After a small snafu in getting the marriage license to print, Shiva (born Anna) and Jenn (born John) walked across the street with their best man, Fat City Deli owner K.C. Terry, a videographer, a photographer, the videographer's son, Shiva's 91-year-old "Danish Viking" grandmother, and yours truly.
You'd have an easier time keeping Bob Johnson away from a dollar than you would trying to keep the uptown crowd from staring as the rag-tag bunch passed.
Once in the wedding room located across the street in the old courthouse, Shiva and Jenn had their friend Mandy -- dressed in a black watch plaid mini and heeled boots -- play the accordion. I got nervous. Do I sing "Here comes the bride," or "here come the brides?" (Damn political correctness can be so hard!)
The lovebirds showed their papers and were wed in short order. The Judge was in such good spirits, she even asked for email copies of the photos. The bride kissed the bride and all was well. Somewhere Joe Chambers broke out in a cold sweat.
The newlyweds are soon off to the Burning Man Festival, where they'll recreate their wedding. Which might be a bit of a letdown -- finding two brides marrying at the bacchanal that is Burning Man is like finding guys uptown who wear Dockers. -- Timothy C. Davis
The folks at Fu's Tattoos, along with their compatriots at Ace Tattoo, put on a tattoo art show Sunday night, featuring 30 or so career tattoo artists. For sheer "moveability," it was one of the better art openings of the year. The atmosphere was relaxed: casual dress, a big ol' bar, and the reassuring ink-and-disinfectant smell that tattooed folks love so. Everybody was friendly, and quick to show you their new "ink." It was, after all, the common thread between all these people, and this show helped drive the point home. This was art as emotional expression, not just aesthetic expression. That room contained a lot of combined hours of self-inflicted pain, a pain mixed with a love of tradition, technique and beauty. It's something many folks might easily miss as they rush to paint the bodily adorned with the same broad brushstrokes. After a marginal weekend out and about in which the city felt filmed in black and white, seeing this show was akin to seeing a program in living color for the first time -- eye opening.
-- Timothy C. Davis
I opted to see G. Love & Special Sauce last Wednesday at the Visulite. Good thing, too, as rumors about where I've been lately may be getting out of hand. Not five minutes after entering the club, while standing in the thick of a huge mob waiting for service at the bar (note: four bar staff to 400 people doesn't add up to good odds), a fella says in passing, "Lynn, glad to see you're back from the Peace Corps!" "Peace Corps? Dude, I took some time off to have a baby," I say. We both kind of laugh and continue on our separate ways. Later, in the ladies' restroom stall next to mine, two girls were conversing: "OK, I hope you don't think I'm weird or anything, and just so you know, I'm not really a lesbian but. . ." Time to flush, and of course it was the most deafening flush I've ever heard. I can't be sure how the conversation ended, but I did notice some of the girls in the primping area blushing, with that "OHMYGAWD DID YOU HEAR THAT?" look on their faces. As for the show itself, GLaSS were great, despite a lot of sound issues. Word has it the G-man even hung around on the back patio till the wee hours freestyling with a handful of fans and cranking out some John Lee Hooker on acoustic guitar. -- Lynn Farris