Hello there, situation normies!
I write Situation Normal on Friday mornings, but I took last week off because Christina and I spent the day at Disneyland with our friends Chelsea and Ryan and their lovely daughters, Eliza and Maren. Despite consuming more sugar than their parents would’ve liked, the girls never lost their shit. So a big Magic Kingdom shout out to Maren, who used a bubble-blowing wand to make everyone’s time waiting in line magical, and Eliza who went hardcore on the teacups.
Shout outs are also in order for Missy F and Peter G, the two newest paid subscribers at Situation Normal. The stories at Situation Normal are free, but I really appreciate the situation normies who underwrite joy for the roughly 5,000 situation normies who receive this newsletter every Sunday. Thank you Missy and Peter for helping make Situation Normal happen!
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One last item before we get to this week’s story. Two weeks ago, I wrote about my crime spree. As always, the situation normie community made the comments section come alive. Many of you shared recommendations for crime novels, movies, and TV shows. If you’re a fan of mysteries and thrillers, I highly recommend checking out the comments section of that post. You’ll get some great recommendations. I certainly did.
Thank you to C.L. Steiner for turning me on to Elvis Cole. I enjoyed the first two books in the Robert Crais series, and I’m looking forward to more stories about a wise-cracking LA private eye with a Peter Pan complex.
Also, thank you to Elizabeth Marro for suggesting the Juniper Song novels. I love a good amateur sleuth, but what I really love about the first two books in Steph Cha’s series is the opportunity to see my hometown through the eyes of a twenty-something Korean woman who’s obsessed with Philip Marlowe.
Finally, a big thank you to Andrew Smith who recommended season 5 of Fargo. That season has everything I could ever want. Jon Hamm as a bible-quoting corrupt right-wing sheriff with pierced nipples. Jennifer Jason Leigh as a billionaire other billionaires would be wise not to fuck with. A boogey-man bad guy in a kilt who gives me serious Javier Bardem No Country for Old Men vibes. A crooked lawyer with an eye patch! Dumb criminals straight out of an Elmore Leonard novel. A badass Minnesota mom who could take out an entire special forces platoon while making pancakes. And a determined Minnesota cop who is smart enough and decent enough to go up against the aforementioned cast of dangerous oddballs. Needless to say, Chrisinta and I are hooked. 11 out of 10 would recommend!
OK, let’s get to the story…
After a brief trial period, I quit the Lexabro life. Lexapro tamped down my depression, but it also zapped my energy. I felt like a zombie, and my doctor felt like that was a problem. Using a rigorous science-based process I call “pharmaceutical bingo,” my doctor came up with a new plan. The Wellbutrin plan.
One of the things you learn playing pharmaceutical bingo is that it can take weeks to feel the full benefit, but the side effects typically materialize right away. That’s how real bingo works, too. Early in the game, you experience the agony of missed bingo opportunities while the people around you celebrate their wins, but later on, if you’re lucky, you find Wellbutrin on your bingo card.
Two weeks into the Wellbutrin plan, I met my friend Todd for breakfast. When he asked how I was feeling, I yelled “Bingo!” That turned some heads at the coffee shop, and a few people asked why their omelettes didn’t come with a side of bingo cards.
“My depression is down,” I said. “My energy is up.”
“Fantastic,” Todd said. “Any side effects?”
“One.”
Todd looked concerned. Bad side effects can stop good things in their tracks. They can also lead to litigation, which is why every pharmaceutical ad ends with the following message: any drug can cause any side effect, so don’t sue us if your nipples fall off, or you grow an extra butthole, or your liver turns to dust, or some other malady befalls you; we’ll win because we warned you, and even if the warning isn’t sufficient and a court rules against us, we’ll still win because we have enough lawyers and money to drag you through appellate hell and make you miserable until the end of time.
“It’s actually a cool side effect,” I continued. “I’ve been having really strange, vivid dreams. But you know how you usually dream in fragments? These dreams are different. They’re more like narratives. The stories don’t make sense, but the imagery is cinematic. And weird. Really weird.”
Todd wanted an example, so I described a recent dream where I picked up a hitchhiker.
The hitchhiker was a kid. A kid without a name. A kid who wore a Yoda t-shirt, but the image of Yoda was pixelated because, the kid explained, he didn’t have the clearance to use Disney’s IP.
I drove a vintage red Chevy. A car out of the fifties. Real Rebel Without a Cause vibes. The Chevy ran on Coca-Cola, not cans, but bottles. Old-fashioned glass bottles. I kept telling the kid to pour Coca-Cola into the gas tank, which was located in the glovebox.
Somewhere in the desert, as dark clouds enveloped us, I pulled over and told the kid to get out. He looked lost, but a giant tumble weed led the kid to an abandoned water park that looked a lot like the abandoned water park Christina and I always speculate about whenever we drive to Palm Springs.
I drove on down the road, but I kept tabs on the kid by flipping the sun visor down. On the back of the visor, there was a television screen. Basically, I was driving and watching a movie at the same time, but somehow that was perfectly safe.
The movie started out promising for the kid, our protagonist. He got the abandoned water park working, although the slides ran on chocolate syrup, which may have been a harbinger, because as I drove and watched the movie of the kid playing on the water slides, I also listened to a podcast. On the podcast, the host, who sounded a lot like Kurt Russel, talked about how chocolate syrup was used for blood in old black and white movies. Which is true! But that’s when the movie projected on the back of the sun visor turned to black and white.
After switching to black and white, a drug cartel showed up with a soccer ball. The pool at the abandoned water park turned into a soccer field. The kid was good. Like a seven-year-old Pelé. But his talent pissed off the cartel, so they cut off his head. The narcos used the kid’s severed head as a soccer ball. But it wasn’t all fun and games for the narcos because the kid wouldn’t stop screaming, GooooOOOOOOOOOaaaAAAALLLLaSOOO!!!!!!
That really freaked those narcos out. They were so freaked out that they quit the cartel game. Their leader tried to buy his soul back from the devil, but the devil wouldn’t accept narco money, so the reformed narco had to put his soul on a credit card with a very high interest rate that he knew he’d never pay off, not working at Starbucks anyway. And that’s how the movie inside the movie of my dream ended.
But the dream continued. Because suddenly I was recounting the entire story of the hitchhiking kid and the soccer-loving narcos to my dad over pancakes at our favorite pancake joint, Du-Pars. My dad smiled. A smile I really miss. Then my dad said, “that’s life in the big city.” Which is what my dad always said whenever he heard a messed up story.
“Whoa, that’s a disturbing dream,” Todd said.
“It was and it wasn’t. Like, a drug cartel playing soccer with a kid’s head is disturbing, but it didn’t disturb me. It felt like I was watching a fucked-up movie, but the kind of fucked-up movie that’s, you know, enjoyable.”
“Like a David Lynch film?”
“Yes, exactly! The side effects of Wellbutrin are that my dreams are directed by David Lynch.”
“That’s actually kind of cool,” Todd said.
“I know! And the co-pay is less than the price of a movie ticket, so I feel like I’m coming out ahead.”
“And you didn’t feel weird about seeing your dad?”
“No, that was a lovely bonus, like an extra scene after the credits. I miss him everyday. I’d give anything to have pancakes with my dad again at Du-Pars, but I’m not going to get that because he’s been gone for years, and after he died that Du-Pars got turned into a Sephora.”
“That Du-Pars is a Sephora now?”
“Yeah.”
Todd shook his head.
“What a fucking nightmare.”
Want more Michael Estrin stories? I’ve got books!
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Stick around and chat!
You know the drill. I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers.
Had any weird dreams lately? Dish!
If you could pick a filmmaker to direct your dream who would you pick? Go big!
Even before you get to the boilerplate legal warnings, pharmaceutical ads are absurd. What’s your favorite ad from big pharma?
What’s for breakfast? Say pancakes.
If cars could actually run on Coca-Cola, would Pepsi be considered an alternative fuel? Explain.
I would want Taika Waititi to direct my dreams. Breakfast was scrambled eggs and toast with coffee and OJ mixed with grapefruit juice, plus my Wellbutrin and Lexapro. 🤪 If cars ran on Pepsi I'd never be able to keep a stock of fuel at home because my husband would drink it all, so I'd go for cars fueled by Coke.
That was quite a ride, Michael! And you're welcome for the Robert Crais suggestion - I thought you would like Elvis Cole. Wait till you meet Joe Pike.
1. I have had some weird dreams lately, but I'd rather not!
2. Stanley Kubrick, but I'd like more Spartacus and less Clockwork Orange. I've already had The Shining dream, thank you very much. And yes, I know he's dead, but they're my dreams.
3. I always loved the part of the Cialis ad where they say, "If your erection lasts more than four hours, tell your doctor." I say, if my erection lasts more than four hours, I'm telling everybody.
4. Pancakes. And I miss Du-Par's.
5. Pepsi would be considered one of those cheap brands of gas that makes your engine knock.