I beat every car home tonight. I know this because I had enough time to pull my bicycle up beside them as I passed in traffic and get their cell numbers. Amazingly enough, they all had cell phones. I think they fear a disaster. I didn’t sense any pride in their eyes, but many also had those flyers that say “Proud to be an American.”
When I got home, I called everyone. They all admitted defeat except the ones who were too ashamed to answer and the sore losers who yelled at me.
I talked to this one fellow, John, for quite a while. He told me about his experience at the Dada ball, which I too was at.
I had gotten tickets in exchange for a musical remix I put together. Some haters told me it was a party for pretentious artists and scenesters. All I knew was that this was the last one, and the Portland Institute For Contemporary Art (PICA), who brings great art to Portland, had gone to great lengths producing the party. Dressing in an interesting, surreal, fun and hopefully thought-provoking costume was a necessity.
Nothing says party to me like the old bathrobe, that was a given. “But what about the bottom half?” I wondered. My lovely stepsister (nothing like the ones in Cinderella) gave me what I like to call a super tutu. From the waist to the knee it was a lovely soft, satiny slip. Below the knee it flared out dramatically into a blue lacy affair that conveniently matched my bathrobe. This super tutu, that excited me to no end, even glided oh-so delicately when I danced; the big cherry in the icing on the cake was that people liked it. This one girl said I should never take it off.
I don’t want to, I really don’t, but it keeps getting caught on bushes and trees as I pass cars, plus it smells funny now. And that scrumptious satiny slip material isn’t thick enough posterior protection against drippy cold city sitting places.
As I took the super tutu off, I got a bit misty – not because I’m not satisfied with my pants selection, but because there are rarely parties like the Dada ball.
In loving memory of the super tutu, let’s reminisce.
Remember John, the man whose ass I shamelessly beat home on my bicycle? He got his ass shamelessly beat at the ball. He possessed one of many bared posteriors spanked that night. I didn’t partake in the whackin’, but trust me; it was good clean fun like the dancing, performance art and carrot eating.
I’m getting hungry just thinking about he carrot eating that took place largely around a beautiful long buffet table outfitted with veggies, fruit and non-alcoholic beverages.
The other decorations of the warehouse were worthy of more words than I have left. Alcohol was for sale, and performance art happened in a boxing ring, the smoker’s courtyard, an enclosed kitchen complete with a 15-foot movie screen above it (“look, Aaron, there’s that guy with the mustache and mullet, up on the screen!”) a giant car (“Hey man, there’s sex and stuff going on in there.”) an equally giant bed and queen-sized throne roped off with velvet.
I was giddy as a college boy in super tutu. All I kept thinking was, “why can’t there be a party like this every weekend that costs less than 30 dollars?” When people dress as sexy or creatively as they can and plan on having a good time, it’s stimulating and automatically fun.
People ask me about sex and the Dada. They read some media last year about some public displays of affection (PDA) at the Dada.
I have this to say about PDA. My girlfriend buzzed me yesterday from Amsterdam and told about a live sex show she saw there. A man in a Batman suit consisting of a horny helmet, an ’80s Batman T-shirt and some black spandex came out and “rescued” a girl loosely tied to a pole.
He sang the Batman theme song and inevitably they had sex. To steam it up a bit they apparently checked their watches, sneezed a couple times, and winked at the audience. “Ooh baby, yeah, yeah” they both said a couple times for supreme authenticity.
I looked around at least three times for such an “exciting” display at Dada and thankfully came up dry. Any nookie was out of my blunted eyesight, and therefore, probably more enjoyable and authentic for those involved: Batman, Robin, the vinyl nurse or little red riding hood.
There were some lap dances on the giant throne; the goofy guy with a camera said there was “sex and stuff” going on in the engine room of the giant car (pervert) and most importantly lots of people who felt sexy.
The final Dada ball was wild, weird, safe and well-executed clean fun (I didn’t get offered any drugs). Ballers, such as my tutued self, danced to the music of Black Angel, New York’s DJ Small Change and others; mingled, watched eclectic performances and maybe even played some giant outdoor Pong thanks to the “P.S. What” crew.
From where I danced, “Dada ball est mort” was a good way for PICA to end the tradition. Hopefully next year they’ll throw another fundraiser that brings out the creative surrealist in all of us.
Hopefully sooner than that, there will be another excuse for me to dance in Le Super Tutu again. Bring it on people, bring it on.