Grandma's Night Out
There were big pink umbrella-like drapes on the ceiling, each one with a glittering disco ball in the center. They were boobs, of course, and this was "T&A," a fundraiser at the EMP on Monday, November 5 for breast-cancer awareness and research, and I was attending with my crotchety companion, Miss M.M.
There were tribulations along the way to the rewards, however, such as lukewarm quesadillas, a big clusterfuck at the bar, and a terrible band whose best song, "Bitch Slut Whore Cunt," went something like this: "BITCH! You're such a fucking BITCH!" Miss M. M. sighed and said, "Nothing says 'breast cancer awareness' like a bad Courtney Love imitation."
It was very very demoralizing to be grumpy with all the sincerity and good-cause vibes ricocheting around EMP's big party room, but somehow we managed. We griped during the bra show, when women with pink paper bags approached us again and again asking for donations (we had already left all our money at the door). We griped when there was absolutely nowhere to sit. We were sure there would be terrible karmic retribution for pointing out how feel-good rhetoric--such as the kind of moral victory ascribed to "survivors," as if they had any real control over the disease--overwhelms the real goals of the movement and the real Russian-roulette consequences of cancer.
After a rather scaled-down set by the Gun Street Girls we retired, overwhelmed and saddened, to the Liquid Lounge, where we sipped scotch and listened to Hell's Belles from afar. "Next time," Miss M. M. said, "we'll actually bring our knitting needles."
Protest Pig
Actually, it's a guerrilla pig, and very clever it is! Happily gorging itself on the corner of N. 35th St. and Fremont Ave. N., this little piggy is made of what looks like steel, banged into a shape very, very reminiscent of the Pigs on Parade prototype. This one, however, eats from a bin of cast-off garbage, and features a poem that begins, "United we stand... head buried in trough."
I was alerted to the presence of G. P. by two anonymous phone messages from the same throaty voice. And I would like to say this: Hooray! This is exactly the kind of artist reaction I'd hoped for to Pigs on Parade. Not a masterpiece, in any case, but a lone throaty voice that dares to oppose the standard tide of commerce and politics ("...our lifestyle/Is making us weak, fat, and self-serving") without resorting to tired old protest clichés. According to The Seattle Times, the Fremont Arts Council has voted to keep the anonymous gift (which appeared September 29).
Supercute
The opening reception for the Japanese pop art extravaganza Superflat was jam-packed. Sardine city. Moisturized cheek by exfoliated jowl. In honor of Japanese style, many of the hipster babes were decked out in Hello Kitty, and lots more with Paul Frank cute-character accessories. By the time I arrived (about 10 minutes after the doors opened), all the sushi appetizers were gone, but there were plenty of those strange delicious Japanese crackers in unnamable flavors (shrimp? wasabi? legume?).
The reception featured a performance by the artist known as Mr.: a kind of Chaplinesque inept-ninja thing, which involved scampering up and down ladders, running along the tops of walls, and juggling a plastic sword with much braggadocio. Very funny, but also a little claustrophobic and crowded; when my companion whispered, "I bet the lines for alcohol are really short," I took the opportunity to slip out.
The evening's most interesting twist: a rumor that the whole show was manufactured male bullshit, heard thirdhand through a friend of a female Japanese friend who understood all the pre-translated rhetoric. I love a dissenting opinion! Stay tuned.
