a perfect magic
I'm doing better than I was yesterday. Time helps. Also, my extensive goth training has prepared me for such psychological buffets; I'm predisposed to hate the world and be bitterly disappointed when my peers and bosses fail to understand me. As such, a Saturday spent cleaning out a dusty storage locker, followed by a sumptuous hakka lunch and an afternoon of napping, knitting and the Smiths' first album, has restored me. Or at least, it has restored me to previous, functional levels of bitterness. We can all breathe a sigh of relief (or one of ennui) at that.
Of course, last night helped, too. Last night I was privileged to witness the first Friendly Rich concert in a long while, and while it lacked the edgy chaos of a full-on FR Show, it was more than enough to make me happy.
It started late, as Mason went to bed right after school and I was tied up in getting Blake out the door. We didn't leave the house until 6:45, shockingly late by current standards. Since this was a new venue for us, we decided to find the place before we foraged for dinner. We parked on Dundas, in the approximate area we were going, and were stuck for ideas. I spotted a gallery I had wandered through last summer with Scherezade. Although it was late, there was an opening and the place was starting to fill up. "Let’s go in there and ask directions," I suggested. "Did you remember your monocle? We want to fit in."
Wow. The last time I was in that gallery, it was split between a pop-artish show and a graffiti show, both of which I found fairly boring. This show by Tessar Lo was called "Everything we wanted, in our nostalgic future" and it was about a dreamy childhood state that made me intensely happy. Large canvasses with dayglo sketches coming into or out of being, the figure of a small child sleeping or watching beautiful things or flying. All the colours were hot and seemed to be on the edge of disappearing. A shark collided with an airplane with a spray of sparks, while a small boy watched below. A plane sculpture emerged from the wall, with the head of a bespectacled boy leading the way. There was a bed installation with art pinned up around it, little figures hanging from the canopy with strings, and the kind of epigrammatic short sentences that are very nearly clues. On top of that installation was a large diorama, featuring wee representations of the things found in the canvasses (elephants! Frogs! Mountain with glasses!!).
I wanted to play with it all. I wanted to go to Casa Nova, drag Blake out of bed, and take him to this exhibit. I wanted to pull out my cheque book and blow three-months' mortgage on a small boy sleeping in the midst of leaping yellow frogs. (I didn't.) Mason and I were enthralled. We did the circuit a few times before leaving to find the venue and have dinner, then we came back between dinner and the show. By the time FR was done, we expected the gallery to be closed. "Hey! It's still open!" we yelled gleefully, and plunged back into the opening night crowd for a final circuit.
The crowd had thinned, and we were able to find the artist and congratulate him. "This is amazing!" we crowed. "We've been back three times!" And then we bought a small print and disappeared back into the night, much happier.
As for our main activity of the night, Rich did not disappoint. He recognized me (or seemed to recognize me), which impressed Mason. Despite my tragic failure to bring my g.d. camera, I probably wouldn't have needed it. Unlike all of my previous FR Shows, there was more room for standing than sitting. Dancing to "Gentleman's Club" instead of waiting to be menaced with a blow-up doll by Soot? Okay, I guess. It was a smaller collection of musicians, but no less impressive for that. As long as I get the snarling, howling, belly-slapping dead-on precision of Friendly Rich himself, it's more than worth it. I got to buy a CD, Mason got a t-shirt and button, which seems more of a privilege than opportunity. Rich ignoring a persistent high-fiver and cursing out a newbie were just bonuses.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*