Friday, August 13, 2010

oh, canada

Well, gosh darn it, I'm terrible at updating. For good reasons, though: this past month, I got a day job (thank you oodles, Bloomingdale's!), met Stacey Bendet of Alice + Olivia (who called me a "goth pixie," and all things considered, it was fairly accurate)--her MAC nail varnish makes for a splendid manicure--celebrated my birthday in whiskey-drenched, synthpop style, saw Spiritualized put on an AMAZING, TRIPPY, EPIC performance of Ladies and Gentlemen, We Are Floating In Space at Radio City...

...then saw the Dead Weather at Prospect Park (Alison Mosshart is my new wife, just so you know--right after Freja Beha), and finally found myself in Toronto with my buddy obscurealternatives. We've known each other for about five years now, through--GASP! SHOCK! TO CATCH A PREDATOR!--mutual friends on the Internet. A little over two years ago, she came down to NYC for my birthday and we saw Jarvis Cocker at Terminal 5, which was splendid, life-changing, and a fun time had by all (including Jarvis, who pulled up to the venue in a bike taxi with his kids). We've been meeting up for shows and fashion nonsense ever since. CORRECTION: She's been schlepping it on a ten-hour Megabus to New York, and I've met up with her on the decidedly less intimidating MTA. It's not really fair. So I'm paying her back slowly but surely.

Toronto is a lovely city, and somehow more expensive than New York. ONE trip on its laughably small public transport? Three dollars. That shit ain't right, I'm sorry. But everyone is friendly as you'd expect (particularly the random gentleman who, when I yelled "I'M SO TIRED" and tried to slap myself awake, very cheerfully told me to "WAKE UP!" It helped) and I've got to give a whole lot of worship to Carte Blanche, quickly becoming one of my favorite little boutiques ever.

Ignore how wet I look (seriously, nice random torrential downpour WHEN I AM WEARING A SHEER SHIRT, TORONTO) and how short my legs seem to be--the most recent addition to my wardrobe is a lovely, kaleidoscopic Gareth Pugh top purchased at a third of the original price. Not to mention the coat I'm wearing that OA bought, complete with exquisitely large hood, from Carte Blanche's in-house label. In love.

The two of us very cleverly plan vacations around concerts and/or fashion weeks; this time was no different, and on Tuesday we went to see Peter Murphy at Lee's Palace.

Now, I know earlier this year everyone had a great big existential crisis about Peter Murphy appearing in Twilight. Looking back on it, most of the whining came from 15-year-old girls on Tumblr who considered it a great personal affront and/or a betrayal to the goth community at large (which 1. doesn't really exist anymore, 2. these girls would be very unfamiliar with due to being born in the mid-nineties; presumably they've read about the mystical ~*goth community*~ in fairy tales, and 3. doesn't really give a fuck about what the ex-members of Bauhaus did past 1990). As far as I can tell, personally, he doesn't really know who the hell I am (unless he's got Google which case, 'sup) and has not set out to ruin my day. Mr. Murphy owes me nothing but a tune and some good memories, and I'm very happy with what I've got.

A great setlist which include some new songs, old favorites, and a few Bauhaus numbers; charming audience banter about his underwear, questionable but fun dance moves, and a voice which, unlike many of his peers, has held up 30 years despite all the chain-smoking...I'm a happy camper. He announced that the short, rather scattered summer tour was a precursor to a larger one later on, either beginning in New York or the new year--I couldn't hear very well, but I hope it's the former. OA and I tried to talk with him after the show, but decided against fighting through the latex-clad masses (we take significantly more serious style inspiration from the man). Hopefully if the tour does indeed begin in NY, we'll get a better shot.

My one complaint? The girl behind me who thought it was totally okay to inappropriately fondle me through the whole damn show--stroking my back and grabbing me at the hips--only to call me a "bitch" and a "musical elitist" at the end (presumably because I muttered that the actual title of the Bowie song Peter covered was "Space Oddity," not "Ground Control To Major Tom"). The musical elitist bit doesn't bother me, considering I'm listening to Beyoncé right now and really enjoying it, but the touching? Pardon the pun, but if I ever see you again, I will cut you up.