Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 38

Post the Ninety-Ninth: In Which There Are Vampires

Gentle Reader, you may remember me mentioning that the last grand gala of the F.P.A. was La Fête Sanguinaire. It had been scheduled for the winter solstice, but due to the untimely death of my father on the first of November – right in the crush of planning and set construction* – we were forced to delay La Fête, for obvious and good reasons. However, we still had a number of guests anxious for some sort of evening out, and so we decided to host a Vamp-In, at one of the local hometown bars.

Now, Gig Harbor has a very peculiar atmosphere – it’s somewhere between frat-boy and socialite, and can’t decide precisely what it wants to be. The Hy-Iu-Hee-Hee, which has been standing in the Harbor for absolute ages, caters to both crowds; it’s a local institution, and a popular nightspot, being one of the few businesses in town that stays open after five.



Though popular with the old guard – the well-known, highly-respected families that have populated the Harbor for many years† – it is also popular with the barely-twenty-ones, as until nine p.m., their still-underage friends can join them for a taste of bar atmosphere, with the pool table and darts.  In short, it is populated by dude-bros of all ages. Observe:



Well, on the date in question, we decided that this would be the perfect venue to appear at, dressed as children of the night. You may question the wisdom of our decision – I certainly did – but what’s life without a little risk? Further, we were to travel to the Rocky Horror Picture Show afterward, and could always use that as our excuse. No matter! We appeared, at the bar; Miss K had allowed me to spend three hours turning fifteen sheer burgundy curtains into a bustle-gown for her‡, and I appeared like this:



Snuff is classy, folks. Stay in school.

At any rate, there we were – the two dozen of us who had made it to the replacement event. We were ostentatious, we drawled incomprehensibly in our false accents, we said “I do not drink… Vine” approximately seven hundred times, and were generally obnoxious – to the surprising delight of everyone in the bar. Apparently, rather than rushing for their anticipated pitchforks and torches, the townsfolk appreciate an unexpected touch of whimsy here and there. Who knew?



*********

* I am almost entirely certain that I’ve mentioned this part before – when the coroner came, he was very confused, and had some questions to ask me about the coffin I was building in the back yard. Timing is everything, kids.

†The sort of family that includes my Uncle R and the sort of family that Maman came from§.

‡No pictures of this gown survive, or so I am forced to assume, because an angry Miss K is a fearsome thing.

§The sort of family that tells people when they have “married down” in fact.

Tagged: Coffins, Dude-Bros, Gig Harbor, Gig Harbor Washington, Hy Iu Hee Hee, Society, Vampires

Poetic Interlude XXII

I toast my few remaining friends

That I can’t seem to lose

(Though loyal to the utter end

They don’t support my views)

The spin and spurn my brethren

From pristine, primrose, pews.

The holy fire still comes to me

From lonely time to time

Though all I love is lost at sea,

And I am drowned in wine -

I cannot fall to apathy:

Tomorrow will be mine.

©2013 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved

Tagged: Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Tyler J. Yoder, Writing

Post the Ninety-Eighth: At the Mercury

Gentle Reader, this Sunday is September first. I have a number of friends whose birthday falls on that date, but the one I’ve known the longest, the newly-styled Mrs. Capere, is often called my sister; I love her like one. On her birthday, a few years ago, she planned an evening with two layers; we would begin at Tacoma’s première lesbian bar, the Tempest, to have a light meal and a cocktail or two, allowing locals and people from points further south to participate. Afterward, we’d set out for Seattle, towards the Mercury, the underground Goth club to which we belong.

The theme at the Merc that evening was something to do with children’s stories or fairy tales – naturally, I resolved to dress as the Marquis de Carabas. If you’re not familiar, he’s the nobleman that poor Puss-in-Boots is saddled with, as well as the rather cannier character from Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere. After work, I dressed myself – complete with make-up – and rode the bus from Bremerton to Tacoma – 27 miles by highway if you’re driving yourself,  or two hours and twenty minutes on my trusty public steed. I looked like this:

And no one harassed me or started a fight or caused any problems at all*. When I arrived at the terminus, I walked a few minutes up to a local coffee shop, where the birthday girl and her beau were to collect me. They were most appreciative of my harrowing ride, especially as I could have just taken the ferry into Town and met them at the Mercury. We headed to the Tempest, and I was very glad of it; I had been three hours in my 18th century makeup, and it needed refreshing.

The Tempest – rest its soul! – is no more, but at the time, it was still as it was intended to be, for the lesbians, by the lesbians, and of the lesbians†. Well, and their friends. As familiar faces from out of the past assembled, we chatted, mingled, had cocktails and tapas, and generally a pleasant time.

The first tier of the evening went quickly; as we were preparing to relocate, the Colonel was outside, joining his wife, K (not to be confused with Miss K) and I for a cigarette. This was the first of a series of unfortunate events‡. You see, the Colonel has a severe allergy to Marijuana – if he gets even a whiff, it aggravates his ever-present anxiety. If he gets more than a whiff, it’s time to call the hospital, because that’s when the physical reactions set in. It’s an unpleasant sight. Naturally, because the Tempest is across the street from a park, in Tacoma – well, I’m sure that you can deduce what happened next.

The Colonel threatened to walk home, as the breeze blew the smoke directly at his face. He was talked back inside, briefly; he was to take their car, and K would come up to Seattle with the party going up for the second tier. Unfortunately, no one else on the Tacoma side of things was planning on going – one by one, they all made their goodbyes, and exited into the mild and pleasant night. A. Capere and K don’t speak at all now – at the time, they tolerated each other quietly. As the Colonel had taken their car, and I don’t drive, the only available driver for A’s birthday night was A herself. She sighed, and got behind the wheel.

The chat en route was routine, uneventful chat – the sort that fills a drive of about forty-five minutes. Nothing really invigorating, but substantial enough to carry you through the distance. Despite slight early warning signs of tension, the ladies played nicely; I am passive to a fault, myself. The drive, itself, was innocuous, and then – well, there was some traffic. A great deal of traffic. At ten o’clock in the evening? Well, it was Saturday – perhaps there was a ballgame, or something?

When we hit the first underpass, heading into the city, we saw the reason: There was a corpse, in the middle of the highway. There had been some sort of accident with a transient crossing the eight lanes of weekend traffic, and the body bag had not yet been zipped up. Gruesome. I have never seen a corpse more mangled – and I’ve seen a number of them. Our car dragged on; we were in Seattle, and tried to ignore the crime scene we crawled past. We eventually exited the freeway, parked, and went into our club.

We danced; we drank; we had an evening typical of any at the Mercury; luckily, it’s a private club, not a bar, so I was able to smoke inside. Our mismatched group separated, explored, reconvened; I would like to think that A had a good time dancing, because up until then, her evening had been a burden of stress.

It was a burden of stress afterward, too. When we left the Merc, we found that the driver’s side window had been shattered; A’s phone had been stolen. Luckily, all purses were in the trunk – the phone and the window were the only casualties. Nonetheless, the birthday girl had been stolen from, been vandalized, had been stood up, and had had a rotten evening. While we called the police on a borrowed phone, I couldn’t help but sympathize, and plan a replacement birthday evening – it would clearly need a do-over.

*********

*As though I’d admit that to the birthday girl. Please. Nothing Happened.

†Since, the Hipsters took it over, and the Proprietresses took it in good stride, and marketed to them; thereafter, they found it too pandering, and as the lesbians had left long before, they went under.

‡ It’s a good phrase; that franchise can’t monopolize it forever.

//

Tagged: Birthdays, Corpses, drama, Goth, Marijuana, Mercury, Nightlife, Puss-in-Boots, Seattle, Tacoma, Tempest

Post the Ninety-Seventh: The Swingin’ Fourth

Don’t you know that there’s a war on, Gentle Reader?

Now, I’m not much for blind patriotism, despite the fact that Ex-Husband was an airman; I am huge on the Big Band era, however, and the costuming in general. Thus it was that when Miss Ward and I, co-chairs of the F.P.A., needed a summer theme for one of our fêtes, I suggested WWII. As Miss Ward was in a period of dress-making, she readily agreed. We shifted the date from  summer solstice to Independence Day, and the Swingin’ Fourth Extravaganza was born.

Décor, food, and music, of course, were criminally easy to procure and set up for this event. Vintage Americana is still widely available, and as long as there are countries on this earth, there will be an abundance of bunting.

We arranged a bandstand in a borrowed backyard where we were holding the event. It came complete with Victory Garden and a “bombed out” shed. As this event was to remain strictly out-of-doors, we were enjoined to actually rent an outdoor toilet for this event. It was very glamorous.

Naturally, we arranged for photographs for all the young bucks leaving their brides behind for the war. Miss Ward and I are seen here; I will be gone by morning.

Our entertainments began with a swing-dance lesson. It went over reasonably well – if you’d like your guests to dance, always find someone to give a quick lesson. It encourages participation, makes your event vaguely educational, and is a hell of a lot of fun, even if you’re not very good at it.

After that, the celebrated DJ Tons-o-Fun played vintage tunes while people enjoyed our extraordinary barbecued buffet. Standard American fare; hamburgers, corn on the cob, baked potatoes of all sorts. Straying a little from period, we had a variety of Jell-O mold salads – the sort that grandmothers like to serve, with carrots, celery, raisins, and whipped cream in. Delish.

Before the sun set, we ran period-themed Karaoke – or we attempted to. Requests quickly went from “Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy” to things like “Lola” and “Bohemian Rhapsody,” which were clearly enjoyed by our boys as they liberated Paris. Still, the guests were having fun, and an impromptu chorus line formed on stage, which is all that really matters.

As the evening grew darker, we deployed our Cigarette-Girl, Miss K, to bring an extra period flare to the evening.

Meanwhile, S., our pyrotechnician, set up our glorious fireworks display in the area prepared for it. At a given cue, when the first went off, I alerted the guests to the fact that we were not actually under attack. They were not amused. S. sustained an injury during the fireworks, however, and that proves that we were under attack. Clearly.

The evening wound to its natural conclusion, as these things so often do. The guests departed in groups of two or three, and we basked in the knowledge of a job well done for a moment, before beginning the lengthy process of cleaning up.

Tagged: Cigarette-Girl, Fabulous Parties, FPA, Independence Day, Swing Dance, WWII

Post the Ninety-Sixth: In Which We’re With The Band

Gentle Reader, I am not terribly familiar with much modern music. Raised on Opera, Swing, and some very early Rock-and-Roll, I used to be completely ignorant regarding anything from the seventies until the early aughts. Still, I’ve been working on rectifying that over the years, and have developed a taste for a lot of modern styles. This is fortunate, because my cousin, George, has been playing in, writing songs for, and managing bands for the last age and a half – and if I hadn’t been working on familiarizing myself with modern music, I wouldn’t be able to appreciate his stellar talents. An album cover from his most recent band:

It was with pleasure that Maman and I were finally able to accept an invitation to one of his shows, up in Seattle. I can’t recall the name of the venue, but it was in a converted warehouse in a part of town with an unsavory reputation – naturally. We were to take the ferry to Seattle, where we’d catch a lift with my Aunt Carole and Uncle Larry – the June and Ward Cleaver of the family. Very kind people, and very loving, but very conventional. The lot of us were to meet Auntie Lall at the show – she’s George’s mother; if you don’t recall, she is trés bohemienne, living a lifestyle suitable for dark moralistic tales. Maman and I? We get along famously with both branches of the family tree, and like to think that we fall somewhere in between. Nonetheless, having both sides together in a venue like that was due to be an absolute train wreck, and I’d be lying if I said we didn’t think it would be… entertaining, shall we say?

Uncle Larry, who is driving, follows the directions of his G.P.S. to the letter, and we arrive at the address for the venue – the door appears to be boarded up, though. Taking a quick look around, I cautiously announce that we’re probably meant to wander down the alley to get to the door. I am correct, as the bouncer/doorman gestures at us. Taking a look around, I begin to think that Carole and Larry’s church clothes may be out of place. Of course, Maman is dressed for a garden party, and I’m dressed – well, like this:

So perhaps I can’t really say anything about any one else’s outfits. The other patrons were a curious combination of rave kids, rock and rollers, and metal heads. It was quite a curious compilation. Typically, around Carole and Larry, I’m on my best behavior, but then again, around Auntie Lall I’m at my most extreme. As we all stood there, uncomfortable, leery, I sighed heavily and whirled around on one exquisite boot heel. “Excuse me, sir,” I asked the bouncer, “Where the hell’s the bar?” He grinned, pointing across the rapidly filling dancefloor/moshpit, at a rickety staircase. “Right. Thanks.” I turned back to the relations, and said “Let’s go,” before striding purposefully through the crowd. I was in need of a social lubricant before the situation because any more awkward; Maman was right behind me; with a shrug, Carole and Larry followed through this:

I went up to fetch the drinks while the relations found seating. Naturally, that’s where I ran into Auntie Lall. She bought the round and an additional shot – which I only took at her insistence. “Live a little, honey, it’s on me,” she said. When we rejoined the others, Aunt Carole asked if we would be able to see the show better from downstairs. It was very brave of her, I must say, but I was glad when Lall chortled and said “Oh, no, darling! I never mingle with the riff-raff. George won’t be on for an hour, anyway.”

Well, after a number of drinks – my aunt is very generous – she and I popped out for a cigarette. When I turned towards the dance floor to head towards the door, Lall caught my elbow and steered me backstage. “Hang on, lovey, just wait a moment – I’ll go find your cousin,” and with that, Lall was out of sight. I never did get that smoke, though, because before she found me, I was politely escorted back to the front of house – my cries of “but I’m with the band!” going unheeded. I scampered back up stairs, just in time to discover why Lall had been taking so long – George and his band were up.

After George’s set was over, Lall wandered back to us, and asked if we were ready to “get the hell out of there, loves.” At this point, all of us were – delightful though his set was, the show had been rough on all of us. We were led backstage again, en masse, to congratulate my cousin. He admitted that the show went pretty well, but wasn’t as impressed with himself as we were. As we exited the stage door to the night air, we went our separate ways. Walking back towards the car, I heard Carole murmur to Larry, “Well, that was interesting.”

Tagged: Family Stories That Are Completely True, Music, Seattle, Stage Door, The Morrells

Poetic Interlude XXI

I only met you yesterday

But took you to my bed -

“This isn’t quite my kind of thing”

We both demurely said.

You quoted, then, my favorite book

Unknowing me well-read.

You kissed me and caressed me,

And when your hand I stayed,

And explained about my past

And that I was afraid,

You held me close and just began

A soulful serenade.

And though we may not meet again

That night you gave to me

Awoke a seed of something that

Could last eternally.

And if it doesn’t, never mind -

You still have set me free.

©2013 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved

Tagged: Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Writing

Post the Ninety-Fifth: The Miracle of the Bromeliad

Gentle Reader, I feel that people may be under a bit of an illusion when it comes to the type of things that fire my delight: I will find ridiculous pleasure in things like this and this and this. These are all real things that have happened in our world, that are utterly ridiculous, beyond any sane reality; they spark wonder, and give me a certain lust to be alive. Yes, Hamlet, there are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy, but when I encounter them, they stir passion and beauty inside me. This effect is what I, personally, refer to as “The Miracle of the Bromeliad.”

If you don’t know, Bromeliads are these exotic plants typically found in tropical climes. They collect water, like this:

In South and Central America, various species of frog will lay their eggs in these flowers, which are sometimes quite high and far away from the ground. It is not unusual for these frogs to never reach the ground, living their little lives in various flower puddles, from birth to death. Bizarre, improbable, and true.

I was fairly young when I learned of this, and the utter improbability struck me to the core. The world we live in is ludicrous; if you wrote fiction like some of the things I run across, you’d be laughed out of the business. It’s important to take delight in these things, because they remind us that our little loves, our little sorrows, our grandes amours trés serieux and our funerals and hospitals and politics – all of these things exist in the exact same world as duck fashion shows. That’s the miracle. Yes, our lives are grave and important, and we have to make the rent or the deadline or the date, but – is that a taxidermy kitten pulling a miniature hearse?

Yes, it is. Even in the throes of my depression, if I can manage to find new curiosities, or interesting or silly wonders, things that make the world, frankly, incredible – it doesn’t make me any easier to be around, but it does keep me from complete self-destruction. It doesn’t make things any better, in my current situation, but to know that there are situations out there that sound like something from Twitter or Wodehouse or Seuss – well, it reminds me that there’s hope.

The lesson here is that although we don’t all have to be electric and alarming and alive at all times, we are allowed to be. It’s the same sentiment behind Auntie Mame’s famous battle cry – “Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death!” It’s what the Bloggess means when she says to “Lean into the weird.” As my mother, former hippie, often tells me – “Let your freak flag fly!” These bizzarities teach us to embrace our true nature, and damn the consequences. We can’t help who we are, what we love, how we behave – why should we try?

Therefore, please enjoy some photos of things that make me glad to live in our thoroughly absurd little world.

A Royal sex chair belong to Edward VII of England.

A Baroque Poodle. Don’t fix it.

The Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen

Our world is magnificent, Gentle Reader; we should cherish that, and add to its variety.

Tagged: Auntie Mame, Duck Fashion, Hamlet, Inspiration, Reasons to Live, Romanian Princess Arrested, Seige d'amour, the World, Wonders

Midnight Update That Is Super Professional

Do you guys want to see some MS paint manipulation of an awesome taxidermy piece whose proper credits I can’t track down? Of course you do.

This kind of thing is secretly my favorite type of post, even though it really won’t do me any favors. You’re welcome.

Seriously, if anyone can help me track down the original artist of this amazing piece, I would really like the rights to make all kinds of wonderful jokes about Skeletaur here. Also, maybe I’d like to propose marriage. Who knows? Please and thank you.

Tagged: All the best things, Centaurs, Magic, MLP, rainbows, Taxidermy

Post the Ninety-Fourth: The Enchanted Tea Garden

Gentle Reader, today’s post nearly didn’t go up at all. I’m writing it on a self-imposed deadline; if the editing is even worse than usual, please forgive me. I am being pulled in a thousand directions, with so many jobs, gigs, and responsibilities, and at the same time trying to freelance enough to cover my expenses, and further promote my poetry, and submit articles to contests, magazines and websites; in short, I am dancing the frantic tarantella that all struggling writers must dance. I am exhausting myself, and stressing myself, and while I am loving every moment of it, I have gotten a little behind on content for you, my beloved Gentle Reader.

It is at times like these that I fondly remember the Enchanted Tea Garden. I first discovered it when I was sixteen; Mr. C.W.L. Darling, Miss Ward, and I had successfully completed our A.P. Biology exam, and to celebrate, enjoyed a half-holiday exploring Sixth Avenue, in Tacoma. We had just encountered a woman called Gypsy Lily*; a mad esoteric multicultural gem who operated her business at a lost by taken pity on strays. She gave me my first deck of Tarot cards – the same cards I use today, as it happens. As we left the colorful character, we saw, in the distance, a colorful Craftsman house.

We approached excitedly, seeing the sign that stood in the yard, proclaiming it to be a tea house. We stopped here for refreshment, and fell in love. I wish that I could scrounge a photo of the actual garden in the back for you, Reader; stone and moss pathways lead between cast-iron bistro sets, just rusty enough to plausibly be antiques from New Orléans. There is statuary all around, flowers, hedges, and ponds run riot in all directions. There were a profusion of glittering glass wind chimes and gazing balls, catching and refracting light. It was, indeed, enchanted; we sat, and took tea.

After that, it became our hangout; in general, there would sometimes be a small group of friends, but in specific, Mr. Darling and I would go there whenever we needed gossip, comfort, or tea and sympathy. For years, though he and I would drift apart in our lives many times, we would still occasionally reconnect over one of the oak tables inside, the clink of china masking quiet tears.

While I was at college, I usually had a six-hour gap between classes. While other students were surely both more productive and more delinquent in turns, I would go to that unassuming fenced-in paradise, and over cup after cup of their white persian melon tea, would study the History of Britain. Technically, it was for class, but I was indulging in pure pleasure, in the springtime air. The redheaded waitress and I grew quite close over those months; I would come in every day, and I was probably the only regular customer at that point in time under fifty years of age. She was the proprietress’ niece, and a student as well; she would bring her books to my table and we would take notes together. Sometimes we would walk to the antique shop next door; it was run by another aunt of hers.

One afternoon, she told me that her aunt would have to close the Enchanted Tea Garden permanently. The aunts would still be blending their justifiably famous tea, but the antique shop and the Enchanted Tea Garden would have to be closed and sold. We had about a week before their doors would shut for good.

Of course I called Darling up. It was arranged that, as the new Harry Potter book was being launched†, that we would meet that evening with copies in plain covers. We sat and read, too intent on reading fresh work to converse much; we would pause to take a sip of Darjeeling now and then. From time to time, one of us would look up with amused eyes, and read a particularly pleasing passage. As my redheaded friend came to clear our cups and announce closing, I took one last look around me, and bid the Enchanted Tea Garden adieu. It stands empty, now, waiting for someone to come and enchant it again.

**********

* Gypsy Lily, ladies and gentlemen:

†The Half-blood Prince, if you were wondering.

Tagged: Enchanted Tea Garden, Gypsies, Novels, Sixth Avenue, Tea, Teatime, Ward and Darling, Youth

Post the Ninety-Third: In Which There Is Lightning

Oh, Gentle Reader! I have such marvelous things to share with you today! Frankly, I’m as giddy as twelve school girls inhaling helium. Oh, my stars! I’m behaving ridiculously.

A week ago last Friday, it was, in fact, a dark and stormy night. I was working in our portable bar, in Paisley Glen*. We were quite busy, as per usual – we’re extremely popular, and known for the generosity of our pours – when into my camp walks an unbearably beautiful redhead, who can’t possibly be old enough to be in my bar; obviously, I carded him immediately. To my surprise, not only is the stone cold fox of age, but his given name is, in fact, Fox.

Um, not quite.

As we chatted, and I served the other patrons of my establishment, I began to grow very fond of young mister Fox. He’s a devotee of Dionysus, apparently, and quite serious about it.

This Fella

When, at the stroke of midnight, we heard the first peal of thunder, the heavens burst. I felt no hesitation about handing bartending duties off to my apprentice, and letting my little maenad lead me off into the field; we danced in the rain. The lightning splayed at least once every minute overhead, each flash revealing more revellers, and a sea of canvas and grass. Fox laid me down in the long grass, to kiss me; I made sure that I was looking up, so that I could see the gorgeous young man above me, and the lightning sparking from star to star.

**********

* We obviously can’t sell alcohol, but we happily accept tips and donations. This year, announcing that we were flat broke and showed up with nothing at all; we received a fully stocked bar as a thank you for years of enjoyment. People’s generosity is astounding, sometimes.

Tagged: Boys, Faire, Lightning, Paisley Glen, Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire