People Are Strange: Santa Cruz, Vampires, Street Fighters, and The Lost Girl

Lauren Nixon-Matney • June 26, 2025
People Are Strange: Santa Cruz, Vampires, Street Fighters, and The Lost Girl

Echo & The Bunnymen: People Are Strange (Cover of The Doors)
Film: The Lost Boys

OPENING SCENE – “WIDE SHOT”


Cue the boardwalk lights. Cue the distant scream from a ride.

Cue the sound of leather boots on wet wood, and a synth beat pulsing under sea fog.


But this isn’t Santa Cruz. Not yet.


This is Houston, Texas 1990 something.

A couch. A Coke. My dad. Me, eleven years old and wide eyed.


The movie flickered on "The Lost Boys" and the world shifted.

It didn’t feel like we were watching a film. It felt like the film was watching me.


“You ever seen this one?” he asked.


I hadn’t.


But I didn’t need a plot summary.

The soundtrack landed. The camera soared over the ocean. The boardwalk glowed like something out of a fever dream.


And just like that, I was gone.


⸻


Track One: Cry Little Sister


“Thou shalt not fall / Thou shalt not die…”


The song wasn’t background music.

It was prophecy.

It sounded like something ancient whispered through a TV speaker...

a lullaby for the strange ones.


Even now, I can hear it.


That sacred pulse under the opening scene,

it told me I was stepping into something beyond.

Not just vampires. Not just fog and blood.


And my dad (Chief Mojo Rising) was right there beside me.

Named not literally, but spiritually, after Jim Morrison’s shadow.

He had that same quiet chaos in him. That poetic, cracked open cool.

That wild spark you couldn’t fake.


We passed the Coke back and forth like communion.

He let the film speak for itself. Let it wrap around us both.

He wasn’t just showing me a movie. He was welcoming me in.


By the time it ended, I wasn’t the same girl who’d changed it to that channel and became entranced by the intro.

I was cooler. Braver. Stranger.


I wasn’t afraid of the dark.

I belonged to it now.


Track Two: People Are Strange


“People are strange when you’re a stranger…”


I recognized the song immediately.


The melody hit first slinky, sideways, sad.

A song that knew something about you without asking.

But the voice was wrong.

It wasn’t Jim Morrison.


I turned to the screen, then to my dad. I didn’t say anything... I just knew.

He’d taught me The Doors young. “People Are Strange” was one of our sacred songs.

And this version?

It felt haunted. Slowed down. Echoed through a filter of fog and neon.


But it worked.

It more than worked.

It belonged to the film in the same way the boardwalk did

familiar, but one step removed.

A version of reality slightly off axis.

Just like me.


I waited for the credits.

Even at eleven, I needed to know who sang it.

Echo & the Bunnymen.

Of course.


There’s something about hearing a song you love dressed in new clothes.

It’s like meeting an old friend in a dream, same soul, different voice.

That was this moment. That was this movie.


⸻


I didn’t know then that I’d spend the next decade drifting between groups, always a little offbeat, always almost fitting.

But something in this song told me I wasn’t alone in that.

It gave language to the feeling I couldn’t name yet,

that sense of living just outside the glass.

Observing. Listening. Waiting for a signal.


And there it was.

In a vampire movie.

On a couch.

Next to my dad.


A strange song, for a strange girl, in a strange world that was suddenly starting to make a little more sense (or at least feel a lot more rad).


Track Three: I Still Believe


“I still believe / I still believe…”


Sixteen years.

That’s how long it had been since our wedding road trip.

Roswell. The Grand Canyon. Vegas. California.

We were just married, just beginning, just wild enough to believe that love could outrun the world.


Now we’re back.

Similar route. Same coast.

But this time… it’s heavier.

This time, we brought the kids.

And the ashes.


Jamie’s mom asked to be scattered near Monterey a year after she passed.

So we came.

To honor her. To relive something. To feel it all again, but different.


More memory. More grief. More joy.

Everything turned up. Everything threaded through something else.


⸻


We hadn’t even made it to the boardwalk yet when things started echoing.


The Airbnb smelled like my grandmother’s house  (my dad’s mom).

Old wood. A soft sweetness. Comfort tucked into corners.

Jamie said it reminded him of my dad’s house too.

I didn’t even know I’d been waiting for that scent until it found me.


It wrapped around me like a blanket stitched with ghosts.

Not sad. Just present.

Like they were saying,


“We’re still here.”


⸻


And then came Santa Cruz.


The boardwalk stretched in front of us like a memory unfolding.


We made it there early. The rides were shut down.

No music blasting, no crowd noise just the ocean behind us and the quiet creak of the place breathing.


It felt… still.

Like the movie had wrapped but the set was still standing.

Like we got there before something happened or maybe after.


We didn’t rush anything.

We spent most of the morning walking the beach, collecting shells with the kids.

Tiny treasures in sandy hands, Maggie squealing every time she found one that sparkled.

Jaxon walking ahead, in his own little rhythm. Gracie laughing like she was made of seafoam.


We wandered into the arcade like it was second nature.


No lines, no chaos. Just quarters on preloaded cards, buttons, and that warm hum of old machines still doing their job.


We spotted Street Fighter II and Jamie smiled, not at me, not at the kids, just this quiet little grin, like something clicked into place.


Jaxon stepped up next to him like he was always meant to.


They played.

Same game Jamie played when he was a kid.

Same stance, same focus.

Jaxon held his own.


I didn’t say anything. Just stood there, watching them. Taking photos quietly.

Not just as a mom. Not just as a wife.

But as someone fully there: present, grounded, grateful.


The ocean. The arcade. My family.

Santa Cruz.

Not how I imagined it.

Better.


I still believe.


In movies.

In music.

In bloodlines and memory and Street Fighter tournaments under arcade lights.

In the kind of love that keeps circling back, asking you to remember and choose it again.


Track Four: Lost in the Shadows


“Say hello to the night…”


This trip wasn’t just a vacation.

It was a soul mission.


We weren’t just here for fun.

We were here because of death, and love, and promises made.


To scatter ashes.

To retrace steps.

To feel the weight of everything we’ve lived through since the last time we stood on this road.


Roswell.

Flagstaff.

Vegas.

California.

Same places mostly. Different people.


Back then, it was just Jamie and I, young and electric and unstoppable.

Now? It’s deeper. Heavier. Bittersweet.


We’ve said goodbye to parents.

We’ve brought children into the world.

We’ve learned how to keep loving each other when the road is long and the night is thick with silence.


⸻


Driving through Arizona, the sky was big and soft and gold —

and I felt my dad there,

somewhere between the desert and the distant mountains.

It was his kind of landscape.


Reservation land.

Navajo country.

Spirit territory.


Jamie felt him too.

Just a flicker.

But enough to say:


“He’s with us.”


And in California, in Monterey, in the wind over the ocean

we felt his mother, Margie


like the sea had been calling her home this whole time.


⸻


We carried them both.

In the way we looked at the sky.

In the way we let the kids run free.

In the way we didn’t rush through the heavy moments.


This trip was full of shadows.

But we weren’t lost in them.

We were walking through them with purpose.

With memory.

With love.


Track Five: Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me


“Although I search myself, it’s always someone else I see…”


We found it by accident.

Or maybe not.


The Lost Boys house, tucked behind the trees, almost hidden, like it didn’t want to be seen by just anyone.

Like it was waiting for someone who’d know what it meant.


I didn’t walk up.

Didn’t knock.

Didn’t take a hundred photos.


I just sat there,

watching from behind the fence,

like I was looking through a screen again

but this time, it was real.


This time, I was in the frame.


And something about that moment felt holy.


Like I was standing in a place where all my timelines had curled together.

Eleven-year-old me.

Thirty-something me.

Mom me.

Daughter me.

All of us standing there in the silence,

watching the house through the branches,

and whispering the same thing:


“We made it.”


⸻


I didn’t need to go inside.

Just to see it was enough.

To know that something I had carried in my heart for so long

a scene, a song, a strange and beautiful film

wasn’t just a dream or a flicker of nostalgia.

It was real.

And it had waited for me. (Or at least it felt that way within that golden moment).


⸻


We left not long after.

The sun was starting to dip.

The kids were getting tired.

But I felt full — like I’d found a thread I didn’t even realize had been loose all this time.


Some movies change your life.

Some songs become mirrors.

Some places (even the ones you’ve never been)

are part of your story long before you arrive.


⸻


I was never a Lost Boy.

I was always the Lost Girl.

The one watching from the outside,

singing along in the dark,

waiting for the lights to flicker back on.


People Are Strange: Santa Cruz, Vampires, Street Fighters, and The Lost Girl Echo & The Bunnymen: People Are Strange (Cover of The Doors) Film: The Lost Boys

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DRIFT THROUGH A CONSTELLATION OF MEMORY

Searching For Stars

Last Kiss: Melodies That Break Us

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • July 5, 2026
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Good, Strong Words That Mean Something: A Letter of Light Through Pixelated Waves (for Heidi Clements)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • July 5, 2026
My favorite literary phrase of all time is spoken by Josephine March, written by Louisa May Alcott in Little Women. “I like good, strong words that mean something.” You, my dear, you say good, strong words that mean something. You put good, strong words that mean something into the world, and I thank you so very sincerely for that. You have made such an incredible impact on my life, and on my outlook on beauty and aging. ⸻ I stumbled across your incredible fashion sense on Instagram and was completely hooked on your vibe. I absolutely love fashion. I always have. I’ve definitely had my own kind of zany style over the years. So when I saw you, I was like, OK, yes, she is amazing. I love this energy. ⸻ The way you put things together, the confidence, the energy, it makes you wanna get up, go into your closet, and actually enjoy getting dressed again. And for a woman approaching 40, who’s had three children and has had many of her own struggles with who am I, what’s my fashion, what’s my energy, or what’s my style, You just felt so damn refreshing and inspiring. So I hung around, but what really hooked me wasn’t just the style, it was you, the essence of you. The way you talk, the honesty, the fact that you just say things straight, no fluff, no sugarcoating, no trying to be anything other than exactly who you are.. and somehow that makes everything you say sound even more profound. ⸻ The impact your message was having in my life became undeniable. It wasn’t just something I watched for enjoyment anymore, it was something I actually began feeling, and carrying with me. I grew up in a time where it felt like there was an expiration date on women. Like if you didn’t fit into a certain mold, or size, or type… your worth somehow became less. And then life happens. You grow up. You age. Maybe have kids. Your body changes. Your priorities change. Somewhere in the middle of all of that, you can kind of lose your sense of… who am I now? What’s my style? Who am I supposed to become? Am I too late for something? What even feels like me anymore? So for a while, I think I actually bought into that idea without even realizing it. The idiodic notion that maybe I had passed some invisible point where things were supposed to quiet down. Tone down. Fit into something more “acceptable.” Or the grand illusion that I was out of time to follow my passions! But watching you… that narrative just started to fall apart. The way you show up, the way you speak, the way you move through the world so fully as yourself… it made me realize that aging isn’t something to fear or shrink from. If anything, it’s where things start to get really good. It’s where you get bolder. More comfortable. More you. More beautiful. ⸻ What you’re doing matters so much. The way you show up, the way you speak, the way you fully own who you are, it doesn’t just stay on a screen. It carries through pixelated waves. It reaches people like me, in real life, in real moments, and shifts something quietly but powerfully within us. So I just wanted to say thank you. For your honesty, your energy, your style, your voice… all of it. You have inspired me, Searching for Stars, and undoubtedly countless women all over the world more than words can truly translate. Thank you, for being you!

Getting Your Pink Back: Answered Prayers, Quiet Signs, Bluebirds and a Business Professional Poodle (A Letter of Light for Lindsey Gurk)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • May 6, 2026
Okay, so I asked God for a sign this week… and I didn’t make it easy on Him. I had just seen this video about asking for a sign, about how God answers, about how He delights in it… and something in me just… recognized that. Like, oh. I’ve felt that before. Lindsey, it was your video. And the second I heard it, I remembered something. I remembered a time, years ago, back in that early, foggy, pinkless season of motherhood, when I had asked for a sign too. I had prayed, really specifically… really honestly… “God, just show me I’m okay. Show me I’m on the right path.” And I asked for a blue butterfly. I didn’t see it right away. I waited. I wondered if I had imagined the whole idea in the first place. And then, not long after, life moved us somewhere new. A new place, new energy… the kind of move that feels exciting and terrifying all at once. They handed us the keys… and right there on them… was a blue butterfly. And I remember feeling that same quiet recognition. Like… okay. And then, a couple months after that, with prayers inside us building for a second child, we went to a park. One of those ordinary days that turns into something you don’t forget. And there were butterflies everywhere. Hundreds of them. Yellow, filling the air, lifting all at once like something out of a dream. And right in the middle of it… one blue butterfly. I just stood there, overwhelmed, because I knew. I knew I had been heard. Nearly one year to the day later, our second child was born. And then… life kept moving. Time passed. Things got busy. Full. Loud. Beautiful… but a little hazy, too. Somewhere along the way, I think I stopped asking like that. Fast forward. I’m sitting with my kids on New Year’s Eve, going into 2025, talking about goals and dreams. The kind of things you say out loud but don’t always fully claim. “I’ve always wanted to write.” And my daughter, so sure, so certain, just looked at me and said, “Then make it your New Year’s resolution.” And something about the way she said it… she didn’t question it. she didn’t overthink it. She just… believed it was possible. So I did. I started building something I’ve carried in pieces since I was in high school. Old notebooks, scattered thoughts, songs, memories… things I’ve never really known how to explain out loud. And for the first time, it felt like someone actually got it. So I got to work. Writing with a baby asleep on my chest… voice notes, typed drafts, music playing in the background… piecing together old memories with new ones. And I love it. I really do. But if I’m being honest… I started to wonder. Is this meaningful? Is this worth the time? Is this something good… or just something I want? And more than anything… I wanted to know if it was something God saw as good. Not just something that looked meaningful… but something that was. So I sat down, quietly, and I prayed. And I said, “God, if this is something I’m supposed to keep building… if I’m on the right path… if this is your will for me… please just show me. Give me a sign.” And I paused… because I knew I couldn’t ask for something easy. I had asked for butterflies before and blue jays have been unusually common in our backyard lately. I needed something specific. Something I wouldn’t just brush off. I looked over… and saw this little pink and white poodle sitting on my daughter’s shelf. And I laughed a little and said, “Okay God… show me a poodle.” almost sarcastically thinking… well, this one’s going to take a little more effort. But of course… Not even 48 hours later, we ran into Burlington. We were just there to grab socks and shoes for my toddler, her sandals were bothering her. Quick in, quick out. We ended up wandering a little. We’re headed to checkout… and my husband steps down an aisle, picks something up, and goes, “Okay, I know this is ridiculous… but we need this for the office.” And he had no idea. Nothing about my prayer. Nothing about the poodle. I’m barely paying attention yet. And then he turns it around. It’s a painting. Of a poodle. Not just a poodle… a poodle in a full business suit… sitting at a desk… reading a newspaper. I just… stopped. A business professional poodle, for the office we’re building together, a space where I can write. Like everything in me went quiet for a second. Because of all the things in the world I could have asked for… of all the ways that prayer could have been answered… it was that. I remember thinking, smiling, fighting back tears of joy… of course it is. Because I had asked for something specific. And apparently… He has a sense of humor. Also, just to make sure I didn’t miss it… because let’s be real, God definitely knows how to show out… the very next place we went… was Petco. And there was this real poodle. Then again. And again. Every aisle I turned… I kept running into it. And that feeling came back. The same one from before. Quiet. Certain. seen. beloved. Lindsey… Thank you so much, you reminded me to ask. You reminded me that God doesn’t just hear us… He answers. Not always in big, overwhelming ways… but in ways we’ll recognize. In ways that feel personal. Specific. Sometimes even funny… like they were meant just for us. And Lindsey… I just want you to know how much I appreciate all of what you’re doing. Your energy, your humor, the way you show up so fully as yourself… it matters more than you probably realize. You make people laugh, you make motherhood feel seen, and you bring light into spaces that can feel heavy sometimes. But there is also so much more than that… God really radiates through you. In the way you speak, in the way you encourage, in the way you remind people to keep going and to keep believing. It’s powerful. And it’s beautiful to witness. What you’ve created with “get your pink back”… that message, that reminder… it’s reaching people. It’s lifting people. It’s giving something back to women who feel like they’ve poured everything out. And that matters. It really does. I’m so grateful I came across your video when I did. And I’m really looking forward to everything you create next… especially your writing. You’re doing something good here. Keep going. Please never stop casting your light into the world… it really does break through the darkness.
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