April 24, 1999.

"CHEIN!! Andalousia!
Wanna grow up to be a debaser!"

Enjoying things for the first time way too late, Chapter 2: The Pixies.

The Boy lent me his copy of "Doolittle." It makes me feel like I did when I finished my fist book by Charles Dickens - exhilarated by the quality of work and a little depressed because I couldn't break the secret to anyone. I got yer headline right here..."Girl in Early Twenties Enjoys Classic Novels, 'this is some good shit!'" Sigh.

And it's the same with the Pixies. As if I was the first person to dance around the room like a crazy puppet during "Debaser." I guess I'm saved from a little lameness...if I had first found this album in my teens, I would have undoubtedly written the words to "Monkey Gone to Heaven" over and over during slow parts of Math class, and pondered the meaning of Black Francis' number designations. I suppose this was one major flaw with my highschool years. Not enough cutting edge bands - "Pump Up the Volume" soundtrack excluded, of course.

Guess what I did last night! That's right, I went out to a goth club. I had a triple motive last night. First, to take advantage of my second last weekend in this Grotto. Second, to meet the Boy after lacrosse. And third, to get the taste of university research out of my mouth. I had conveniently forgotten that in comparison to Freak City U of T, most other Canadian universities are either bland or conservative or sports-happy, not one of which appeals to me. And there will be no excellent grungy goth hangouts where a good portion of the regulars know my name, where the boys have better makeup than me and the girls wear bigger boots than any marine. None of that good shit. It's depressing, it is.

So I went to the Garden. I lucked out, too. Usually Fridays are very lame, as most of the regulars show up on Saturday if at all. But last night was NoizAngel's birthday, so there was much revelry.

The gathering of familiar faces could also be an expression of goth solidarity, as it seems that the Denver shootings are being blamed on us. What a crock. As Scherezade said, at some point you have to pull back from the NRA/Marilyn Manson/RPGs finger pointing game and just realize that these boys were fucking crazy. Some kids wear trenchcoats and fantasize about exacting retribution on an uncaring world. It happens. What if they'd been football players who targeted goths? Would there be a little less fear mongering?

Anyway. So the local goths are a bit steamed about that, especially the LARP aficionados. But mostly the talk was light. My housewarming flyer was a smash, although I hadn't gone there to distribute. The thing about friends of Pixie Stix & Q is that they understand the joke of making a housewarming party invite look like a rave flyer.

One of the highlights of the evening came in the person of a very drunk guy with glittery hair, rhinestone eyeliners and immaculate spiderwebs drawn on his face. He started a rambling conversation with us about nothing in particular - you know, drunk guy chatter. Stacy & I spent the whole time marveling at his elaborate appearance. Another interesting character was a tall guy who was trying really hard to look like Robert Smith - yet refused to dance to "Fascination Street," go figure. Why would you spend that long on the pout if you're not ready to lip-synch to your role model? There's a school of thought that insists he tried to pick up the Boy, but we're not really sure. I debated getting into a catfight, but why punish him further? He actually bore a striking resemblance to both Robert Smith and Tim Curry, and that's punishment enough.