Men in My House
On cinema, Lebowski bathrobe, and men who inspire presence
Last night, my all-time favorite film The Big Lebowski (1998)—about a charismatic slacker in a bathrobe who never loses his style—was dethroned by The Fisher King (1991), a story of friendship and love with irresistible characters: a radio DJ, a homeless man, and the women who love them. All set in the eccentric aesthetics of 1990s New York, among VHS tapes, lacquered nails, and psychiatric institutions.
One thing is clear: something has shifted. Major sources of inspiration—this time, films—don’t change without reason. Though I must admit, my Lebowski-style bathrobe, purchased under the film’s influence, hasn’t gone anywhere. It still hangs over the back of a chair, watching over me, reminding me not to get too carried away with the idea that “now it begins.”
Recently, I realized that meaningful change often comes from unpopular decisions.
Giving myself permission to explore unfamiliar territory tends to open new doors. That’s how I arrived in Georgia from Latvia and found the countryside. That’s how I ended up on my first mountain hike, fasting intentionally for several days, and my inner adventurer came alive in full color. But lately, I haven’t made any “weird” moves.
Some time ago, sitting at my desk, I messaged a friend: turns out, I have a perfectly normal room. A desk, a chair, a few shelves, a wardrobe, a nest. It was a strange realization—I’d gone a long time without a room of my own. Space had been a problem. I used to huddle in corners, nodding that everything was fine, though it wasn’t. In my mind, I was constantly muttering about not fitting into life.
Maybe that’s why I needed Jeff Lebowski—the macho archetype in 90s form, a bohemian dude armed with an eternal bathrobe. He sips White Russians, bowls, and at least outwardly, doesn’t give a damn. Just cool. Lebowski knows how to stand his ground, and that was the missing piece in my life.
Also, let’s be honest—Lebowski isn’t unattractive. Quite the opposite. He’s not only stylish but magnetically appealing in his nonchalance, and his presence (even just on screen!) sends shivers of pleasure. That was contagious, too.
Marie Kondo, the world-renowned tidying guru, says to keep what sparks joy. So if something gives you shivers of pleasure—why not treat it as sacred?
So Lebowski won my heart, and the bathrobe began to embody not someone else’s presence, but my own.
Now, thanks to Lebowski, I wonder: maybe when there’s enough of me, the urge for external heroics and dramatic gestures fades.
Then again, considering my new favorite film is The Fisher King, the real fun might just be beginning. At the end of that movie, the two main characters lie naked in the grass of Central Park under a starry sky. Their wounds have healed, and the world can no longer hurt them.
It’s been raining all day, but now it’s stopped. The world is wet and slightly blurred. The sun sets behind the clouds, nature glows. I pull on my rubber boots, layer my hoodie with the Lebowski bathrobe, and head out.
🎧🎧 For those who read with their ears — here’s the closing paragraph in Latvian, my native language, spoken in my voice. A quiet moment, wrapped in bathrobe and dusk.
Jasmine Monta is a writer and visual artist whose poetic essays explore presence, myth, and the quiet rituals of everyday life. Her work blends Latvian heritage with universal themes, inviting readers into spaces of clarity, warmth, and transformation.
If this piece resonated with you, you’re welcome to support the creative flow of Detoxed Paragraph through the inspiration fund—every gesture helps keep the bathrobe swinging.
