No roof, we blew it off.

The best. Weekend. Ever.

I can't start at the beginning because I've been having this weekend all my life.

I think it was Friday. I stayed up until 4 AM composing a letter to a dear friend I'd wronged and nearly lost during my darkness these past months.

At 4:01 I sent the letter, and like an apparition conjured by my weary exhalation, the charming and painfully literate Sean invited me to tea the next day. I was late for tea. It didn't matter. Fresh from Paris and light as air, Sean reminded me that we are all of us the beautiful and few. Bad decisions make us perfect. There is joy in wrong as there is despair in success.

We headed out to Kane'ohe for Eden-Lee's Boxing Day party. Many beautiful weirdos in the room -- among them the delightful Peggy, Hans, Rob, Chris -- who incandesce.

I snuck into Walter's house while he was away, I played with his cats, and I stole back a book of mine. Laughter.

Next was Fresh Cafe's lovely event "Last Call," and we talked and talked outdoors beneath the glow of tiny white lights.

I jumped a barbed-wire fence. I stared at my city. I visited a remote beach and watched waves and the moon. I stared at that, too. I can't believe I live here, that I've always lived here; I can't believe I ever hated it here.

I didn't sleep, I didn't need to.

I went to work on Sunday, which means I talked fashion with like-minded nerds and frolicked in a playground of luxury and wearable art. I usually enjoy my work anyway, but this day my feet scarcely touched the ground. I used my lunch break to sleep -- always a sign of a great weekend.

Monday morning came sweet and muggy. I drank orange juice. I had a delightful homemade lunch at Jennifer's brand new apartment. Over the final course of warm-from-the-oven banana bread, Jennifer reminded me that we are all of us OK, not just in the end, but right now. She also reminded me to say no.

Onward to Mercury Bar with Ryan and Sean and Winnie that night. Musings on writing and music. A streetside recording session with words in 6/8 time:

by some constellation of my small anomalies
you have envisaged me brighter than most

oh don't shade your eyes, I'll discard this disguise
'cause I can't have my lovers in love with my ghost

Finally, I summoned sleep after three days, in my big white bed, with all my big white pillows and my big white comforter, my filthy exhausted joyful still-dressed self snuggled right down in the middle.

On Tuesday I lunched with Cyrina at Fresh Cafe. I love business with my lady genius. We are working on something so grand I am about to explode.

My father texts me in French to propose the idea of an impromptu family dinner. Dad doesn't speak French, he just texts in French. We waited 40 minutes to be seated, such was the crowd. And so:

• "Oh good, we finall..."
• "SHUT UP. It's eating time."
• "Mmm... chewing noises... Right."
• Et cetera.

Bonus points to our sushi chef John John, who participated in our ruckus. And after I left for downtown again, this text from my father: "C'etait une bonne idee."

Hit up the Merc again. Kraken and ginger. Hendrick's and tonic. Winnie and Cory and Margot and me. Musings on Honolulu and the inferiority complex, Al Green, and Topman shirts. Winnie pauses to light a fag on the streetcorner and drop this science on me: "I just didn't go back. I didn't need to move. I was already here."

At my first Kaleidoscope for months and months, I was hugging within seconds of ascending that famous stair, greeted by a beautiful Timo and an effervescent Ryan, feeling so lucky and warm. My wronged friend was there, and brought me to tears with a hug and "it's good, it's good."

Lapwing's set was brutal. I danced, hard, with Jason Tom and Stacy and Thomas and other beauties. Then, the Greetings' mini-session. I am in love with "Bounce." The Jason Tom beatbox throwdown. The Kamuela Kahoano mind-blowing offering, many guest musicians, many instruments, many glowing energies. Then, the epic, the historic, the jam of the year.

For this, present tense.

Kamuela doesn't know what to play for the last song. "Just make it up!" I cry. And so, he makes to do just that. I creep over and whisper, "I want in." He gestures openly to the unmanned microphone. My heart leaps in Morse code, what the fuck did I just say?? Kamuela articulates a chord, Jason Tom is making beatbox/bassbox magic. There are two amazing guitarists, an inventive djembe player, a sparkling bassist, and me, holding a warm microphone. I breathe, I open my voice, and my dancing beauties leap to their feet! I keep singing. There is no one not dancing. The music is raucous and fine. Ryan grabs a second unmanned mic and we intone ooohs in smooth harmony... My last phrase before I put the mic down, "I'm gonna dance now, I hope you don't mind, I just have to dance, I hope you don't mind." Ryan and Kamuela take over on vox. This jam is historic.

We made the roof disappear.

In the ladies' room, adorable praise for our "band":

• "Oh! Heh. Thanks, uh, we're not really a band. We were just jamming."
• "YOU MADE THAT UP?"
• "Well, yes."

After, more love and friends. Handshakes. Entreaties. Manifestos. Invitations. So lucky and warm.

Love. There is no measure.

Goodbye, 2009. I'm ready to take this to '10.

Valentine to Texting

I find it strange that text is easier for most people nowadays than face-to-face encounters. I love being with a person. Not people, mind you. Rather, a person. Maybe two, but one is preferable. Gesture, expression, posture, diction, tone, pace, timbre -- all this is lost in text messages. Texts seem, by comparison, poor and ungainly. However... I will now contradict myself. Texting is amazingly elegant. It's a strict form, and very brief. One hundred forty characters or less. Under fifty options for symbols and letters. Text is haiku in the modern. You can vary the length of time between messages to convey affection, arrogance, indifference. A semicolon-close-parenthesis combo signifies flirtation, a joke, petulance. A single word in a text can reverberate like an H-bomb in your chest. Add a period to the end of the word and it's like two H-bombs.

The one thing I would absolutely love to get rid of in my entire possession is my phone. It is also the thing I feel I absolutely cannot live without.

Let this be a warning

... said the magpie to the morning,

Don't let this fading summer pass you by.

I am blogging again. Thanks for reminding me, JK.

Update soon.

haute vie

As much as I enjoy fashion for art's sake, I simply cannot separate my enjoyment of the work from my enjoyment of the personalities that create it. This is why artists' bios are so important. This is why there are "Director's Notes" in performance programs. And THIS is a quote from Karl Lagerfeld:

In response to the question, "If you could do anything in your life over again, what would it be?" Karl says, "I don't want to do anything over again, ever again. I want only to do what I haven't done. There's no 'again.' There's only the future. I hate the past -- especially my own past."

Now, we can read that statement in the context of the fashion world, where a year is an eternity and from which the phrase "so last season" has been co-opted as a slangy pejorative, or we can read it in the context of the everyday world, where I like to live most days.

One has the ring of a young child bored with her new toy, or an adolescent angry with a troubled high school career.

The other has an exciting tone of adventure and discovery, tempered by the aggregate wisdom of years of mistakes made and lessons learned.

I like 'em both. 

New York City dreaming...

I am craving the hot Brooklyn sunshine in the summer.

I want to walk from the L to Penny Licks and get myself a vegan ice cream cone.

I want to take extra allergy medicine so I can shop at Beacon's Closet without getting a headache.

I want to chew gum with Leah Evans.

I want to sit in the sunlit kitchen of Michelle Williams and drink Rice Dream and chai.

I want to wander among the red brick buildings.

I want to wear dresses with cut-off tights underneath.

I want to meet again "Tony from Queens" and "Little Mika" and listen to their stories on the street.

I want to drink free Patron shots in a cool bar and talk to the hip kids.

I want to loiter on the subway platform and listen to the old ladies.

I want to be in Brooklyn.

We all said hallelujah!

We don't want answers anyway.

I've been busy, so you get Halloween pics in January. Great friends and a great band made this the best Halloween I've had since about age eight. Also, the best costume I've had since my aunt used to make them from pictures I drew.

I made eight million costumes for this Halloween, to match the amount of parties. Funnnn.

Inspired by my new favorite movie "Les Enfants du Paradis" (thanks, Ross), I was un clown. You can't see the hat in this photo. No matter. It makes another appearance later. The bottom of the big white smock hit high on my thigh. Black thigh-high socks. Teal Mary Jane heels. It was good for dancing. That's Aly in the Tinkerbell costume. Paired with Aaronvb's Peter Pan, my cute-o-meter was off the charts. I wish I had a picture of Zoe, Lauren, and this other girl, who were earth, wind, and fire, respectively. Oh man. Off the charts.

Halloween part deux featured Matt in a bread hat. In the bathroom at Asterisk, we made the hat out of real French bread from the market, twine, and sheer engineering. Other partygoers were taking bites off of his head all night. But Matt wasn't, because gluten makes him unhappy. Which makes this costume even funnier. And more awkward.

Here's my little clown hat, repurposed for Ross' sad harlequin-y get-up. I did his makeup. While that guy has no eyeliner tolerance, fortunately, he has lots of patience. You can't see them in this photo, but there are really long fake eyelashes on him, too.

My surrealist peacock costume was Nadia's favorite, as you can see. Three peacock feathers in a French twist, with giant flowers in the back from Catwings Couture. Thanks, Chelle. The royal blue sequin cardigan was borrowed from Aja. The fishnets were inspired by Rachelle. You could say this was a Cherry Blossom Cabaret dedication costume. The combat boots were the funny part. When I wear flat shoes, I feel like I'm walking uphill.

 

Keep your eyes on right. Keep your eyes on right ahead. Happy Halloween, boy, was it.

Ev'ry morning, ev'ry evening, ain't we got fun?

... not much money, oh but honey, ain't we got fun?

God, I love that tune.

I found this lovely tidbit in its Wikipedia article: Of the era in which the song was written, George Orwell writes, it was a time "when people had not yet settled down to a lifetime of unemployment mitigated by endless cups of tea."

What delightful humor! Or, what hollow rejoinder to the post-war economic devastation. Both the song and the comment. Either, I do love me some tea.

I've been thinking on this theme, this living without heed for the banality of everyday existence. Subsistence. Whatever. Paying bills, paying rent, paying for food and water and gasoline. Hating it and paying up anyway. Working for money because the supermarket doesn't accept love. There's another lyric that pops to mind here, Ted Leo's "if you can't afford a broken nose, how can you afford to fight?"

Maybe I've just been partying too hard and spending money I don't have, until just recently. I just got a check from my insurance company that's to cover speech therapy that followed my vocal surgery. It's not the full amount, but it's a fat portion. Thanks, HMSA. I thought I'd have to pony up totally on my own, so it's kind of a windfall. I plan to exploit the temporary financial freedom this check grants me by purchasing Thai takeout for dinner tonight. Wild abandon, that's my way.

Week updates:

The Cherry Blossom Cabaret always puts on a solid show for their bimonthly Speakeasy at Mercury Bar. This month's was a masquerade! Yay. I wore Diane von Furstenburg and cowboy boots. (Note: I'll blog about my weird and fabulous closet sometime soon. A bit embarrassingly, it no longer suits my income level. I built my collection during a richer time. So you could say I was dressed as me in 2004.) Catwings has been turning out these sweet hair candies that have proven damningly collectible. Check the gypsy hand and peacock feather combo! Sigh. What was that about spending money I don't have again?

Fortunately, there was a no-cover-before-10 "Pink Party" at the Loft on Sunday, where I noshed complimentary carrot sticks and mini cupcakes with Angie the Lesbian. Note how much I do love that gypsy hand accessory. It was a benefit for breast cancer awareness. Save the boobies. Also note our matching pink ribbon flair.

I took a few days off of the night scene to do work. What? Yes, work. So that I could afford to buy this beer at Anna Bananna's on Thursday, at the Eyes and Ears show. They're a Denver band that rocked my socks off.

OK, I lied. Ross bought me the beer. I'm destitute. I can't buy myself beer.

Nor can I usually buy myself lunch, but that worked out alright on Saturday afternoon. It was the Obama Bike Rally. Ara and Josh86 put it all together and made Kaka'ako Waterfront Park a democratic punk rock extravaganza. There was barbecuin' and Ross Jackson deejayin' and bands playin'... and the 5-0s trying to shut the event down because we didn't have a permit. Fortunately, they were all for Obama, or all for the BBQ chicken plates Ara made for them, and let us carry on. Which elicited this face from me. Woo.

Did I mention I'd had a job interview that morning at 7 AM? Good gravy, did my hair need a wash. I didn't even get a chance to nap before the Honolulu Theatre for Youth gala fundraiser at the Ko'olau Golf Club ballroom. It was another masquerade, and this time I was a peacock in blue cocktail-length Ralph Lauren. I arrived at the party with one lonely peacock feather in my French twist. Subtle, I thought. Classy. Somehow, though, I departed with seven. There were peacock feathers in all the centerpieces, you see, and there was much impish thievery that night. More feathers kept appearing atop my head, and I felt mysterious gentle forces prodding at my hair, to the sound of receding muffled giggles. Behold, I am a game.

And after that party, a quick drive back into downtown Honolulu for the thirtyninehotel 4 year anniversary fete. I'd pulled out most of the feathers by that time to avoid resembling a citizen of Whoville. The necklace in the picture is from dear Walter, my date for the HTY gala and favorite impulse-buyer. It's made of solid jasper stones and was up for bid at the gala's silent auction. I drunkenly suggested Walter purchase the necklace so we could cut it apart and play a game of marbles. We didn't have anything to cut it apart. Oh well. Thanks, Walter. I wore it to thirtyninehotel to great effect. BTW, I found out that night that it weighs about 15 lbs.

Last night was the Rocky Horror Picture Show at Bar35. I promoted the crap out of that event, hired actors from Manoa Valley Theatre, created decorations and party games, coerced Ross into running the sound. Thank you. Cyrina was my angel of strength and support. Eddie was my bartender of heart, and Kayla my cocktailer of spirit. Thank you, Mike and Ted, my attendees of experience, for calming me down the whole night.

I'll post pictures if anyone ever sends me any. I didn't have a camera. I never have a camera. It's better that way.

I love you.