Yesterday, I woke at an ungodly early hour in order to complete my ten hour workday in time to snag an early spot in line for the Flaming Lips show at the Paramount Theater. Before I got in line, I stopped at PoDog and got myself a Seattle Dog and some fried pickles in order to sustain my body for the long evening ahead. I suppose I could have eaten something healthier, but I believe I read a study somewhere that indicated that the amount of cream cheese and scallions consumed is directly proportional to the number of hours someone can stay up past their bedtime, and that spicy pickle sauce enhances the effect. You can’t argue with science. That would be like trying to argue with a clown–in the end, you just look foolish, so instead you should just eat the pickles and let your stomach be filled with happiness. I contemplated stopping at Molly Moon’s, but as it turned out, I had reached my stomach’s capacity for happiness at that point in time.

I ended up getting in line for the show around five thirty; the doors were set to open at seven, so I had a rather long wait ahead of me. I didn’t mind, however, as I was approximately fifteenth in line, which practically guaranteed me a good spot so long as the line didn’t explode into a frenzy of running, shoving, and elbows when the doors opened.

When the doors finally did open, there were some people toward the back who didn’t quite understand the concept of a line and who ran and shoved their way to the front, and while I do feel it should be legal for these people to be tasered to serve as an example to others, we still got an excellent place along the front rail next to the stage.

Having secured such an excellent spot, we were not about to move, even when the opening act, Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti, proved excrutiating. According to what I just now yanked from Wikipedia, “Pink’s solo tours have generally been met with much negativity, primarily because his music was never intended to be performed live for commercial audiences.”

Here, have a quote: “People boo me everywhere…They don’t even hide their contempt. I’m used to it now…Hey, I’m giving audiences the real thing…For better or worse, I’m out there, and those are the circumstances. People don’t like it when it seems like you don’t know what’s happening, or I’m getting bummed out with certain aspects and I can’t hide it. I think people feel that pain and just think it’s bad.”

Or people think it’s bad because it’s actually bad. Painfully bad. The first subtle cue that we were in for a long opening act ride was when they first came on stage, Ariel Pink dressed in hobo couture–what appeared to be a red and black christmas sweater cinched in with a mirrored belt over silver lurex pants and clogs, the rest of the band so mismatched it appeared they were trying for redux Village People.

I couldn’t focus all of my scathing remarks on the band, however, as I was distracted by the mess of photographers who had appeared to take up the space inbetween the rail and the stage to block my view. No, this was not the band I had come to see, and in fact, worked to spare my eyes and ears, but I didn’t wait outside for an hour in a half in off-and-on rain to have to stare at someone’s backboobs or crop circles the whole night. The most obnoxious one turned out (to the best of my deductive abilities) to be from the Seattle Weekly–she appeared to be too bored to take any more photos but clearly felt it was her solemn duty to continue to stand in my way. What is it with the Weekly and total douchebags? Once the editor, Mike Seely, pretended to offer me a job as a prank because he’s a classy guy, then tried to forbid me from talking about it because he didn’t like the idea of the things he said coming back to haunt him, and to this day, I hope he goes blind and develops a debilitating disease that rots him from the inside out. Syphilis, maybe.

Eventually, the photographers were shooed away, and I was able to refocus my searing laserbeam eyes of hatred back at the stage for the remainder of their set, which thankfully was not overly long.

Afterward, while the stage was being set for the Lips, Wayne Coyne came onstage and warned the audience that the band uses a hell of a lot of strobe lights and that things could get quite intense for the people closest to the stage, that people often aren’t aware that they might have a bad reaction to an experience like this until it starts to happen, and beseeched anyone who felt like they might be getting ill to look away from that part of the show. For all his warnings, there was an ambulance outside after the show, so at least one person did not take his caution to heart.

After the stage was prepped, an enormous screen started playing a video of a nude woman dancing. A few minutes later, light started pulsating out of her nether regions–I leaned over to Tristan and said “…I could do that, but I don’t wanna.” Eventually, she laid down, the video zoomed into the pulsating light, and from the center of it, each member of the band was birthed.

Wayne was last, and rolled out into the crowd with his inflatable hamster ball.

When he got back onstage, the sky exploded with balloons and confetti–simple, childish elements that combined with the sound into a cacaphony of beauty and magic.

The show nearly defies description, save that it encapsulates nearly everything weird and wonderful about the Lips. It encourages you to find and revel in moments of joy because life is short and love is fragile, and beauty can be found everywhere. I found myself crying with happiness during the encore performance of “Do You Realize??” because the moment was so perfect and the song itself is so uplifting. I could not have wished for a better concert experience; I have my doubts that a better concert experience is possible.

When I got home, I found confetti in my pants.

Yesterday, I went to see Rasputina at Neumos. The last time I’d seen them perform was nearly a decade ago on Halloween, when my boyfriend absolutely refused to drive up from DC to join me at Dracula’s Ball, we had a huge fight about it, I decided to go anyway, took the train, got off at the wrong stop, got lost in a very bad area of Philadelphia where it’s probably a miracle I didn’t get stabbed, and I ended up getting a ride back to campus from some stranger in vampire teeth, but that’s a story for another time. Wait, that’s pretty well the whole story.

My intent was to see Rasputina; Rasputina was the band I’d paid for the ticket to see. I’m merely attempting to clarify why I was in the area, and therefore express my utter bewilderment that on a weeknight, with doors opening at 8, somehow the band I’d paid to see did not go onstage until after 11pm, forcing me to miss the majority of the show as I have to get up for work at an ungodly hour in the morning and cannot drag myself in dysfunctional or late, particularly when the boss’ boss is in town. Had I still been taking the bus to and from the city, I would have missed them entirely, stuck with only the miserable experience of the godawful opening bands. And I do mean GODAWFUL.

The first band was ‘The Curious Mystery’. This band should be renamed to “Jesus on Bass with Dude on Sitar while Token Female Yowls and Performs a Pee-Pee Dance”. The three male musicians were competent, which is the absolute nicest thing I can say. Singing off-key and incomprehensibly while you pose dramatically like a stork and play some manner of electric zither does not make you edgy. For the record, you suck. Also, can someone tell me WTF instrument this is? It is some manner of keyboard with a tube attached, and it was played vigorously in a pee-pee dance fashion, yet I could not discern what sound it was actually making.

The second band was Larkin Grimm, whose music I could have enjoyed had they not played their entire goddamned back catalog and had an obnoxious rambling explanation for what EVERY song was about before it was played. “This song is about when you clean your cat’s litterbox and the worms crawl into your brain.” “This song is about walking your dog and thinking about death, only your dog is smarter than you and you meet a butcher.” “This song is about an alien cat god from outer space.” “This song is about sex and decapitation except it’s actually about Iranian poets and let me go into a backstory on that.” “This song is about a bodily fluid, guess which one? I’m addressing all of the under 21 year olds in this 21-and-up audience, gosh I sure hope some kids snuck in with fake ids.” They went on in this fashion, I can’t even remember the rest. I believe I began to block them out, though I expect that had I listened, I would have heard “This song is about a clown murderer who turns out to be your stepfather only not really because he takes off that mask, too, and it’s actually your one true unicorn love who is full of the light of the song of the colors you can’t remember.” YOU ARE NOT ON VH1’S BEHIND THE FUCKING MUSIC, LADY. SHUT UP. GET OFF THE STAGE.

Finally, FINALLY, at quarter after elevenish, Rasputina finally, FINALLY got onstage. Except whatever dillhole was running the ‘stop the audience from getting restless’ overhead music just kept going. Eventually the band had to tap the mic and say “Yes, hello? We are ready to perform.”

It’s a shame that the stage was set up in such a way that I could not see Melora at ALL.

It was at this point, the annoying goth contingency began to press against me. I should not have to explain to someone standing behind me that my pockets are for my personal use. Also, look, Seattle Goths: It is not ‘goth’ to neglect personal hygiene. I understand, your mind is consumed with more important things, the futility of life, the fleeting nature of love, how much longer the sale is running on black hair dye, but seriously, brushing your teeth and putting on some deodorant won’t kill you. The tooth brushing, in fact, may help prevent heart disease, so you can continue annoying people, lo, with your very darkness, for years to come. You’re welcome. Come back sometime. We’ll talk about eyeliner and its proper application. And then we can talk about how you’re trying much too hard to be ‘spooky’ and your strict conformity to non-conformity. Whoa man, like, the establishment is freaked out by your dark nature. But mostly your lack of deodorant.

I got to hear only a few songs before I had to leave to go home. I don’t really feel that I got my money’s worth because I didn’t get to see the show I paid to see. I should have stayed at Po Dog and continued to eat fried pickles until I exploded; at least that would have been satisfying. In MY day, if we didn’t like the music the bard was playing, we would have stoned him outside in yon courtyard and ’twas a better place for it.

On Thursday, Tobie and I attended the World Extreme Pencil Fighting Championships VI: Hot Lead at The Funhouse. Pencil fighting started in the schoolyards, but most experienced pencil fighters dropped the sport upon graduation. Only the truly dedicated went on to the Pro Leagues and risked all for the chance to call themselves champion. Many organizations and leagues formed, each claiming to be home to the real Pencil Fighting Champion…UPF…WCCPFC…WWPFW, but the true fan’s choice and gold standard for Pencil Fighting was always the WPFL. In 1995 longtime WPFL owner Silas Ticonderoga III sold the company to his oldest son Silas Ticonderoga IV, who took it to the “Extreme” and rechristened it WXPFL. This move angered and alienated longtime fans, but opened up pencil fighting to a whole new generation of young fans. These Extreme Pencil Fighters – now called “Gra-fighters” – are now touring the world and bringing the splintered wood and bloody knuckles of Pro Pencil Fighting straight to you! In these matches, Pro Gra-Fighters take on each other and some randomly-selected audience members for the highly-coveted Pencil Fighting Championship Trophy.

In pencil fighting, two challengers face off, each armed with a regulation wooden pencil taken from a factory-sealed pack. The only recognized regulation competition pencil is the Dixon/Ticonderoga #2 yellow – graphite core, cedar shaft, latex eraser with aluminum stay.

The pencil may not be sharpened or altered in any way prior to initial combat.

A Pink Pearl Eraser flip determines which fighter strikes first.

The loser of the eraser flip becomes the “Defender” and holds his or her pencil firmly with both hands in a horizontal position.

The winner of the eraser flip becomes the “Striker”, and then brings his pencil down in a vertical strike across the opponent’s pencil with full force, attempting to break it in two.

If the Defender’s pencil does not break from the Striker’s attempt, then it becomes the Defender’s turn to strike.

This repeats until one player’s pencil breaks in two and cannot continue.

If a pencil is cracked, but not fully broken in two, referee determines whether said pencil can continue.

The current WXPFL Champion “Balls Deep” Brian Chesbrough was suspended by WXPFL Officials for using a body-enhancing steroid OTHER than WXPFL Sponsor Buff Nuxx. So, WXPFL owner Silas Ticonderoga IV has vacated the title, and now the tournament was a direct shot at the championship…if the most dangerous pros in the business can be beaten!

There is a lot of crossover in this league from Seattle’s other extreme sport, SST: Ronald McFondle, Big Show, etc. There are even MORE theatrics in Extreme Pencil Fighting, however. The first competitors, the Asshole Brothers, came out to loud boos from the audience–they whipped out pencils from their too-tight pants, broke them, and flung them at the audience. I myself was struck in the vulnerable right boob with a shattered pencil from one of the Assholes. Real danger abounds around every corner in this club. I should consider myself lucky that I took a pencil to the chest as opposed to the lit incense that was chucked out into the crowd.

Two Assholes entered the ring, and only one Asshole left: the remaining Asshole was moved into the next bracket toward the championship. After the Asshole Brothers came Ronald McFondle, who has also taken up MCing in addition to flashing his balls at the audience. He performed a number about fisting his clown hos with the current Top Pot Donut Eating Champion, and then got down to the business of fighting with the first audience member: benzarius.

Somehow, Ben ended up with a crotch full of clown paint and a broken pencil.

The next match was the Yellow Dragon versus the Librarian, in which the Librarian was victorious.

Then came Big Show vs the next audience member, who dubbed himself the Annihilator, I believe.

The Annihilator…annihilated Bill Bates, and then it was time for one more audience volunteer to take on the Hundred Dollar Man.

That volunteer was me.

I stepped onto the stage, informed everyone that I was a dildo barbarian, carefully selected my pencil, which was then inspected by the judges, lost the eraser toss, and held out my pencil for the first strike. It was broken on the very first strike. The referee said he’s actually never seen that happen before, which are words that I am sadly getting used to hearing. It’s my family curse. “I’ve never seen that happen before!” Yeah, buddy? Stick around.

The Hundred Dollar Man eventually went on to win the championship, so I don’t feel as badly about my loss. The swag bag I got for participating helped ease that sting as well. Plus now I have two new classy shirts to wear should I ever have occasion to throw another White Trash Extravaganza.

All of the good photos are by someone other than me who I fully intend to credit when I find out their name. If it is you, please tell me and I will credit immediately, or remove your photos, whichever you would prefer.  All of the shitty ones are me or someone with my phone.