gatewaygroupies

News flash

Okay, the updates have been squeezing out as constipatedly as ever. I'd apologize, but since the reason for the sporadic posting has been my totally awesome, first grown-up English major job, I cannot apologize.

But, lapsed Catholic that I am, I still feel guilty, so to atone for my neglect, I'm giving up my annual Academy Awards dress bashing celebration to recap the "Love is Observable" poetry reading from Valentine's Day at the Royale.

All I've ever wanted is for you to be happy.

And a very happy zero birthday to Karleigh Heise Ward, whose name violates the "i before e" spelling rule twice. Enjoy your pink mini bar, baby!

Happy Valentine's Day!

Meet us tonight at The Royale for a decadent experience not to be matched elsewhere in the city.
You will put on your red dress, favorite bathrobe, lucky drawers, whatev. You will pick out your favorite 90's sentimental pop song, 80's hair band love ballad, 70's kiss-off Gloria Gaynor tune, or whatever pleases you. You will bring the lyrics on a sheet of paper. You will sign up at 7:30 at the Royale (3132 S. Kingshighway), and at 8:00, you will lay down those lyrics like the saddest, most drama-filled, angst-ridden thing you've ever read to an audience.  And they will *love* you for it. It's fun. It's quirky. It's free.

And when you go to work on Thursday morning and that gal who sits in the cube next to you starts shoving her stupid Vermont Teddy Bear in your face, she'll see that gleam in your eye and she'll notice. She'll interrogate you at length, and you can tell her, no, you did not sit home on Valentine's Day crying into a bowl of Cheetos while you watched C.O.P.S., Thank You Very Much! You chose to go out to The Royale to read the lyrics to The Thong Song and that has made all the difference.

That is all.

all star city

St. Louis will be the site of the 2009 MLB All Star Game!

That's so cool.

an annual in a perennial world

Along with ice, sleet, snow and slush, December brings with it the three busiest weeks of our calendar year (what does "calendar year" mean, seriously?). On top of fantastic one-time only events, December is also home to the birthdays of (in order of appearance on the monthly calendar, not on earth) my father, my sister, me, Cathy and Jesus. Me, Cathy and Jesus—we tight.

This weekend features:

Friday, December 8: The start of the Independent Art Market, which runs all weekend long at the Shaw Art Gallery. Tonight is the 52nd City (not 52nd Street, as the egregiously erroring edit staff at the St. Louis Post Dispatch wrote)'s Variety Show. Stefene and Thomas worked hard at this, so come watch the fun!

Saturday, December 9: Sake, Sushi and Fashion at the Shaw Art Gallery, followed by bursts of poetry readings from local poets. I have it on good authority that THIS is the place to be seen Saturday night, because all the dorks in the area (including Laine and I) have to go to the rescheduled Saint Louis University Information Technology holiday cocktail party at Orlando Gardens. I know you're crushed that you won't get to hear me quickly mumble read year-old, stale poems for ten minutes, but you'll soon forget when you hear the real writers lay down their lyrical stylings. The fashion show is a must-see, too. You'll want to be on the inside when St. Louis as a center for indie fashion finally catches on, and you know we don't take on fence sitters once the sails take wind.

Friday, December 15th, we'll be at Fruitcakes!, the Gateway Men's Chorus Holiday Concert, thanks to Lisa B., who generously got us tickets as a thank you for putting her up for a weekend layover. If you've never watched these guys, you should! Feast your ears on the beautiful man voices of dozens of gorgeous, stylish guys in tuxedoes. Just make sure your shoes match your purse.

My birthday is the 17th, and it's a big one: The very first year I'll be 29 years old! As usual, Cathy and I are having our dynamic duo birthday party. This year, she gets the early shift from 7:00 to 8:00, and I get from 8:00 to 9:00. E-mail me if you don't know where the party is.

Then we get a bit of a breather before Mother Marschik comes to visit (no one ever calls her that), and we're having a nice, laid back holiday at home. No food poisoning this year! The Friday after Christmas, we're heading to the vineyards of Hermann, Missouri for our second annual B&B getaway at Hermann Hill Inn. And holy crap, by the time we get back, it'll be darn near New Years Eve!

Ask me when I'm going to fit Christmas shopping in there, I dare you.

Mule Tide

This is the only known picture of Beth Ketcher (far left) almost standing still. Some StudioSTL foks accept their Kick Ass award.

The Atomic Cowboy was split in half for the 3rd Annual Kick Ass Awards. There were $1 bottles of "The Champagne of Beers" to celebrate the occasion. I was more intrigued by Leslie's classy Stoli Razz and Tonic, but I feared any alcohol would immediately put me into a coma. We had the long, comfy orange vinyl sofa to ourselves, but we offered the other end to various friends as they mingled. We don't know the little girl with the daring cammo and cowboy boots ensemble, but she did, indeed, kick ass.

Laine took her sneak-attack pictures all night, only getting up to get the picture of the stunning half karate-kicking man, half rear end of donkey trophies.

We were surrounded by the underground St. Louis elite, and it was definitely funky. I'm an idiot and didn't realize until Tom Crone said it, that Steve Ewing was/is the lead singer of The Urge. Duh.

Karen Duffy looked fantastic in her sparkly jeans and faboo haircut, and both Laine and I vowed to be her when we are her age. Scott Emanuel's partner Ed Reggi sported the most awesome anime facial hair I've ever seen on a human being. He was sitting with the infamous Joan Lipkin, who's met me several times at parties and readings, but instantly forgets who I am. And that's, okay.  K. Curtis Lyle stunned the audience with a performance of one of his poems for his girlfriend's anniversary present. Leslie's date and I were mouthing, "your uranium ass," for a solid ten minutes after he finished.

Okay, last night, the Non Prophet Theatre Company took home a Kick Ass Award, and they were decidedly not kick ass. Either I was too sober, or they were too not funny, but the only time I laughed during their set was when, after a gag they thought was funny, they would wait a full 30 seconds for their laughs and never get them. Call me a fuddy duddy if you will, but there is a time and place for everything, folks, and a civic award ceremony is not the time for Granny fetishes and blue language. I work blue, too, but I scan the crowd for children first.  I also stop if nobody's laughing, but maybe that's just me. They reminded me of an ill-rehearsed drag king troupe.

Stefene and Andrea did great jobs, but the best speaker of the night was probably Mr. Crone. His giving the crowd in back the business for having full-blown party-volume conversations during the ceremony was hi-larious. And his realization that he said "dick" five times directly in front of someone's eight year old, right after scolding the NPT Co's filthy whore mouths was comedy gold.