The Stranger

The Book Gods hate you: Tonight, two great readings happen at the same time, across town from each other. Of course you want to hear Jonathan Goldstein, the hilarious editor of This American Life, read from his new short-story collection, Ladies and Gentlemen, the Bible! Not only is it loaded with details that Bible 1.0 didn't get around to (Esau loves shoving barley, grass, and pebbles up his nose; Noah occasionally refers to people as "jive turkey"), but Goldstein's comic timing makes him a (rare) great reader of his own work. Unfortunately, so is hometown hero Sherman Alexie. Alexie reads from Face, his first new collection of poems in nine years. Alexie has been focusing on his poetry this year, and his delivery has never been funnier, sharper, or more touching. I don't envy you this choice. (Goldstein: University Book Store, 4326 University Way NE, 634-3400, 7 pm, free; Alexie: Town Hall, 1119 Eighth Ave, 624-6600, 7:30 pm, $5.) by Paul Constant

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"Sorry, baby, that's a slum in our kitchen cabinet," San Francisco–based, Philippines-born artist Stephanie Syjuco once had to tell her boyfriend. She had cut the little tiny slum out of a tourist photograph of the Philippines from the internet and then set it in their surroundings: her homeland, in their home. In one of her resulting photographs, there's a jungle between the bed pillows. (James Harris Gallery, 312 Second Ave S, 903-6220. 11 am–5 pm, free.) by Jen Graves

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They say they play hardcore punk, but Fucked Up are too dynamic and inventive—too sui generis—to hide their light under a bushel of genre clichés. Damian Abraham, a hairy mountain of a man, sings in a booze-and-broken-glass growl, but the band's instrumentation is melodic like Hüsker Dü or the rhythm-and-drone of My Bloody Valentine. They rock, but they're not afraid of flutes, bongos, or layered overdubs. Fucked Up are beyond. With Akimbo and Police Teeth. (Neumos, 925 E Pike St, 709-9467. 8 pm, $12, all ages. And sorry about all the Neumos shows we're suggesting this week—we can't help it if they're on a roll.) by Brendan Kiley

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Tonight’s bill gathers some of the weirder, wilder acts from the fringes of Seattle’s hiphop scene for a varied and entertaining evening. Linda and Ron’s Dad traffic in digitally dirty, organically blunted beats bolstered by video travelogues, found sounds, GI-era Vietnamese funk 45s, and homemade acoustic instrumentation. They Live! are a weed-murdering rap duo whose hyperanimated stage presence, tight punch lines, and Adult Swim–sampling ADD beats kill the myth of the lazy stoner. Champagne Champagne may be the most pathologically hard-hustling game in town, both onstage and off. With Weekend and DJ Darwin. (Nectar, 412 N 36th St, 632-2020. 9 pm, $7, 21+.) by Eric Grandy

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Seattle bands Throw Me the Statue, Telekinesis, and Say Hi have all released good-to-fucking-great indie-rock records in the last year or so. Throw Me the Statue's Moonbeams is a bedroom-pop masterpiece full of precisely illustrative lyricism, deft instrumentation, and terribly catchy melodies, and Say Hi's Oohs & Aahs is a winning realization of the band's sometimes too-precious songwriting quirks. Telekinesis, the drummer-led project of Michael Benjamin Lerner, is the newest of the bunch; his self-titled, Chris Walla–produced debut is a fine collection of sunny, classicist pop rock. (Crocodile, 2200 Second Ave, www.the crocodile.com. 8 pm, $10, 21+.) by Eric Grandy

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Over the past decade and a half, the San Francisco–based extravaganza Trannyshack has become synonymous with state-of-the-art psycho drag. (Think cannibal zombies, onstage abortions, and battling brides of Satan.) Tonight brings another Seattle installment, cohosted by traveling Trannyshacker Heklina and hometown horror Ursula Android, featuring performances by Jackie Hell, Ade, Sylvia O'Stayformore, Felicia Fellatio, and many more. If all goes well, all minds will be properly blown/fucked. (Chop Suey, 1325 E Madison St, 324-8000. 9 pm, $12, 21+.) by David Schmader

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Somehow, playwrights Marilyn Campbell and Curt Columbus managed to shorten Dostoyevsky's masterpiece (you know it's true: fuck The Brothers Karamazov) into a suspenseful 90-minute play, and the adaptation doesn't feel like anything has been omitted. It's film noir taken to its seedy extremes: Galen Joseph Osier's greasy, guilt-ridden Raskolnikov is basically a poor grad student who starts to believe he has power over life and death. Can the bumbling Detective Porfiry crack the case—and save Raskolnikov from himself—before it's too late? You'll leave the theater wishing the play had been twice as long. (Intiman Theater, 201 Mercer St, 269-1900. 2 pm, $10–$42.) by Paul Constant

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