There are no better scoundrels.

“A city can’t be too small. Size guarantees anonymity—if you make an embarrassing mistake in a large city, and it’s not on the cover of the Post, you can probably try again. The generous attitude towards failure that big cities afford is invaluable—it’s how things get created. In a small town everyone knows about your failures, so you are more careful about what you might attempt.” – David Byrne

What surprised me most about the Tiger Lillies show is how gorgeous it was. I was expecting raucous suicide songs, but instead found their show delightful fun, but also rather haunting, as if they were playing the full weight of their twenty years together with every note. The Moore Theater is awfully pretty, which helped, but it really was something in their timbre, a sweetness that ached, sugar in a tooth during the best french kiss you’ll ever remember on the birthday you decide you finally feel old. It was blood shivering. Their best trick was to have the audience laugh to the worst, most terrible things, then to mock the laughter with more of the same. I’ve never heard such dark subject matter vivisected with so much whimsical mirth. It shone a light upon the heart, even as they sang like a house on fire, all bizarre theatrics and kicking kittens down stairs, with voices like elegant flashing sirens.

The after party wasn’t half bad either, a mad robot-themed dance review at the Can Can underground cabaret bar, (delicious food, crazy entertainment), involving two astonishingly limber girls and some not too terrible young men gyrating two feet in front of our front row table, then a set by The Bad Things, a band I crashed with once in a Bellingham squat with the Dandelion Junk Queens. (Because the world really can be that small sometimes). Most memorable, after Rainbow, the intense spinning-from-a-chandelier awe inspiring blond girl who looked uncannily like Sara, was the bachelorette unicorn lap-dance. Sounds unlikely, I know, but it was quite the experience. He whinnied, he pawed, he wore embarrassing sunglasses that matched his skintight bodysuit. It was beyond pretty great. It was, in fact, fantastic.

The next day, Saturday, was Seacompression, a Seattle burner party held in a repurposed military hanger. Burner parties are much the same wherever you go, a fun fur collision of invention, wacky art, fire sculpture, dance, music, costumes, and people hanging from the ceiling, sometimes with no clothes on. It was a good time, with good people. We drove over with Robin and Rafael, to find Frank and Claire were there, and Adam and Anna, as well as Craig, Richard, Jordan, and Stephanie, though with the crowd, it was rare to run into people more than twice. Most of everyone we found wandering around, except for Jordan, who was hanging out in the white geodesic dome full of pillows, watching as people were locked into a spinning globe machine by crystal tipped metal arms.

To give you an idea of what it was like, around front was a hacked bus with a fire sculpture on the roof, a hot-rod with a BBQ instead of a trunk, the giant flaming metal hand Tobasco and his crew made, and a pumpkin death pachinko machine. Inside, to the right of the entrance, was a photo booth and a small movie theater (complete with Marquee), and the white chill-out dome. To the left, some couches, the Wheel Of Judgment, a hammock garden, and the hall that led to the main dancefloor, a large room with a raised area in the middle made of cages. Past those, in the main space, were two bouncy ropes hanging from the ceiling, various girls dangling from the ends, tied in by experts, and a performance space behind another bus, where fire dancers were spinning fire and live music played. Mostly we wandered, content to mingle in the madness, though we danced to the EQLateral String Trio and submit ourselves to the Wheel of Judgment. (Tony got a ticket for being “too fury”. We think they meant “too furry”.) We didn’t stay to the end, exhaustion and a desire to be curled up naked won over, but it was a lovely party.

To top it off, we bought a strand of electric pussy-willows yesterday. Plugged in, they look like the future colliding with magic.

There are no easy words for how blessed I feel to have such lovely adventures in my life. Also, I had the Tiger Lillies sign my decolletage. Pictures soon.

poking a mammal with a stick

His smile crackles, a semi permanent halo. I watch him from the window as he jauntily walks to work, fizzing with the knowledge that I am lucky, so lucky, to have him in my life. As he turns to wave, vanishing behind a building, I smile back, and mock groom the fluffy ears of our shared white monster hat. I love him so much in this moment, as I am sure he loves me, and with that thought, he turns, pouncing from behind the corner with his hands up like paws, trying to surprise me, as if his backpack hadn’t been poking past the bricks as he hid, the feet of a child who hasn’t quite grasped the intricacies of being unseen.

-::-

Hundreds of free animated all kinds of films now available through National Film Board’s new iPhone app.

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We’re going to Montreal soon, for Michel‘s wedding to a very clever woman I’m not sure I’ve met and to visit with Lung and Christine and Dee. I’ve hit that place in my travel plans where the imminent departure date has begun to make me nervous. Do we know where we’re staying? Where we’re going? Does everyone know when we get there? Daft concerns, the sort of fretting that helps no one. If I don’t know yet, I soon shall, so put a lid on it, will you brain? It’s not a panic so much as a very low grade adrenaline hum, as my subcutaneous tissue tenses in anticipation, as if I’m about to run in a race, pounding the pavement to music playing slightly too loud but just under the edge of my hearing.

Spaceship in Spanish is “nave espacial”

Contrast

When he lays down with me, it is as if my flesh lightens, I become milk spilled against the shaded tan of his nutshell skin, we are so distinct. I feel drawn to our differences, how his muscles are shaped dissimilar from mine. The softness of my body, the taut, fragile corners of his. Sometimes I will wake when he sleeps and simply admire him, this curious and perpetually buoyant creature with the temerity to fall in love.

We are so full of possibility, I can see it like maps on the inside of my eyes.

Disparity

He is slow to reply when we are sad, our bodies curled heavily together, depressed letters thrown to the bed in a mess. I do not react well to silence, not while asleep at night, not when we speak. His pause, the length of fifteen breaths, disrupts my communication, sends me casting nets, discarding what I started with, trawling the ocean of our alphabet for a topic, any topic, that will be worthy of response, anything to delay my please talk to me.

Somewhere in the gaps when he’s not speaking, there must be something to say.

the magic of modern tracking technology tells me my costume is currently in des moines

One of the many, (you’d think unexpected), things we accomplished during Sunday’s epic bed-sit stay in was to finally nail down what we’re going as for Hallowe’en. After hours of hare brained ideas and methodically poring through costume sites, we finally decided that Tony will go as a blindfolded knife-thrower with terrible aim and I’ll be his lovely knife studded assistant! Tah-dah! Fun without slut, a pinch of the circus, (which, if we had a Thing, would likely be our Thing), and due to last year’s costume mix-up, I’ve already got the boots.

an animated description of (mr) maps

Trimpin : What an odd, lovely minded, delightful man. What odd, lovely minded, delightful art! I spoke with him after the film, and I’m going to see what I can do about making him an on-line calendar, so people will know where and when to find his installations and shows.

–::–

People tend to synchronize blinking when watching film, at moments calculated to give the least information loss.

–::–


We wandered in and out of our weekend, sidling up to previously made plans and usually walking away again, tied only to our smiles, our warm hands bound together better than our hours. Saturday was a day of birthdays, getting up slowly, swimming from bed as if from water, heavy limbed and discarding the charted day we’d made, instead filling it with a late breakfast at Havana’s and a wander down the Drive, searching out the perfect present for my found brother Michael. Indonesia, Bali, black wood and red glass, three hollow faces in a candle-light row, placid, eyes sweetly closed, a puddle of calm light for a time lately troubled. Downtown, then, our treasure tucked in a bag, downtown to Davie and Denman, the purpose seawall and ice-cream, something like a date, something like something we should have done years ago, arm in arm, sharing sugar on a park bench as the sun set into the ocean, orange and sparkle and gold.

Chasing the day with dinner, the present fit as right as expected, a train pour of alcohol down the table, familiar faces, names, periphery friends, lost family, personal history, remembering suddenly I had met Sara on the dance-floor we counted out New Year’s Eve together the same night I saved a life, the first good holiday midnight I’d ever had, as if the memories were only visible under blacklight or her pretty eyes. When the crowd split off for sushi, we dawdled behind over dessert, then walked out on our own, peeling away the city into paths, transit, and routes.

Frank‘s place was crowded, the floor a plane of pillows, inflated mattresses and grinning people lit by the flourish and improbable end of Buckaroo Bonzai. (A great attack of hello from Sam, a surprised, pleased greeting from Daniel.) Shedding our clothes in the storage closet felt like shedding skin, as we borrowed pyjamas to snuggle the night, clothing I haven’t worn since I was a child, and my body, strangely, just as small inside the loaned plaid flannel as it was wearing adult clothing then. Tony preferred the Strawberry Shortcake pants, he was welcome to them. In the velvety dim light of the party, he could have been handsome in almost anything. Finding a vacant beanbag, we settled in for Hooped, then Zombie Strippers, a movie that maybe should never have been made, except that parts of it were so much fun. After that we shifted to a mattress with Claire for Amazon Women On The Moon, then tried to sleep through most of Hell Comes To Frogtown, instead waking horribly to all the shooting and shouty bitz, which involved such complex philosophy as “why does that mutated(?) frog king have three snake penises, anyway?”

Shakes The Clown was next, which I wish I’d seen more of, then apparently Night Of The Creeps, which I completely missed, followed by Airplane!, which was kind enough to wake me for the lovely opening red zone white zone argument, but not keep me that way. Dawn arrived like a ghost, sliding between the cracks of the party, prying the new day out of the cracks of our long, cheerful night. I don’t know when people left, but there were only a few of us by the time morning and breakfast arrived, a small heaven of perfect waffles, strawberries with maple syrup, and bacon.

That day, once we walked home, with matching clouds of impossible hair, we stayed in all day, in bed, until it was Monday.

what it comes down to is I really need new reasons to get out of the house

R.I.P. Irving Penn.

–::–


Last Night:

HOME: Yann Arthus-Bertrand makes with the pretty. More appropriate for a younger audience, simplistic and at times heavy handed. If I was less involved with eco-activism, I might have found it educational, but instead the only new things I learned from the film are that Madagascar’s erosion wounds look exactly like gashes in raw meat and elephants look tremendously like bunny rabbits from very high up.

–::–

Boston’s Big Picture: France’s Royal de Luxe street theatre company in Germany, performing “The Berlin Reunion”, part of the celebrations of the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall.

–::–


I skipped Tuesday’s films, electing instead to stay in, chat with friends on-line and attempt a good soak in the bath. (More fool me, I’d forgotten that I don’t particularly fit in our bath, now even less than before. Having a desk job is turning me into a lump.) Also, just for fun, I administered more surreal panic-the-uninquisitive status updates into Tony‘s “possessed” Facebook account:

  • Tony Jackson (otherwise known as Le Dude) is not giving up kilts, he is giving up cheese. The two words are similar, hence the confusion.
  • Tony Jackson (otherwise known as Le Dude) is going to be a father.
  • Tony Jackson (otherwise known as Le Dude) feels electric, POSSESSED by the JOY of LUCIFER, oh my goodness such an amazing RUSH, now I can WRITE and WRITE and WRITE about HIS glory, HIS splendor, oh yess, I feel like I never have to sleep again yes yes yes yes yes… yes yes yes pills pills pills pills pills pills pills pills
  • Tony Jackson (otherwise known as le dude) wants to know if you’re Dave. Are you Dave? Are you my wife, dave?
  • Tony Jackson (otherwise known as le dude) is bathing in tangy rice pilaf before going to work. Got to wash all that blood off! Hi-Ho!
  • this statement is a lie

    So here’s something fun. Tony left himself logged into Facebook on my computer when he left on Monday, which means I can do anything in there I like. So far, as I am well known to almost exclusively use my evil powers for good, I have only been toying with his status updates. The mischief so far:

  • Tony Jackson is still logged in at Jhayne’s. STILL. (She types, waving to him over in Seattle.)
  • Tony Jackson would like to be referred to from now on as Le Dude.
  • Tony Jackson is rhyming for his brothers on the corner.
  • Tony Jackson (otherwise known as Le Dude) is giving up kilts.

    So far, I am most curious regarding how many hapless bystanders will believe the last one, as it’s truly the most far fetched statement I could realistically make. I could claim Tony is going on a trip to Zambia tomorrow and it would still be more believable than the idea he might abandon his precious man-skirts. So far, I’ve already hooked… two? I’m looking forward to the morning, to check in and update with more silly things.

  • life is too good to know what to do? has this happened before?

    Last night:

    Kamui: The guide claims Kamui is one of the best ninja movies ever made. If the guide, instead, claimed it was one of the most hilarious, it would have been right. So bad it was good, though we all could have done with less of the endless CG ocean and more with the goofy CG chop socky. Also, there is no conceivable reason for there to be that many CG animals in a live-action film. None. Especially in regards to the sharks.

    Breathless: Domestic violence. More domestic violence. Horrible fathers. Blood. Violence. Blood. I should have remembered what it was about instead of thinking I was in for a ninja movie double-bill and skipped on the ticket and just gone home.

    –::–

    So Tony and I have been considering a weekend trip this October for our six month anniversary, which practically falls on Hallowe’en. We’re juggling options back and forth the idea of either attending SteamCon or flying out to Philly for the weekend of Kyle and Trillian’s nuptial party-thing. (Third so-far-facetious option, to hell with everyone, we’re going to Vegas to watch some naughty Cirque Du Soliex and go on the outdoor rollercoaster.) So far, however, we’ve been caught in a loop of pros and cons for each plan.

    It goes a little something like this:

  • SteamCon, which is local, will be stuffed with some of my favourite people, some I never get to see, some I’ve never had a chance to meet, in a setting that shows off just how completely great they truly are. There’s a market full of costume, too, just in time for Hallowe’en, and an art show starring Myke & Beth, and Molly. It is, however, essentially sold out, which makes it a tricky fish to fry. Also, though it will be full of zer pretty, yeas, and I would like to think of Steampunk as an Art Movement more than anything else, it’s essentially people getting together because they adorn themselves with little bits of clock, which I cannot help but feel is somehow akin to a preppy convention, (insert joke about Republican party here), or a giant goth picnic, where the only qualification required is that you wear black.
  • Philadelphia, on the other hand, is not only home to Kyle “freaking” Cassidy and Trillian “freaking” Stars-Cassidy, (and J.R. “365” Blackwell, whose birthday it is today, everyone go give her some warm wishes), it is also somewhere I’ve never been, which makes it intriguing, even though I could not for great heaps of money tell you where it is on a map. However, given that flights to Philly, though they just dropped in price, are still 7-8 hours (with layover included) each way, and that on top of my 8 hours of bus-ride to and from Seattle, it seems like it would be a ludicrous amount of travel to simply attend a house party, no matter how incredible the attendees, and then come right back. Also, we’ve no idea where to stay.

    Me, I feel evenly about both options, though I am beginning to appreciate more and more the third, least realistic option, in which we run away together just us and the world, and spend a glitzy weekend in the falsest city this side of Dubai.