on summer shenanigans.
The quietly unhinged parts of Doris, not to mention how good it smells, are enough to keep me coming back.
It was late afternoon on a random weekday in the middle of August and I was sitting with Truman in Prospect Heights. We were meeting because I needed to know why it was time to say goodbye to Modern Whitney.
Modern Whitney was a monthly show at Pine Box Rock Shop where comedians tried to guess the meaning behind various pieces of art. The show is organized into three acts: art interpretation, rapid-fire round, and guessing childhood memories. Onstage there’s a panel of comedians who try to guess the meaning behind works of art; an expert fills in the details after a few minutes of ad-libbing. The live, improvisational nature between the comedians, host, and audience was what made it such a delight and always so different.
The show had its final run earlier that month, though neither of us was there. I was coming back from the Newport Jazz Festival; Truman, the creator and producer of the show, at a wedding in Texas. The introspective part of me wanted to know why this creative project, something that had introduced me to so many people, was now ending. Without this show, what would my life look like? Would I have inevitably still found the board game group, just through different circumstances, or were these connections completely and utterly random?
If board game nights were a sitcom, Truman was also our producer.
In his view, the group is in its fifth season, though our fictional lore places board game’s origins as far back as the 1980s. A typical game night might include a ceremonial offering of Michael’s homemade hummus or a quick run to Haagen Daz. The distinction between series regular versus recurring character unofficially depends on how often you show up; coming every week is definitely main cast material. At one point in June - when I was coming regularly and seeing some people in the group multiple times in between - Truman officially declared that I was bumped up to series regular. Of course, it’s all a bit, but with this group, everything is a bit.
Some nights we play games, ranging in complexity from Uno - though not everyone agrees on how to play it - to Coup, a political dystopian card game involving lying, assassinations, and greedy bankers. Other nights, we order pizza, talk about our feelings.
Honestly, I tend to like the sitting and talking much more than the games. We trade minor gossip and updates about our lives, but there are also times when we get philosophical, asking questions about what it means to live a good life or the role technology has in our lives. We tend to talk about that last point more often than not, since a not insignificant portion of the group works in tech.
That August, Truman and I were outside of Ciao Gloria, a favorite spot for the neighborhood’s well-dressed software engineers and a more grounded tech-adjacent crowd. I often overhear an impromptu Googler reunion or look at the person sitting next to me and see them working on an ad campaign for well-known D2C brands.
Over a turmeric latte and slice of focaccia pizza, Truman echoed what my roommate, Rachel - Modern Whitney’s host - had said earlier when I asked why the show ended. How it was stressful to put together a show, even if it was only once a month. How it was time to try something else creatively. That it didn’t feel fun anymore.
All perfectly understandable, worthwhile reasons to end something, yet I still couldn’t help but feel a little sad. In addition to serving as an introduction to the group, Modern Whitney was one of the few regularly occurring events that mobilized the board game group out of Michael’s apartment and into a different setting, meaning it was the perfect opportunity to get a little drunk and a little silly.
June’s Modern Whitney perfectly captured that spirit. Everything from that show felt absurdly funny and deeply intelligent and later, expertly foreshadowed.
The theme that night was celebrating queer artists in honor of Pride Month. The panel of comedians seemed to authentically connect, bouncing jokes off of each other and the art. I was laughing so hard that at some points, I teared up. One of the audience memories - a staple of Modern Whitney - was a drawing of a toilet overflowing.
After the show, the quick crayon drawing eventually came to life in one of the bathrooms. In between scrambling to help staff clean up the water, several people in line couldn’t help but chuckle. I could have sworn I even heard a “life imitating art” from the group of mean-looking punk girls standing by the pinball machine. It was incredibly special to know that this evening of enjoyment was made in partnership with my now roommate and another friend.
After the show, after a quick musical detour to Artichoke Pizza, by the time Leo and I were making our way from Bushwick to Bad Luck Bar, it was already close to midnight and I was hungry again. Lauren, the art historian that night, was there with Truman and saved seats for us.
The bar was neither utterly busy nor completely dead. There were enough people here that it felt lively, but the voices from conversations weren’t deafening. We could still talk at a reasonable volume. The red lighting made it seem more moody than it actually was. Lauren had a plate of french fries and offered us some since the kitchen was now closed.
The thing I love about North Brooklyn bars is that many of them offer small, relatively low-cost light snacks that are actually quite good. Hot dogs at Super Power, grilled cheese from Doris, Sharlene’s empanadas. All under $10. Bad Luck Bar, in addition to fries, also offers oysters and pizza.
We stayed there for an indeterminate amount of time, one that I can only measure as “one more drink,” before deciding to continue the evening at Doris, because this summer, all roads led to Doris.
No other bar in Brooklyn quite captured the spirit, the atmosphere, the literal vibe of my summer more than Doris. Come for the vinyl nights, stay for the grilled cheese, Doris is the type of place you’re glad you know exists.
Tucked between a plasma donation center and the uncannily silent, poorly lit part of Fulton, it’s where I go with my board game friends, my Democratic Socialist friends, queer friends, neighborhood friends. It’s the type of place where people dance on bar tops and make out near the outdoor ping pong tables. Doris is where you go to laugh, to cry, to stand in an uncomfortably hot basement, to drink a cold Tecate while everyone squeezes together on a long picnic table, quickly turning strangers into friends by the end of the evening.
I love that I live in a world where the local bar by my apartment has such great branding that it’s not uncommon for me to see other people in line at Olde Brooklyn Bagel Shoppe or Union Market with Doris merch. I own two shirts myself.
Whenever I need either a reminder that life’s not that serious, a much-needed reality check, or sometimes - depending on the week - both, it usually means a visit to Doris is right around the corner. The quietly unhinged parts of Doris, not to mention how good it smells, are enough to keep me coming back for more, wondering what shenanigans will happen next.
By the time we arrived that night, it was after midnight, which meant the backyard was closed.
There’s always the initial awkwardness of herding everyone inside, the crush of bodies by the exit, and again near the stairs to the basement, but after the crowd thins out a little, the next hour - between midnight and one - is usually peak Doris.
We ordered more drinks, declaring that if anyone saw someone they found interesting, the rest of us would do our part to try and make a connection. While Jake, my ex-husband, had dived head first back into dating in the month since we had separated, I was more reluctant. It wasn’t that I didn’t ever want to date again, but rather it still felt too soon. Needless to say, I saw some attractive guys and gals that night but wasn’t about to put myself in the position to meet someone I might like when I didn’t feel ready.
Leo, on the other hand, had subtly indicated two cute alt-looking girls sitting by the water station. Lauren sprang into action. She would go and see if either of them were interested.
In my slightly tipsy, slightly high state - some of us had shared a joint on the walk over - I also decided to tag along. I followed Lauren through the crowd, slowing down at the water station, but she kept going until she reached another group of women who were standing by the door to the patio. It was close-ish to the water station, I’ll give her that, but neither of these women was their type. Not because they weren’t attractive, but because I was pretty sure they were not interested in men.
I watched as Lauren confidently approached, trying to stifle both a laugh and a growing sense of secondhand embarrassment. Lauren leaned in closer to repeat her opener. When she pointed to Leo and Truman - who both looked equally confused and increasingly embarrassed - I rushed down to the basement, to an empty bathroom, so that I could giggle.
By the time I composed myself and made it back upstairs, Lauren still hadn’t gotten the memo and had guided the two women - who were definitely queer, definitely dating each other, and were also just as confused - over to the guys. The six of us stood in silence, music thrumming in the background, before one of the women expressed her confusion and Lauren finally understood these were not the right women.
We were mortified. We profusely apologized. The women, understanding but rightfully annoyed, eventually walked away. Seconds later, water started seeping out from under the bathroom door we were standing next to. Clogged toilets at bars seemed to be the recurring theme for the night.
Later that night, when a late night started to creep into the early morning, we were walking out of Doris, towards Downtown Brooklyn, still howling with laughter and repeating different parts of the story.
What I remember is Truman repeating, “How could you possibly think those were the girls we were interested in?” That Leo couldn’t get over the fact that, at one point, Lauren and I had both disappeared. “But where did you both go?” How Lauren kept laughing and groaning. “I thought you were pointing closer to the door!”
My favorite part is in the retelling of it all - which inevitably happened for the first time a few days later during the next game night. I loved hearing what parts people shared; how other people asked follow-up questions, resulting in more laughs.
I love that I decided to go to this random show I saw on a website and now I get to share this story. I get to know that I once went to bed before midnight and am now having silly experiences eating bodega hash browns and reading the existential graffiti scrawled on the women’s bathroom stalls at Sharlene’s.
I tell this story - in all of its funny, awkward, conspiratorial glory - and am reminded that sometimes the best sitcoms don’t happen on television but in real life.