September 3, 1998.

Gosh, I'm tired. If I'd known that Mom was at bingo this fine morning, I would've spent another hour in bed. It was guilt that drove me out of bed, though...we haven't even started to clean the house yet. The task is growing fangs & fur in my mind. I don't begrudge her bingo, though. Tell truth, I'd rather do the cleaning myself, since it's the part that she really hates (as do I, but I signed up to captain the good ship HMS Anniversary). Oh...she just came home, and she was out buying little napkins & dried purple flowers. She's so hardcore. Apparently she'll be going to work at 2:30, so I'll be able to do some solo cleaning & assuage some of my rampant guilt.

Sometimes I think that all the good I do in my life is entirely fueled by guilt. Oh well.

Listening to Nick Cave, "Let Love In." Trevor lent it to me a few days ago, but I've only just put it in. I have to do some studying up before the concert on the 12th...I only know a tiny handful of Cave songs.

This album sounds a lot like late Leonard Cohen...but I'm not entirely fond of late Leonard Cohen. I'd rather listen to a screaming tune like "Thirsty Dog" ("I'm sorry it's just rotten luck / I'm sorry I've forgotten how to fuck") than something ballady & slow. He really had the trick of the drunken self-pitying ballad when he was in the Birthday Party. These later ones seem over-produced in comparison. I like it, though.

It is utterly appropriate that I talk of guilt & depressed musicians in preamble to the inevitable tale of last night, my night (well, me & 999 others) with

What can I say? It was wonderful. The crowd was about evenly split between fantastic goth creatures of all schools and "normals" in t-shirts, jeans & un-dyed hair. The mood was really good, too...which I never would've predicted, since you had to be pretty obsessive to get tickets. Yet the mundanes were happy & well-behaved (unlike a certain Edgefest crowd), and most of the goths knew each other...ecstatic reunions punctuated the background murmur with irregular regularity. A tall, beautiful friend of Stacy's ran over, saw that we were wearing the same dress, laced mine up tighter & told me to push my breasts up before we were even introduced. Somehow I got her to put eyeliner on Trevor, and it turned out perfectly. With my black boa looped around his neck, he looked much like Peter Himself. And utterly gorgeous, incidentally.

But the show...wow. So much energy. Peter bounced around like Hell's Own Aerobic's Instructor, bedecked in velvet & feathers & glaring haughtily at one & all. He sung the first song ("Double Dare") through a direct teevee feed from backstage; so as the fog billowed & the other three slammed away, a black & white video screen held centre stage. It was a very well-produced show...almost too slick in spots. For another number, a series of naked light bulbs were strung across the stage & were lit as Peter walked through them. He started playing with the one closest to Daniel, batting it around & finally throwing it between the curve of Daniel's arm & his guitar...causing the first spontaneous smile of the night, albeit a rueful one. Another departure from the slick production was during the encore, when they began to play Iggy Pop's "Passengers," and the bassist had to stare intently at Daniel's hands for 8 bars before he could start playing. It was high-larious.

If you haven't heard already, Peter's losing his hair. He has it cleverly combed, but the lights were pretty bright, and you could see his scalp glistening. But he was the only one who's visibly aged. Daniel & the bassist were the epitome of rock n' roll goth cool. But Peter's costume change into a huge feathered boa for the vain & silly song "Boys" more than made up for it...especially since he sang into a hand mirror pointed at the audience.

It was an enormously satisfying experience all round. They've always understood the theatre of performance much more than other post-punk bands, and now they have the means to create a truly beautiful & eerie show. Peter still dances like a bizarre cross between David Bowie & Mick Jagger...but even they don't dance like that anymore. Sorta spastic, sorta sensual, sorta feminine, sorta raw. Seeing him skank was more than worth the price of admission.

I also liked being fussed over. It's nice to wear The Dress among people who haven't seen me in it...even if I was one of about 10 girls with the exact same dress. Yeah, we all shop at Siren...what of it?? Speaking of clothes, the night was perfectly capped by the official tour merchandise. It was really quirky...not purist at all, which I loved. I bought an official Bauhaus baby-t. Can any souvenir experience be more perfect??

Days to the party: 2.
Today's bills: undetermined. Napkins & such were bought, but I left my wallet with Trevor, so the issue hasn't come up yet.
Morale: Painting the front door seems to have given us a second wind. I'm really tired & now entirely motivated by guilt.
Jaymz says: Why aren't you buying fresh food?
Mom says: Time to clean those bathrooms, honey.

one year ago today: the other egg