was working for Pitchfork at the height of Odd Future.

This was back when the designer-clad Tyler (The Creator) we’ve come to know today was a very young, very angry, entitled little shit. At the time, he was something like a God to many of our readers, so he and the rest of Odd Future were regular fixtures on the site for years. We covered their every move, no matter how insignificant, because they were traffic gold. To give you an idea, the first week of no Odd Future coverage, the editorial staff celebrated the occasion with champagne.

Though make no mistake, we were all very much fans. Myself included.

Many of us on staff, braved the crowd to see them at the now-infamous SXSW 2011 Thrasher magazine showcase at Scoot Inn. There were hundreds of people, so drunk and excited to see OF that they ended up losing their shit and tearing the fences down like it was Woodstock ’99. I remember Tyler being largely unfazed by the event, even gleeful. It was the entitled shit behavior I was referring to earlier, which alot of people are talking about now.

It’s hard to imagine how Frank Ocean managed as long as he did; operating as a living antithesis of what we considered Odd Future (and their bear-poking, nihilist young male fans) to be. To me, he always stuck out like a sore thumb.

(odd future - they were just kids)

I think about him in the “Oldie” video where everyone in OF does a verse, one at at a time. When not rapping, each vied for screen time like children showing off for their parents’ friends.

When it was his turn, Frank eased into frame, Slurpie in hand; and for all the chaos going on in the background, you couldn’t take your eyes off him. I wasn’t expecting he’d rap, but he did. Emerging as a surprising rival to Odd Future’s other prodigy, Earl Sweatshirt.

From that moment on I knew Frank Ocean was something special. When BLONDE dropped, I knew I was right.

It’s easy to dismiss when someone says an album changed their life. It’s damn near impossible not to see it as overdramatic unless you’ve got a tattoo or something.

But BLONDE had that effect on me. And considering the sheer number of think pieces, podcasts and memes that have been published since its release nearly 10 years ago, I know I’m not alone.

People who love BLONDE; I mean really love BLONDE, can come off a bit smug when we talk about it (maybe it’s just me), because we know how lucky we are to be in on something others aren’t.

We witnessed arguably the greatest artist of a generation share the story of his first true love. What a gift to hear someone bare themselves like that with such brazen honesty. It was like that time I ended up on a Fire Island nude beach and I wasn’t sure where to look.

To be allowed that close to his story when heartbreak is often dealt with privately (or at most, among a very select group of sympathetic friends and family), felt like a gift I wasn’t sure I deserved. Particularly, when I consider Frank has avoided the common trappings of fame, by remaining famously private. I wonder if it was easy for him? Did he drag himself through the process of making the album specifically to free himself? Did he have no choice?

(sweet baby frank)

The beauty of this record lies in its pacing. It’s so vivid and unfolds with a sense of calm and vulnerability that if you close your eyes you can watch the movie for yourself. You see billowing weed smoke twisting skyward, as they drove through Ladera Heights. You see the vintage convertible (with the top down) and the hazy dance floors that lead to bedrooms draped in fairy lights, glowing just enough for Frank to catch a flash of glitter on his lover’s cheek.

As “Ivy” became “Solo” and then “White Ferrari”, I watched the rollings hills of Ladera fade into Brooklyn cityscapes, the convertible stretch into a rumbling subway car. It wasn’t Frank on that dancefloor anymore, it was me; wrapped in the arms of the person I’d eventually walk away from. That glitter on their face had rubbed off from mine, a memory scrubbed away by morning.

By the time you arrive at “Godspeed” you feel like you’re intruding; after experiencing the hero’s trial of young passion, the love affair is finally over, Frank has found his way through and discovered peace:

“I will always love you like I do.”

He’s not comparing his love or seeking validation. There’s no exaggeration for effect or color. Just an honest and clear confession.

I’d never heard anyone describe love that way before.

Honestly, the entire album is a testament to Frank’s ability to express emotions that are difficult, if not impossible for many of us to identify. It doesn’t surprise me that he hasn’t released another record.

Even though I (and the rest of the known universe) would give anything for another album from Frank, BLONDE still feels like enough. It’s gotta be.

Those of us who love BLONDE and I mean really love BLONDE, know exactly what he had to go through to give it to us. Almost like he took a bullet by sharing his pain without shame, so we could see ours more clearly.

It’s strange… I knew BLONDE changed my life when I realized there should never be another one.

XOXO, Pleasure Savior