The Stranger

Apparently the "Seattle Notables" party celebrates some photography exhibit and you're supposed to come dressed like a person from McLeod's list of local (read: third-rate) celebrities. I'm not saying that I'm insulted I didn't make the cut (even though the Sonics' Squatch and Christopher "Already-Too-Big-For-His-Britches" Frizzelle did). I'm just saying I don't even care. It's just a dumb popularity contest. Whatever. (McLeod Residence, 2209 Second Ave, 441-3314. 8 pm, $15.) by Brendan Kiley

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Although something else is going to be on everyone's mind, Stranger art critic Jen Graves, independent art critic Matthew Kangas, and Seattle P-I art critic Regina Hackett have promised to stay on topic. The topic: the Northwest Biennial currently up at Tacoma Art Museum. What does this show tell us about what art's heavy hitters are thinking about? What does it tell us about biennials? And exactly how long did it take Alex Schweder to cast his entire bathroom in packing peanuts and spit? (Tacoma Art Museum, 1701 Pacific Ave, Tacoma, 253-272-4258. 3 pm, free with $7.50 museum admission.) by Christopher Frizzelle

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Jean Renoir's swirling, hard-headed humanist farce about the decadence of the French haute bourgeoisie has been magnificently restored—just in time for obit writers to punish themselves for abusing the term "Altmanesque." This precise cross section of society is like a slice of cake, every layer more delicious than the last. Robert Altman said it himself: "The Rules of the Game taught me the rules of the game." (Varsity, 4329 University Way NE, 781-5755. See Movie Times for details.) by Annie Wagner

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We should be willing to suffer through whatever solo-career flab Rod Argent and Colin Blunstone (basically, the Zombies) put us through just to hear them play a few scraps of Odessey and Oracle—it's hard to explain how goddamned good that record is. It was released in 1968. Its opening song is a letter to a girlfriend in prison. It has organs and flutes and electrifying harmonies. It sounds like a rose smells—nostalgic and complicated, sweet but not cloying. Their earth-moving days are 30 years behind them, but I can't help wanting to see bodies that house the genius. (The Triple Door, 216 Union St, 838-4333. 7:30 pm, $30 adv/$32 DOS, all ages.) by Brendan Kiley

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Word from our "guy" down in Pioneer Square is that eight balls are currently at a premium. But if anyone's gonna level the field, it's Clipse—the pair of Virginia Beach brothers who rode around shining with last year's coke-rap chronicle Hell Hath No Fury. The album is a hustler's-eye view of the financial rewards and ethical anxieties of dealing powder in the inner city, set to the Neptunes' sinister, swerving soundtrack. Word is that Clipse rise above the hype as performers. With Cool Nutz, Dime Def, and J-Mar. (Chop Suey, 1325 E Madison St, 324-8000. 8 pm, $18, 21+.) by Jonathan Zwickel

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She has been writing short stories for years and years—good ones, fascinating ones, published in places like the New Yorker—but she's been more or less unknown to the world at large because, well, she writes short stories. Then her fourth collection, Twilight of the Superheroes, came out, was praised to the skies, and became a word-of-mouth hit. It's out in paperback. She's never read in Seattle before. (Elliott Bay Book Company, 101 S Main St, 624-6600. 7:30 pm, free.) by Christopher Frizzelle

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