Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 37

In Which We Meet Veronica

In many ways, Gentle Reader, although I’ve known her only one year, Miss Veronica is one of my closest friends. She’s always hanging out at my place, helps me pick out outfits, and even comes to art shows and parties with me! She’s eccentric, and a barrel of laughs – we spend almost every night together. She’s even met some of the members of my family!

I should probably mention that Veronica is a zombie mannequin. Um.

When you have friends in the metal-recycling business, and they rescue or put aside items they think you might like, you don’t tell them no, of course – especially when they find such treasures as these. When I met Veronica, she wasn’t yet a zombie; she was a Misses Size 9 Petite display model, complete with arms, legs, and a display stand. She didn’t have hands – well, she did, but the fingers were mangled and my friend couldn’t find them anyway. A crisp twenty changed hands, and Veronica and I left, handless.

She had to be broken apart to fit into the roommate’s car, of course. Ronnie’s legs were prominent, upside down in the backseat, with her arms piled beside her. Her naked torso rode in my lap. As we drove down the highway, we had great fun together – I would turn Ronnie’s head to stare at other cars. No matter the reaction, there was invariably a double-take.

When we had to dash into Costco for a moment, I thought it only gentlemanly to lend her my coat, to cover her small nubile breasts – she would be alone in public, after all. She was very grateful. When we got her home and reassembled her, she nearly gave one of my roommates a concussion, with a well-timed karate chop.

When the Tacomapocalypse show was announced, I thought I’d try my hand at visual art*, and Veronica was more than game to help me. With a little research on anatomy, and advice from Caitlin Doughty† of the Order of the Good Death, I was able to take Ronnie’s torso, and slowly transform her into her current undead state.

 

Veronica’s torso is all well and good – but I know you’re dying to find out what happened to her limbs. This – this is what happened to her limbs:

When we left the farm, I left her arms. Her legs are still kicking around in the woods by our current house; they can only be seen from a certain angle in the smoking area. It’s enough to surprise‡ anyone who isn’t expecting to see them. Isn’t Ronnie a card?

Veronica, once finished, spent a whole month on display at Amocat Cafe with all the other pieces. Unfortunately, no one saw fit to adopt her, which is just as well because she now keeps me company while I write.

*********

*Visual Art, in this case, uses the old “Mixed Media” trick, which is to disguise the fact that blood, dirt, rice, and a variety of more traditional art supplies were used to create Veronica’s new look.

†Caitlin is Internet-Famous as the professional from the popular YouTube series, Ask A Mortician§.

‡Terrified

Tagged: Art, Artwork, Disembodied Limbs, Mannequins, Mixed Media, Mortician, Musculature, Order of the Good Death, Statues, Veronica, Zombies

Poetic Interlude XXIV

Today’s poetic interlude is a guest post, in that I am sharing a piece that was influential in my adolescence.

Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

Tagged: Art, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Star Light Star Bright, Writing

In Which We Visit Prison

Gentle Reader, a lot of people don’t seem to know that I have an older sister, or had an older brother. They were teenagers when my parents married*; I wasn’t born until a year or two later. My brother, D, was in and out of trouble in those tumultuous teenage years, and into his twenties. A great deal of trouble.

He got sent to prison, in fact†. By his step-father. This improved their relationship dramatically, I’m sure.

He was first incarcerated when I was five – about the time I started kindergarten, in fact. At the time, I just thought he was going to some special big-boy school, and didn’t quite understand why he didn’t come home in the evenings. After a year or two, I could read, and read – for the very first time – of boarding school, in The Chronicles of Narnia. When I asked my parents why D was in boarding school and I wasn’t, they weren’t amused. They didn’t understand that I wasn’t joking – I was jealous.

That may have been why they finally decided to take me to visit my brother, in prison. The women’s prison for the state was in our humble hamlet; unfortunately, the men’s facility was a two-hour drive away. A squalling six-year-old on a road-trip of that sort, and duration? Pleasant for nobody. My parents undertook it gladly, though – it was a necessary task.

We arrived, entered, were frisked. I thought that the metal-detectors were great fun. My father had to use his patented, signature glare on me – the guards were in no mood to deal with frisky children, and he was in no mood to deal with the sort of trouble I could have gotten into.

We were escorted to what was essentially a large telephone booth. If you’re unfamiliar, there’s a formica half-counter, on which to lean and a plastic chair of the sort you would find in a middle-school cafeteria. Through the tinted, dim, window you can vaguely discern your friend or loved one’s features. There is a phone-booth style handset hanging to your left, that only dials one number.

You are permitted thirty minutes.

This is not enough time, when constantly interrupted by a child’s chatter.

My father was trying to discuss important things, like lawyer’s fees and parole. I wanted to tell D all about my new puppy and also this thing that Teacher said and also also about this picture I drew and maybe I will write you a story in class, D!

I like to think that D took comfort in the ease that I took in his incarceration. I was never bothered by it, nor judged him for it – it was simply what was happening at the time. I loved my big brother, and that was the end of the story.

We visited him a few times after that, after I understood that he wasn’t having adventures in magical boarding schools. Sometimes, if you show up on the correct day, they even let you meet in a large white common room, reminding you of nothing so much as the dining hall of a hospital. My brother taught me to play chess in this sterile, cheerless, environment; I was seven or eight. Over the course of our next several visits, I gradually improved; I was very proud the first time I beat him.

Eventually, he was released, and got his life straightened out – and he kept it pretty level, until he passed away. The family doesn’t much speak of his time in prison, not wanting to speak ill of the dead – I think that it’s important to acknowledge these things. After all, I spent time in prison as a child.

*********

*My father knocked a girl up back in the Sixties, when he was seventeen (she was sixteen). They married, had two children and a white picket fence, were together many years, and were miserable. It ended badly. He married my mother when my sister (the elder) was about 14 or 15; my brother was 13.

†You’re too polite to inquire, but I know you’re wondering: He was imprisoned for stealing and forging checks of his stepfather’s. He was 18 or 19.

Tagged: Boarding school, Brotherhood, Childhood Memories, Chronicles of Narnia, Family Stories That Are Completely True, Growing Up, Incarceration, Prison, Shelton

Halloween Costumes

Gentle Reader, I am aware of the date. I acknowledge the tragedy that occurred; the actions of those individuals are reprehensible. I have long held that our reaction was also reprehensible – not the tears, or the (brief) coming together of people of all walks of life – the curtailing of Freedom in the name of Security. This will doubtless lose me readers; this is not what I want to talk to you about today. In the midst of everyone’s heavy posts of remembrance and sorrow, I would like to embrace levity, frivolity, light – those things that lift our souls and bring us joy. For me, one of those things is, of course, Halloween.

Again, I’m perfectly aware of the date. However, in the days of the F.P.A., we always imagined our Ideal Guest receiving their invitation or their save-the-date card, debating over what costume to make, purchase, construct, and spending months on their attire. There would be vague murmurs at all the best parties – Well, what are you wearing? – and thus, interest and intrigue would slowly build for absolute ages, until the day of the event, when people’s creativity and talent would wash over us all in a riotous frenzy of feathers, silk, and sequins. While this was never quite the case with our actual guests, I have always treated Halloween, the Costumer’s High Holy Day, with the reverence and respect described.

I have come up with many unique concepts over the years; the above was a dark interpretation of the Baron Munchausen; there is also my steampunk iteration of the White Knight from Through the Looking Glass:

You can’t quite tell in the photo; there are approximately twenty pouches on the various straps across my chest that serve for armor; there are baskets, a turkish coffee set, tools for masonry and woodwork, a number of blades of varying uses, and so on and so forth.

You can see that this is a serious business that I’m about; I cannot just be a cat, a gypsy, or a cowboy. These, however, are the sort of suggestions I’ve been getting. September is nearly halfway over, and I still don’t have a concept. There was a moment when I almost decided on Dorothy Parker, but last year’s Coco Chanel* fiasco turned me against that idea. A couple’s costume, with Miss K, going as gender-switched June and Ward Cleaver seemed promising†, but I know full well that she won’t want to go to half the functions I want to attend. I may be stumped, for the first time in years, even if I am a dead ringer for June.

 

For heaven’s sake, I cobbled my own boots for my Jareth costume. This shouldn’t be an issue. It is absolutely vital that I sort this out by Sunday, so that I can begin collecting materials and begin work on this.

I’m sorry, Gentle Reader. I’m publicly brooding over the inconsequential. Do you have any suggestions? What are you wearing and doing on Halloween?

*********

*The fiasco is twofold: firstly, no photos nor film of my costume survive; secondly, no one knew who I was, so I eventually told people that I was a Maiden Aunt.

†Fuck Gender-Roles! Fight Heteronormativity! Etc. Great concept; it’s just not practical.

//

Tagged: Costume, Gender Roles, Halloween, Halloween costume, Holiday, Parties, Uncertainty

In Which We Take Lunch

Gentle Reader, the thing I miss the absolute most from my days of affluence isn’t the cocktail parties, the evenings out, or being able to afford – well, anything. No, what this former dandy misses more than anything else is the solitary luncheon and its attendant activities.

I would, of course, be dressed to the nines in my signature style – colorful blazers, ties, and pocket-squares; a brooch on my lapel, argyle socks to match the blazer, and always, always, always, classy over-the-knee shorts. In short, a sort of male equivalence to the Chanel Suit.  Comme ça:

Sundays were my day of choice, because I would be in town later those evenings anyway. Typically, I would begin at Amocat Cafe, and take a brisk walk and my coffee down to Frost Park, to enjoy what remained of the prior Friday’s artwork. You see, each Friday, there’s a chalk-off there; artists and amateurs alike create beauty, there on the pavement, the steps, the walls of the fountain. Spontaneous moments of creativity are always a pleasure, and I took pleasure in viewing new art weekly.

From there, I would wander past the majestic old girls of the Theatre District, the Rialto and the Pantages, and see whether there was anything worth seeing in the coming weeks. There typically was; they do fantastic productions at both houses.

 

I would then wander up Broadway, and the afternoon’s work would begin in earnest: shopping. At the many fine antique stores, I would pore over ancient volumes, or scour the locked glass cases for scintillating brooches – it’s important to keep one’s lapel jewelry fresh. I would visit the funny little Italian man, who was eighty if he was a day, who made my copper brocade-and-patent-leather dress shoes by hand, for twenty dollars. I would visit the woman who, in her shop of gothic splendour, had trinkets and tchotchkes that perfectly suited my taste, and who took custom jewelry orders – but only from me, and only because we’d built a rapport. I would visit the young man, on the middle floor of Sanford and Son’s antique mall, who shopped the thrift shops and collected the finest menswear that he could find for resale – and, if he was sweet on you, he would tailor it, too. I visited the shop where I once found a pair of WWI military-issue spats, and where the long-haired proprietor once gave me a vintage boater, because I reminded him of himself in youth. I visited London Couture, and the aptly named “What” shop. I visited them all.

After I had made my weekly rounds, I would take whatever thrilling new tome I had found to a little hole in the wall off of Opera Alley, the Over The Moon Cafe. Strolling into the alley, one had to take care; alleyways can be a dangerous experience. Once safely ensconced inside, I would have exquisite grilled gruyére paired with lobster bisque, two glasses of reisling, and an hour alone, just me and my book. They knew me as a gentleman there, once – a decent tipper, not much for conversation, always ready with a quick glance from the page and a “Thank you” when appropriate. Those lunches were the highlight of my week – a time of rest, contemplation, recharging my wit and good-humour.

 

After my meditative hour, I would stroll up to the statue of St. Helen or to the Spanish Steps, find a comfortable spot to lounge, and watch the panoply of people pass by. The variety of life always astounds me, and I loved to make up little stories about the strangers as they passed. Once I had watched my fill, of course, I would amble up the hill to the Mix, where I would purchase a pitcher of mimosa, quietly writing in a table by the corner, awaiting my companions – but that’s another post.

//

Tagged: Alleys, Broadway, Frost Park, Shopping, Sundays, Tacoma, The Mix

Post the Hundred-and-Second: In Which We Take Lunch

Gentle Reader, the thing I miss the absolute most from my days of affluence isn’t the cocktail parties, the evenings out, or being able to afford – well, anything. No, what this former dandy misses more than anything else is the solitary luncheon and its attendant activities.

I would, of course, be dressed to the nines in my signature style – colorful blazers, ties, and pocket-squares; a brooch on my lapel, argyle socks to match the blazer, and always, always, always, classy over-the-knee shorts. In short, a sort of male equivalence to the Chanel Suit.  Comme ça:

Sundays were my day of choice, because I would be in town later those evenings anyway. Typically, I would begin at Amocat Cafe, and take a brisk walk and my coffee down to Frost Park, to enjoy what remained of the prior Friday’s artwork. You see, each Friday, there’s a chalk-off there; artists and amateurs alike create beauty, there on the pavement, the steps, the walls of the fountain. Spontaneous moments of creativity are always a pleasure, and I took pleasure in viewing new art weekly.

From there, I would wander past the majestic old girls of the Theatre District, the Rialto and the Pantages, and see whether there was anything worth seeing in the coming weeks. There typically was; they do fantastic productions at both houses.

 

I would then wander up Broadway, and the afternoon’s work would begin in earnest: shopping. At the many fine antique stores, I would pore over ancient volumes, or scour the locked glass cases for scintillating brooches – it’s important to keep one’s lapel jewelry fresh. I would visit the funny little Italian man, who was eighty if he was a day, who made my copper brocade-and-patent-leather dress shoes by hand, for twenty dollars. I would visit the woman who, in her shop of gothic splendour, had trinkets and tchotchkes that perfectly suited my taste, and who took custom jewelry orders – but only from me, and only because we’d built a rapport. I would visit the young man, on the middle floor of Sanford and Son’s antique mall, who shopped the thrift shops and collected the finest menswear that he could find for resale – and, if he was sweet on you, he would tailor it, too. I visited the shop where I once found a pair of WWI military-issue spats, and where the long-haired proprietor once gave me a vintage boater, because I reminded him of himself in youth. I visited London Couture, and the aptly named “What” shop. I visited them all.

After I had made my weekly rounds, I would take whatever thrilling new tome I had found to a little hole in the wall off of Opera Alley, the Over The Moon Cafe. Strolling into the alley, one had to take care; alleyways can be a dangerous experience. Once safely ensconced inside, I would have exquisite grilled gruyére paired with lobster bisque, two glasses of reisling, and an hour alone, just me and my book. They knew me as a gentleman there, once – a decent tipper, not much for conversation, always ready with a quick glance from the page and a “Thank you” when appropriate. Those lunches were the highlight of my week – a time of rest, contemplation, recharging my wit and good-humour.

 

After my meditative hour, I would stroll up to the statue of St. Helen or to the Spanish Steps, find a comfortable spot to lounge, and watch the panoply of people pass by. The variety of life always astounds me, and I loved to make up little stories about the strangers as they passed. Once I had watched my fill, of course, I would amble up the hill to the Mix, where I would purchase a pitcher of mimosa, quietly writing in a table by the corner, awaiting my companions – but that’s another post.

//

Tagged: Alleys, Broadway, Frost Park, Shopping, Sundays, Tacoma, The Mix

Poetic Interlude XXIII

For Mrs. Capere

Friends and Family gathered there,

Assembled in the park -

An artificial waterfall,

The sunset growing dark,

The bridal pair approaching me,

Each heart a growing spark.

“Friends and Family, we are here,”

I choked the sermon out,

And as you each produced your rings,

As solemnly you vowed,

I kept my tears on ice, my dear,

Too pure to be allowed.

Friends and Family watched you kiss;

I watched a beam of light

Lit upon your mother’s face,

And everything was right.

Happy wedding day, my dear.

Your future’s looking bright.

©2013 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved

Tagged: Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Writing

In Which We Explore An Abandoned Building

Many, many years ago, Gentle Reader, I had my very first run-in with the law. You see, in the hamlet of Purdy, Washington, where I went to high school, there is a historic bridge, crossing over to a clear, rocky beach known as the “Sand Spit” or the “Purdy Spit. There was a convenient hollow underneath the bridge that was suitable for bonfires, another full of broken glass that we called the “fucking hole” – because that was what it was clearly for – and it was a popular activity to scrawl random graffiti and drawings on the bridge’s side.

The towers, that you can see there? They are also a popular hangout/graffiti location. However, the best part of the entire place was, of course, the abandoned post office at the far end of the spit. It’s about a fourty-five minute walk from the end of the bridge to where the post office used was*, but it was worth it. It had been built one hundred years ago, was tiny, quaint, and boarded up. How could any self-respecting teenage explorers leave it alone?

It came to pass that our little clique – besotted with bohemian ways, bright, colorful, and entirely odd – needed our own little atelier. Thus it was that we named the building Calliope, after the muse, and brought fabric, beads, and feathers with us, to decorate the interior with. All day, our new project was all we could concentrate on; schoolwork took a backseat. This, after all, was important!

After posing for some photographs, our intrepid expedition set out.

After making the hike to what we intended to be our salon, we crawled underneath the building, amongst the pilings. That was where the only actual entrance into the building was – the door had been boarded up. We handed up our supplies – including a boombox, with which to play inspiring music. That may have been a mistake.

You see, a gaggle of conspicuously fabulous teenagers is, in fact, conspicuous. When they are carrying sparkly draperies, they are doubly so. When they are carrying sparkly draperies and playing the soundtrack from Moulin Rouge – and singing along – the police get called.

Being underage and not having a valid id on you is enough to let you off with a warning, as it turns out, which is very lucky. No one wants to hear that your criminal record begins with being arrested for too much fabulousness.

**********

*It has since been torn down, despite a campaign to register it as a historical building. More information on the building can be found here. Despite the campaign, apparently no photos of it appear anywhere on the internet, except one sad little sketch, presented here for your pleasure.

The Best Purdy Bridge


http://BrandProfiles.com
One Stop Shopping. The Best Purdy Bridge Right Here













Tagged: Abandoned Buildings, Ancient Photos, Bridge, Calliope, Purdy

Post the Hundred-and-First: In Which We Explore An Abandoned Building

Many, many years ago, Gentle Reader, I had my very first run-in with the law. You see, in the hamlet of Purdy, Washington, where I went to high school, there is a historic bridge, crossing over to a clear, rocky beach known as the “Sand Spit” or the “Purdy Spit. There was a convenient hollow underneath the bridge that was suitable for bonfires, another full of broken glass that we called the “fucking hole” – because that was what it was clearly for – and it was a popular activity to scrawl random graffiti and drawings on the bridge’s side.

The towers, that you can see there? They are also a popular hangout/graffiti location. However, the best part of the entire place was, of course, the abandoned post office at the far end of the spit. It’s about a fourty-five minute walk from the end of the bridge to where the post office used was*, but it was worth it. It had been built one hundred years ago, was tiny, quaint, and boarded up. How could any self-respecting teenage explorers leave it alone?

It came to pass that our little clique – besotted with bohemian ways, bright, colorful, and entirely odd – needed our own little atelier. Thus it was that we named the building Calliope, after the muse, and brought fabric, beads, and feathers with us, to decorate the interior with. All day, our new project was all we could concentrate on; schoolwork took a backseat. This, after all, was important!

After posing for some photographs, our intrepid expedition set out.

After making the hike to what we intended to be our salon, we crawled underneath the building, amongst the pilings. That was where the only actual entrance into the building was – the door had been boarded up. We handed up our supplies – including a boombox, with which to play inspiring music. That may have been a mistake.

You see, a gaggle of conspicuously fabulous teenagers is, in fact, conspicuous. When they are carrying sparkly draperies, they are doubly so. When they are carrying sparkly draperies and playing the soundtrack from Moulin Rouge – and singing along – the police get called.

Being underage and not having a valid id on you is enough to let you off with a warning, as it turns out, which is very lucky. No one wants to hear that your criminal record begins with being arrested for too much fabulousness.

**********

*It has since been torn down, despite a campaign to register it as a historical building. More information on the building can be found here. Despite the campaign, apparently no photos of it appear anywhere on the internet, except one sad little sketch, presented here for your pleasure.

The Best Purdy Bridge


http://BrandProfiles.com
One Stop Shopping. The Best Purdy Bridge Right Here













Tagged: Abandoned Buildings, Ancient Photos, Bridge, Calliope, Purdy

Post the One Hundredth: In Which We See Amanda Palmer’s Tits (NSFW?)

First of all, Gentle Reader, I made you a low-resolution present: a video on the YouTube that won’t embed, I guess. 
I would have done this whole post in video-format, but there are all kinds of reasons why that wouldn’t work. Including the fact that it took me seventeen tries to get those precious twenty-four seconds, and then the camera quality was lower than anticipated. Alors. We’re going to discuss Amanda Palmer today, children. Eventually, specifically, her tits.


When Amanda Palmer left her band, the Dresden Dolls, and her record label a few years ago, she struck out on her own. Yes, she made a tidy sum from her solo album, Who Killed Amanda Palmer, but we’re not really talking rock-star money. She married Neil Gaiman at one point, and then got a lot of flack for doing a kickstarter to help fund her new band, the Grand Theft Orchestra. Yes, Neil donated heavily to the fund-raiser, but she didn’t want to rely on her husband’s money for it. She raised over one million dollars, produced an album, and the band went on to tour the world.



I’m more than a trifle obsessed with Miss Palmer. When I found out that she was coming to Seattle, I actually swooned. There are not many musicians – or, indeed, famous people – who cause such a reaction from me. I bought my ticket within minutes of them going on sale – thank you, Twitter – and would not shut up about the amazing, wonderful concert I would be attending for the next two months. I got the new album, and listened to nothing else. Everyone in the house was excited for me to go to the concert, because it meant that I would stop talking about the damned concert. It was a magical time.


I arranged to stay with Uncle G and Auntie T, and made my way via bus to Seattle. The Stones wined and dined me, and helped me navigate to the Neptune Theatre. According to @amandapalmer, there were several vintage records – rare ones, at that – hidden about the theatre; who ever found them would get to go backstage. No such luck, but who needs it? I was doing my very best to overcome anxiety – I picked a corner, close to the bar, where I had a good view. I ordered up a Strongbow cider, and took the edge off my fear. I was about to see my favorite musician! I wasn’t going to allow anything to ruin it.



Lord, the woman can sing. As the evening goes on, she does dozens of costume changes on stage. During the song Bottomfeeder, she launches herself into the crowd, with a train that is fifty feet long, flowing over us all. It was an act of supreme trust; then, intermission.



I dashed outside for a cigarette, quick as I could – it was very loud, and crowded, and despite the fact that I was supremely uncomfortable, I was loving every second of this show. A pair of teenagers – a heavy goth-girl and her chain-smoking gay best friend were comparing cigarette holders with me; a middle-aged woman who seemed both out-of-place and very drunk joined us. As we chatted, it turns out that she is Jherek’s aunt, and if I meet her right there after the show, then I can go meet the band. Jherek Bischoff is a local boy, you see – his family’s from Shoreline. He is the bassist for the Grand Theft Orchestra, among other things.



At any rate, intermission over, I pick up a second drink and head straight to my corner. I am directly below one of the balconies; the band plays on. The second half is sadder, stranger, more entrancing and sad, serious. I am rapt. The set closes, but naturally there’s an encore. On this first encore, they did some of the songs from the Dresden Dolls – including Girl Anachronism, one of my favorites. A few more songs, and the encore is finished. Cue applause, of course.


Strangely, the applause continues, and suddenly everyone is looking directly at me. When they point the spot light in my direction, I begin to lose my calm; it was then that I saw the band leaning over the balcony’s edge directly above me.



Amanda Palmer made a moment of eye contact with me; she registered my surprise, gave me a sympathetic smile and a wink, and the show went on. This time they played a few songs from the album that hadn’t made it into the stage show, such as Massachusetts Avenue. More applause, and after they’re done, people begin to leave the theatre. These people are fools.


The third encore was back on stage, and featured Jason Webley, who had been in the audience. They broke out some songs from the Evelyn, Evelyn days, and some of Jason’s work, like Icarus. Jason wandered off; there were fewer than twenty people left in the theatre. For our dedication, Amanda Palmer whipped off her bra, and rewarded us with these:










Tagged: Amanda Palmer, Concerts, Grand Theft Orchestra, Neptune Theatre, Seattle, Tits