Current mood:

hung-over

History repeats -- and doesn't

I'm beginning to recognize that any annual event has a lifespan that is usually past long before the organizers and attendees get the memo to that effect. Consider Burning Man. Founded 23 years ago as something interesting to do, it soon became redefined as a "counter-culture movement" before mutating into a commercial juggernaut and hippie Mardi Gras with its own orthodoxy and lingo.

I actually attended Burning Mans ("Men"?) numbers two and three, out on the north end of Baker Beach, near the nude area. They were diverting and improvisational, and not at all nude. I shudder to consider what it's turned into, but the fact that it's now intentionally held in one of the most inhospitable, bleak landscapes in the Lower 48 is sufficient to keep me ignorant of its "charms".

The first of any such event is chaotic, inspired, unique. The second year allows more preparation and greater ambition. The third year is the full flowering, but a few slack-jawed gawkers are certain to turn up and put everyone off a bit. By this time, the media will have caught on, which does no one any good but the ticket-sellers. From then on, it's usually all downhill.

When I first heard of The Edwardian Ball, I thought -- "genius!" I'd long been a fan of Edward Gorey (I once telephoned and told him this, even though that information did not seem to much impress him), and I think that the Edwardian era produced some fabulous fashions. Given that Gorey's constructed universe is vaguely set in that era, it seemed an inspired combination. And indeed, the first Ball was a delight. The second one was a mixed bag, although my suffering from a delirium-inducing cold didn't help. But we decided to give it one more try.

And here is where history repeats. Like last time, we decided to portray characters from a Gorey book; this time, The Gilded Bat. Like last time, we put a considerable amount of effort into it. And like last time, the organizers, performers, and many of the attendees were largely disappointing. At least we didn't spring for the 3-day VIP pass this time. Wanting to maximize our chance of experiencing Gorey goodness, we just bought tickets to "Sunday, Gorey Sunday", which had the bonus of being the only night held in the beautiful Lodge of the Regency Center, once a Masonic lodge, with amazing painted scrims behind the stage. I cannot fault the location. Being patted down by Gangstas-R-Us Security Co. as we entered, however, I could've done very well without.

But once we entered the venue, we had guardedly high hopes. Then we noticed that there was no seating in the main room. Three hundred guests and no seating. For a four hour event. We found some carpeted steps to sit on. The people-watching was uneven, but at least a significant percentage of attendees were dressed in vaguely Edwardian costume; another significant percentage were utter punters, with rented tuxedos. There was a sizable steampunk contingent, in varying degrees of success, and a half-dozen vendors with their wares set up on tables in a side room. But one thing there wasn't, at least as far as I could see, was anything to do with Edward Gorey. I did not see one other person out of the 300 in the sold-out crowd who was dressed as a Gorey character. Perhaps a few were there; I did not see them, despite walking throughout the venue five or six times.

Mounted on the wall of the hallway was a cut-out of "Mirella Splatova", dressed in her costume as "the Gilded Bat". Kelly, in costume as Mlle. Splatova as "the Gilded Bat", happened to be standing in front of it at one point, when she was approached by some nameless drone. "Hey, are you from that movie 'Sleeper'?" he asked. As she stood in front of the picture of the character she portrayed. Of course, I didn't expect anyone to recognize my character, "Plastikoff", since he only appears in one frame of the story, but I was identifiably Gorey, right down to the dark lines drawn under my eyes. But "The Gilded Bat"? Surely anyone with any knowledge of Gorey would be familiar with that story, and would recognize her character. Apparently not.

Amazingly, dandy_gregory somehow managed to recognize me as me (which is to say, "bricology"), in a cavernous, darkened room, and while I was in costume. Don't know how he did it, but it was nice to finally meet him in person, and the lovely palefemme who was with him. They both looked perfectly suited to the evening. Kelly bumped into missorangegirl whom, I have no doubt, was likewise perfectly turned out.

Of the performances we saw, the less I can say about them, the kinder. And I realize that Jim Sweeney is friends with friends of mine, and he may well be a perfectly lovely fellow in person, but why they ask him to emcee the Edwardian Ball, I shall never understand. At the very least, I wish that he didn't feel compelled to try to lead the audience in shouting "hip-hip-hooray!" every time he took the stage between acts (and on at least one occasion, twice in the same break!) There is only one thing more embarrassing than eliciting an unenthusiastic response to a call, and that's eliciting an enthusiastic response from rental tux-wearing frat boys from El Sobrante who are hoping to "hook up with one of those hot gothic girls". We did our best to drink away the lame, but the only reward for our efforts was an evil hangover this morning. And so we walked out during some nonsense or other, vowing that next year, history may well repeat itself again, but that we would not be there to witness it.

Anyway, I've used up a month's worth of venting credits. Here are some photos of the setting and our costumes, and I thank you for your patience in wading through the screed above.

Plastikoff, the creator of the ballet "The Gilded Bat"

Prima ballerina Mirella Splatova, as "the Gilded Bat"


weird scenes inside the Lodge