Maura's Illuminated Manuscript

I got invited to a Christmas Eve cocktail party at chez D, which is a short bus ride and non-trivial walk from my place. I'd never been to D's place before, but I know her through other goths. So I grab a bottle of wine and go, dressed in corporate goth, expecting something mellow.

Wrong. In a space about the same size as the main floor of the Devil Girl House, there were more people than at my Halloween party, many fancily dressed. Even though D's ceilings are 10' in that part of the house, it got uncomfortably warm in there. And you know I have a sky-high Florida girl's tolerance for that.

There were quality eetz, most of which contained sugar, and coquito. Delicious but deadly. Am I jealous of D's party-throwing ability? Somewhat, yes. Is D super cute in something short, red, and trimmed with white faux fur? Yes. Did I have a good time? Yes. It was definitely worth walking up Phinney Ridge to catch the bus home. Christmas miracle: a one-minute wait for the bus.

Christmas Day? I did as little as I could get away with. All the sleeping. Christmas dinner was Shin Black & seitan at 1500 local time. It rained the whole day, and I didn't feel like leaving the house. I could have clubbed, but didn't. Je ne regrette rien.

I went with the Tickler to the Mercury's annual Hardcore German Sparkle Party last night. The Tickler, as so often, arrived nearly an hour after they said they would. I had visions of us waiting in the around-the-block line, but Dancer rescued us! I felt a tiny bit guilty about joining her, but it sure beat waiting.

The Coat, my great big red and black one from Dracula Clothing, was the last one into the coat check. It filled up in half an hour. We filled up the coat check. Bananas.

SFDs: the theme was Hell, so I was the high-key version of the Devil Girl, natch. I didn't wear my Grand National boots because I'm not that kind of masochist, but I was astounded to see a certain venerable kinkster wearing their Grand Nationals. I'm pretty sure I saluted.

There were people who put so much effort into their outfits and makeup that as at every HGSP I've been to, I felt a little underdressed.

One of the DJs was a veteran of the well-known Bootie mashup night in San Francisco, so I did dance to some glorious mashups.

It was a sardine scene to match or exceed the best of the aughts. The decoration was amazing, including a throne covered in gilt pool noodles. seelenschwester outdid herself, which is saying quite a bit.

I had a chat with the unfairly attractive Vienna La Rouge, who was, unusually, not in the company of my least favorite Mercury regular. In fact, he was nowhere to be found. Icing on the cake.

The Tickler & I didn't last much past midnight because places to sit were hard to find, and it was so loud and crowded that it wore on even me, someone who loves crowds and noise.

I woke up early due to the warm night. Then I got my phone blown up by on call at 0710. Brunch at Made In House, adieu to the Tickler, the usual Sunday chores, and then this: Marmalade, the gelato joint that's been under construction since I moved in two years ago? Opened tonight! I may have been the first customer! The pistachio gelato was the stuff. Said the lady behind the counter, crepes will start next week.

Friday night: I made it to the monthly north end munch, i.e. gathering of kinky folk in civvies for dinner. That kind of thing is usually pleasant even though an awful lot of the regulars are coupled-up boomers. And it was, except for one thing: a boomer who's in the know about goings on at the Center for Sex Positive Culture* says that the board blew what's probably its last chance to get a new space by dithering. You just can't do that in a real estate market that's (still) as bananas as Seattle's. My source ascribed it to the inexperience of the board and a misplaced desire to obtain a consensus of many members, the latter of which is so Seattle it hurts. He speculates that without its own space, the CSPC could be gone in a few years. The community's elder, richer angels are one by one losing patience with them.

Saturday morning: brunch at Lost Lake with trystbat! I consumed an awful lot of mimosa and caffeine, and had the best time I've had during the daytime in for-damn-ever. As I told her, it kills me a little that I don't live in the Bay Area, because then I could see her more often. I played tour guide around the Pike/Pine corridor and then leaned heavily on my transit luck, which was nothing short of miraculous yesterday.

Saturday afternoon: I got sugared. Sadly, the season of showing off bare legs has just ended.

Later on Saturday afternoon: Uwajimaya with Tacoma Girl. I think I have enough beer for my Halloween party, plus Asian munchies for those who unfathomably don't want sushi. Oh, and I learned something from Tacoma Girl: breaded & fried enoki mushrooms are a pretty good substitute for chicken. That's the kind of thing I would try.

One more thing: I am now among the legions of Chappell Roan's fans. Even if you're (ahem) more than double her age, her songs are highly relatable if you're any flavor of dyke. Imagine a young, queer, country-fried Kate Bush with a thing for New Wave.



*For those of you outside the Seattle area, that's Seattle's oldest and largest non-profit kink organization. They had a space of their own from 1999 to 2015, and they used it well: many educational events, and of course a whole lot of ahem. Most of those who regularly used that space miss it terribly.

Went to the annual goth barbecue at chez C. Seldom-seen People in Black looking fabulous despite all the warm weather and sunshine. I've never not loved them.

Went to Tacoma Girl's new digs in the south end of Seattle. I must say, I'm a bit jealous of her access to the light rail. We had some ramen & gyoza that we picked up weeks ago at H Mart. I brought nice sake & mead, natch. Much punk & early techno was listened to. And a pox on Metro for reducing the late-night frequency of my usual bus home from U District station to the point where I again called a Lyft.

Maybe it was C's barbecue, in combination with the long ago Blue House parties a few blocks away, that inspired me to gauge interest in a Halloween party here at the Devil Girl House. Yeah, I used Zuckerberg's data mine. No, I'm not proud of that. I did my best to manage expectations: I cannot hope to manage the epic level of decoration and costuming that I saw every year at the Blue House. Nevertheless, response was enthusiastic, so I guess I've committed. Time to start planning. Seattle-area peeps, save the date: Saturday, October 26th.

On Sunday I put on the fiftieth birthday outfit only with comfier (but not quite comfy enough) boots, and headed down to agra. I ran into DJ Wrain Havoc from Seattle's own Mercury! She's been to WGT any number of times, and when she goes, she goes hard: three days into the festival, she'd slept maybe six hours. I told her that at my age, I just couldn't do that. Even if I could, I think it would detract from the total experience for me.

Wrain Havoc bought me some local absinthe with some of her last cash euros*. It tasted for all the world like Scope mouthwash. I'm positive it wasn't Scope because I watched the preparation, with sugar cube, right there. But that was probably the most astounding food or drink experience of the entire trip. Being an ethnic WASP, I drank the Scope and carried on.

Wrain Havoc was there to see Los Angeles band Diva Destruction, an artist who'd come off several years' hiatus. It was old school goth — not generally my bag — but what struck me about them was that their front woman sounded a lot like Anisa Romero of Seattle psychedelic band Sky Cries Mary from the '90s. I'm a big SCM fan to this day, so it was a surprise nostalgia trip for me.

Wrain Havoc bailed to see an artist elsewhere, leaving me alone for UK band Editors. They... were good, but they didn't grab me as much as I expected them to. I'm tempted to say that if U2 went dark, it would be something like Editors. That may be less charitable than they deserve, but that's what I was thinking.

Monday's outfit was Action Goth: tartan leggings, black top, black patent Docs. The only band I had listed as a must-see was Kirlian Camera. I showed up a band early for them, expecting to see Vive La Fête. But no, there was a substitution called Welle: Erdball ("Wave: Globe"). Not only are they German; they may be the most wholesomely German band active today.

They set up five vertical screens a little taller than a person. For the first song they played keyboards projected onto the screens. The two men were wearing black suits and black leather gloves. The two women were in little peach dresses that they removed partway through the show to reveal sparkly underwear. There were synchronized dance moves. People — just the women? — on turntables. Giant ballons and paper airplanes thrown into the audience, which was singing along. Inflatable angel wings; a stage hand carried the inflator in and we all watched the wings expand for several seconds.

What do they sound like? Synthpop. Cheezy synthpop. This band has been around for about thirty years, and they are clearly beloved in their native Germany. Their live show is 10km over the top, and probably impossible to translate into English. This was Germans not taking themselves seriously and having fun, and it was a beautiful thing: Eurovision, only longer and more substantial. I've bought an LP of theirs, natch.

I walked out of there thinking, 'What have I just seen?!' According to Zuck's data mine, several of my friends have been into them for years and I'm just the last to know as ever.

I saw the first third or so of Italian band Kirlian Camera. The goth bombast was well done, but that kind of thing is is much more cupcake_goth's thing than mine. I quit while I was ahead. Thanks, WGT, for surprising me.



*Mental note: go to her night and buy her a damn drink sometime. Yeah, it's a weeknight, but come on.

I confess to buying something on Black Friday: a black leather harness from Apatico, which makes things just down the hill from me in Seattle's Ballard neighborhood. I took the bus last night to pick it up. The young woman who handed it to me, who I believe to be the sole proprietress, looked fetchingly goth in her flowy black skirt and pointy boots. The harness itself fits perfectly, and will make a fine addition to my Pride Sunday outfit.

But I got to walk around what used to be an industrial area of Ballard. I spotted a distillery and a brew pub, both of recent construction. The old Bardahl sign* was there, but turned off. The Bardahl plant looked spiffy, but the loading docks were completely enclosed by chain link and barbed wire. A quick internet search tells me HQ is still there, but it sure looks as if manufacturing isn't. It was a metaphoric walk in the fog up 14th Ave. NW.



*The Bardahl sign is a local landmark, a huge neon sign flashing southward at the Ballard bridge, "ADD IT TO YOUR GAS / ADD IT TO YOUR OIL / ADD BARDAHL." Except the timing was off, so as my ex put it, "Add gas it to your. Add oil it to your."

The heavenly bodies aligned, and cupcake_goth and I had dinner together last night. We'd had to postpone many times, usually due to her health. But! That's improving, thank Goddess. We talked. A lot. About everything and everyone. I really miss seeing her as often as I used to.

It's worth noting, both for her and for the rest of my readers, that mass transit is a good way to get between Seattle and Tacoma. I got from my door to the restaurant where we ate in 98 minutes during a Friday evening rush, albeit with freakishly favorable mass transit mojo. I was so early that I got out of the cold at a boba joint, little realizing how close cupcake_goth lived.

And speaking of where she lives, I got to see it! It's lovely! And there are a few blocks of good eats, drinks, etc. nearby. Am I jealous of all the indoor space she has? Maaaybe a tiny bit. Honestly, I'm doing fine with what I have, especially since I haven't been circumflatulating a lot lately in ways that need more space. But for biking, walking, busing, clubbing, doing hippie stuff, and varied and fancy-ass eats & drinks, I think I win. Neener neener neener? Not everyone has the same priorities.

I have to wonder, though: can artists afford to live in her part of Tacoma? It looked as if maybe they could. That hasn't been possible in Fremont this century. I've personally watched three different musicians' rehearsal spaces get gentrified out of existence in north Seattle. In case you were wondering why she moved there.

(Some of the area between Aurora & Biker's place, by the way, looked about as slum-like as the Seattle area gets. Aurora has that effect, it seems, along most of its length. There's a fine line between dangerously depressing and nascent cool.)

But on a happier note, I planted the following bug in my old friend's ear: the Mercury, in addition to no longer allowing smoking*, spent the early pandemic replacing the smoke-saturated furniture and renovating. So if the smoke and its residue were your main reasons for staying out of the Merc, have no fear. And of course, a quiet night in or near the Devil Girl House is always an option.



*The Merc had to legally reorganize as a regular business to survive the pandemic, and that means no more lighting up inside. I'm OK with it, and I'm not aware of anyone who isn't. Smoking at the Merc had tailed off quite a bit anyway, so I don't think they'll get much grief from the die hards.

Hit the Merc with Shiny H & G for the former's birthday. Got to chat with aaminahlefae a bit. She's crashing out of that divorce, and it's a beautiful thing to see. And, and and and, Vienna La Rouge was there too, in the out-of-the-way Handjob Corner. No icky dudes with her, no partner either. Good Goddess, that woman's unfairly attractive, in a gay way. And hanging out and talking to her is... nice. No, that's not dirty. It reminded me of when we used to do that in 2008.

Shallow fashion details: violet brocade overbust corset from Dark Garden; "boot licker", i.e. very high-low, skirt from Gallery Serpentine; Fluevog Truth Melanie held above my knees with black velvet ribbons; and all the violet accessories with violet MAC makeup. It was my 2019 Pride eve outfit, only dressier.

Went to the annual Lambert House volunteer appreciation gathering in Volunteer Park. Sheesh, getting there on transit took forever. Oddly, coming back was easy. Said Ken the director, they're in negotiations for a place to move to for two years, but they haven't nailed anything down, so there's nothing really worth announcing. He asked us grunts if any of us had a line on a space, but he says the youth won't go to a space that's office-y. What the actual? Lambert House is such a precious thing, a place where it's safe for queer kids to be queer. I like to think that when I was their age I wouldn't have cared much what the building looked like. Anyway, if any of you know of a transit-accessible place on Capitol Hill that isn't (too?) office-like, please let me know.

I neither made it to the annual ravey thing at Myrtle Edwards nor circumflatulated. I needed to do housework, and my son should be arriving for dinner shortly. Ah well, I have a few summer weekends left.

And why the FOMO? Well, uh, let's just say I've been unusually successful with Clara II these last three days. Record-breakingly so.

I bopped around the south end yesterday afternoon delivering three of the four copies of Zelda III that I had ready at hand: one to Temptress, who's dating another trans woman, and two to other trans women. So! That's going better than expected.

During that second delivery, the trans woman's housemate, who was dressed as a normie, complimented my Evil Princess coat and outed herself as a goth. She knows cupcake_goth, natch, because everyone does.

One sex therapist has expressed interest in my final design, and wants a fact sheet and a link to an e-commerce site. I assume that what goes into the fact sheet is something like what I put in my big call to action, but I should look at an example.

While I was literally in the neighborhood, I got Ex to sign my car title, because it was legally our car title. I've mailed it, so I should be free of any legal entanglements with the car. What a contrast to the last time I dealt with a wrecked car! I also confirmed that poor Ex has arthritis in her hands that's severe enough that she sometimes has trouble with one of her front door locks.

And she had a suggestion for e-commerce that I'm taking seriously: selling my sex toys on Etsy! I've seen BDSM toys for sale on Etsy, and their infrastructure is pretty solid, so why not? People who regularly sell stuff, and I'm pretty sure a few of are reading this, is there anything wrong with this plan? Yes, Etsy takes their percentage, but so would any other e-commerce sollution. The worst thing I can think of is that people won't take it seriously. However I'm already a trans woman apparently selling to mainly trans people who are familiar with the issue I'm trying to address. I doubt my putative customers, or even the sex therapists who want to help them, would give a damn.

I took my last remaining copy of the toy to the Merc, and you bet your sweet booty I pimped it to total or at least partial strangers. I didn't get any takers, but I did try. I still have one social network left to blast, and a sex therapist or two to buttonhole.