The Stranger

Finally, somebody's figured out how to make literature competitive and, therefore, sexy: Literary Death Match is a nationwide literary shoot-out that brings the blood sport to books. Re-bar hosts a boozy hand-to-hand battle between three authors (in this case Aaron Dietz, playwright Kelleen Conway Blanchard, brand-spanking-new Stranger Genius Stacey Levine, and Chumbawamba lead singer Danbert Nobacon). Three judges (All About Lulu author Jonathan Evison, former Arrested Development writer Maria Semple, and some douchebag named Paul Constant) will crush the losers' writerly dreams and elevate the winner to eternal glory. (Re-bar, 1114 Howell St, 233-9873. 8 pm, $8 adv/ $10 DOS, 21+.) by Paul Constant

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In these Uncertain Economic Times™, any newspaper giving away tens of thousands of dollars in arts grants every year—and throwing a big-ass party for the city to celebrate—would have to be run by crazy people. Fortunately for all of you, we're crazy people. Come celebrate the artists: ejaculatory sculptor/drawer Jeffry Mitchell, hiphop filmmaker Zia Mohajerjasbi, funny freaks the Cody Rivers Show, modern mythmaker Stacey Levine, and the newly invigorated and sexed-up Pacific Northwest Ballet. And hear the music: Throw Me the Statue, They Live!, U.S.F., Emerald City Soul Club. And drink and dance and make out in the dark corners of the Moore Theatre. It's gonna be fun. (Moore Theatre, 1932 Second Ave, thestranger.com/genius. 9 pm, $5, 21+.) by Brendan Kiley

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Have you guys looked at Gene Tierney's face lately? Holy shit. The sleepy eyes, the smirky mouth, the iceberg cheekbones, the wispy veil of crazy. It's a hell of a face. Tierney's face (and the rest of her) was nominated for a Best Actress Oscar for 1945's Leave Her to Heaven, now newly restored in 35 mm. As an attention-hungry wife—needy, psychotic, scary, somehow sympathetic—Tierney would rather kill her own child than share her husband's affections. Then things get worse. Cornel Wilde (just a so-so face on that guy) costars as the bewildered groom. (Grand Illusion, 1403 NE 50th St, 523-3935. 5, 7, and 9 pm, $8.) by Lindy West

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Tarot Sport, the latest album from Fuck Buttons, makes the leap from abrasive noise band to WTF quasi dance act seem too easy: Just add tones to your washes of white noise, throw in a bag of beats, and splice everything up to the rhythm track. The album's seven generous cuts seem to loop endlessly, imperceptibly intensifying and subtly shifting, with sun-flaring static giving way to battering tribal drum loops, and everything climaxing in unexpectedly sweeping melodies. Expect the duo's live show to sear your ears and move your body in extremely odd ways. (Chop Suey, 1325 E Madison St, 324-8000. 8 pm, $10, 21+.) by Eric Grandy

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Matthew Dear is best known for his morose, song-oriented tech-house output. But as Audion, Dear produces techno that's jacked up on amyl nitrite and Viagra (sample track titles: "Titty Fuck," "Just Fucking") and imbued with the springiness of Olympic high jumpers' quadriceps. For this tour (dubbed "Hecatomb"), three screens will flash op-art spirals and Möbius strips that pulsate and writhe in time with Audion's throbbing, thrusting techno. It's the closest this upscale dinner theater will ever get to a rave. (Triple Door, 216 Union St, 838-4333. 10 pm, $15 adv/$18 DOS, 21+.) by Dave Segal

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Nearly a decade before Big Brother, internet entrepreneur Josh Harris was playing Big Brother, presenting a series of outlandish and extreme "human experiments" as entertainments for what he dreamed would be an ever-growing audience of round-the-clock viewers on the internet. In the end, Harris drove himself crazy, his company went bust, and, eight years later, award-winning documentarian Ondi Timoner—creator of the classic music doc DiG!—expertly captures the whole brilliant mess on film. (See Movie Times: thestranger .com/film.) by David Schmader

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