This podcast came about because of a story a friend told me about the bizarre way that her mom used to feed the family dog: it had to be on Saran Wrap and there had to be a banana next to the food (we’ll circle back to that). The story had such a weird premise--like, something that a very drunk or high person might make up--but it was 100% true. As I was listening and laughing my ass off it struck me that we all have bizarre, touching, important stories like this that only we know. Stuff we'd maybe never think to tell anyone because it seems normal to us--part of the oxygen of our history. And then I thought, I've got to get those stories out of peoples’ heads and onto tape.
As anyone I initially talked to about this idea will tell you (because I wouldn’t shut up about it), I struggled to come up with my elevator pitch. But the analogy of historical markers kept coming up. In the US, we put metal historical markers on important geographic spots, on buildings, on statues. You can walk or drive up to them and read a short story about what happened at the spot and when it happened. In this simple way, history is preserved.
So, a Tiny Histories podcast episode is an audio historical marker on something in an individual’s life. But probably the best way to explain Tiny Histories is to just tell you one. To that end, here’s a Tiny History of my own:
A Bar to Call My Own
I’ve lived in…46 places so far. It’s not as exciting as it sounds—a lot of those places were in the same city and even the same neighborhoods. Even when I was a kid, there was a lot of Goldie Locks moving (this place is too small, this place is too expensive, this place is juuuust right). I moved to Houston’s Montrose neighborhood when I was 20. It's about a mile or two from downtown. Back then, fleeing to the big city from the suburbs was a thing, and a thing that I was definitely doing. The Montrose is the neighborhood formerly known as Houston's Gayborhood—it’s still rainbow-colored in its heart, despite the gentrification. Lots of old bungalows and shady oak trees, bars, boutiques restaurants, art galleries. It's main drag is Westheimer Road.
Ultimately I lived in the Montrose (you always have to use "the" and if you don't, you will be doing it wrong) for about 21 years. Though I lived in probably 20 different actual places in the Montrose, the neighborhood itself became my home. I could drive through it with my eyes shut; its citizens and denizens, even though I might not know their names, were my neighbors. And my favorite room in my neighborhood home was a bar called Poison Girl. I can't remember the first time I went there, but it was probably with my friend J, who 100% for certain has a hollow leg (which, come to think of it, is probably why I can't remember the first time I went there).
Poison Girl is located in a small strip of businesses on Westheimer. The front is hot pink, and there’s a big plate glass window with the bar’s logo emblazoned on it. Inside, it’s like entering a womb, or maybe a birth canal. It’s shotgun-style. The bar’s on your left. There are dark walls with velvet paintings of naked ladies everywhere. Mannequin parts mark the restrooms, and a sign over the bar says, “Drink Like an Adult.” There are a few pinball machines. Depending on who’s bartending, the music is somewhere on the Sonic Youth-to-metal spectrum. And out the back door is the patio, with maybe twelve tables, some wooden picnic tables, some metal patio furniture. The patio is fenced in by tall corrugated metal and it backs right up to the backyards of the houses behind.
When I first started going to Poison Girl, the 12-foot tall paper mache Kool-Aid Man that lives on the patio was perched up on the the roof of the building. But during a storm, the poor guy blew down, and since then, he’s lived in a corner of the patio. He gets painted for holidays and occasions. He might be painted with the Misfits face for Halloween, or in Houston Astros colors if the team’s doing well, or in rainbow stripes for Pride. You can always tell who newcomers are because they take selfies with Kool-Aid Man.
I kept going back to Poison Girl, with and without J. Something about the bar just felt right. It was, for lack of a better word, a real place. Nothing about it was manufactured. And it was divey, but unintimidating. Plus, the surly bartenders softened after they started recognizing me; instead of the stonefaced “What do you want?” I’d get a smile and a “Your usual?” There was Jonas—imagine Roy Kent as an ex-straight edger with red hair and a beard, and you’ve pretty much got it. Eric, snarky as fuck, but also a quiet careful talker with glasses and a degree in something like architecture from a fancy school. Lindsay, a tatted up creative hustler with a big gravely voice, and big round glasses. Robin, a small, sarcastic equally tatted entrepreneur who was hilarious. Mercurial Stacy who would alternately remember me, smile, and give me my usual, or act like it was the first time she’d ever seen me in her life and that she was clearly unhappy about it. The owners were two couples, locals, and some of the sweetest people you’d ever meet.
Sometimes, I’d go with friends. Sometimes, I’d go alone to write and wind up running into someone and talking for an hour. The bar became my base and my touch stone. It’s where I went to feel better after a bad day. It was where friends threw my 30th birthday party. When I had crippling anxiety and had plans to meet a group of people out, I’d first go sit at PG for a little bit, and have a drink until I felt grounded enough to handle people. PG was where, when a friend committed suicide, we had the post-memorial service gathering on the patio and ate his favorite food, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on white bread, at one of the picnic tables. (He and I met up at PG countless times and it had been one of his favorite places, too. One of his self portrait paintings still hangs on the back wall.) I’m 100% sure that almost all of our drinks were comped that night. It was where my partner and I went for our first date, and it happened to be the bar’s anniversary, so we celebrate our anniversary on Poison Girl’s anniversary. It was where I went after hurricane Ike thrashed the city. The power was out everywhere and I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I kind of just gravitated home to the bar. They had it open with candles for lighting, ice chests, and written tabs for people with credit cards to pay later. A handful of locals who looked like we’d been run over by a hurricane sat stunned on the back patio asking each other how we were doing. When I found myself unemployed, the owners gave me a job at their coffee shop, and even though I only worked there for a few months, forever after, I got the employee discount. At one point, I lived around the block from PG, on the same street as Jonas. I’d see him walking his black standard poodle in that special Jonas way that says, “What? Are you gonna say something?”
We live in Seattle now, and visit Texas as often as work and money allows. I recently went back to Houston for a visit and it so happened that some of my best friends were in town at the same time. We’d all spent time together at PG, so we met there. It was my first time in a long time because…pandemic. And I was greeted by Jonas. As Jonas-y as ever. Maybe a little more wizened around the eyes (and who among us isn’t?). He and I talked a little and then my friends and I took our drinks out to the patio. The Kool-Aid Man was still there, though he’d suffered a handle injury. My friend’s self portrait still hung in the same spot. And the bar had added a photo booth. (Fancy!) My friends and I had a great time catching up. And I felt simultaneously like I belonged there and like a tourist—a tourist of my own past, somehow.
One of the things I learned from having a place like Poison Girl in my life was that community is, in large part, something you create by simply showing up, over and over again. You get to know people, they get to know you and it builds a trust. You become part of each others’ environment. You have each others’ backs now and then. I haven’t found another place like PG since we moved (for which my liver is probably grateful but my heart is sad) but I haven’t given up. I’m currently taking applications, but the bar is set pretty high.
So, that’s a Tiny History—that’s what my historical marker on Poison Girl would say. What’s a Tiny History from your life? We want to know! We’ve got a submission form up on our website: tinyhistoriespodcast.com, or you can email us at tinyhistoriespod@gmail.com.