foxtongue: (26th birthday)
Eric and Aiste start icing Nyan Cat's house.

Lori and her deliciously nerdy creation, the Tardis Exterminate!
Getting all Dr. Who up in there.

Beth's 1-Up Mario Mushroom

Mic Check at Occupy Gingerbread
Mic Check at Occupy Gingerbread.

foxtongue: (b&w tony & jhayne)
Now that was a SPLENDID weekend.

Nicole and I hosted a pot-luck at my place on Friday, based on a delicious giant ham and a big dead bird. I also made Eight Hour Eight Bean & Lentil soup for the vegans and vegetarians, which takes more than eight hours, but involves eight hours of constant stirring, as well as potatoes, steamed broccoli, and garlic portobello mushrooms with red peppers. It was an old-fashioned feast, and about twenty wonderful people came, most with their own delightful contributions, like home-made pulled pork sandwiches or berry wine. My oven lied a little about how hot it was, so we didn't get to eat any chicken until around 9:30, but excepting that: COMPLETE SUCCESS. We all had so much food and good company that the last guest didn't stumble out to a cab until 2 a.m. (Tony, sadly, didn't make it until after midnight, as work prevented him from catching an earlier bus into town, but I set aside a plate for him.) Once again, thank you to everyone!

Saturday was just as great, as it was Duncan's Dress-Up-Like-Duncan Surprise Birthday Party and A Mad Dash for the Down & Out: Tom Waits Tribute Night! I went to his party dressed as Cake Fight Duncan, in boxer shorts with a cake crown made of a birthday card and safety pins. It was a pleasure to attend, even though we left early to make sure we would get to Tom Waits night in time to get in, and it was a pleasure to catch up with some people I hardly ever see.

The Tom Waits Tribute Night was another sort of thing altogether. Completely incredible, it was gloriously mad gypsy dirty yet soulful and sweet, like circus music dancing through love songs with boots on. Some of the acts played it sinister, sandpaper rough and intense, while others sang as if their honeyed throats were on fire, a broken hearted sound that could only be put out with poetry or glass. My heart could have burst, it was so full with joy and pride for my friends. It was an astounding show, as memorable as a favourite birthday, as inspiring as only an insanely talented trumpet player twisting out a solo on top of a hammond organ can be. I'd tell you some highlights, but I'm sure if I tried, I'd describe the whole show.

The after party was pretty nice too. I spent most of it on the couch, curled up by a fire, swaying into the early morning surrounded by warmth and more music, singing a little and catching up with old acquaintances I dearly adore. Tony and I were almost the last to leave, starting our walk home just before dawn, safe from the chill with each other. We lucked upon five raccoons after only a block or two, a family, maybe, playing together, foraging along the sidewalk. When we got close, we stood very still, until they got used to us as we crept along beside them. One of them, slightly braver than the rest, tiny paw raised, body tense with investigation, came up and touched my leg three times, like casting a spell. It worked, we were enchanted, and smiled all the way home.

Sunday we spent almost the entire day cuddled up in bed, exhausted from being up so late, but glad for it. We forgot completely about the live Jonsi webcast concert, so we watched movies on my laptop, (Return to Oz, Reign of Assassins, & Ghostrider), and poked at the internet until it gave us some of what we need for Halloween, content anyway. Amazon provided Laika's dog costume trimmings, minus a collar and dogtag, and another site had actual soviet space patches covered in bad-ass rockets and lightning. The next thing we need are matching flight suits, but I'll be in Seattle next weekend, and there's a rather epic military surplus store there that should set us up. Aside from that, the only thing missing are my four antennae, which I expect to find at Circuit City or a Radio Shack.


Dec. 8th, 2008 12:00 am
foxtongue: (moi?)

Hannekuweenmas house-warming party at Jhayne and David's place
(it's not our fault he wasn't moved in by October 31st)

365 days one hundred & sixty-two: being my friend

Saturday, December 13, 2008 at 11:00am - Sunday, December 14, 2008 at 7:00am

An all day non-denominational, costumes optional, holiday social and house party
to celebrate David moving in, with crepes in the morning, tea in the afternoon,
and candle-lit silent black and white horror films until dawn.

In regards to BYO:
Bring your own syrup, eggs, fruit, or toppings, bring tea, cookies, or pie,
bring flowers, feathers, or figs, whatever you feel appropriate,
but most importantly, bring yourself.

Extra guests welcome within moderation.

Facebook event link.
foxtongue: (snow)
365 day twenty-nine: radiation
365: twenty-nine

The Sigur Rós film, unsurprisingly, was exceptionally nice. In order of approximate appearance, thank you to Karen, Joshua, Ray, Bob, Frank, Richard, Robin, Keith, Anna, Beth, Kyle, Tarek, and Jesse. It was lovely to have you over. I say that, of course, not having seen the dishes left over by the light of day, but I'm almost entirely certain I'll say it then too. Really. Probably. It's likely. And with that, it's quarter past three in the morning. Time for bed.


Jun. 9th, 2007 01:47 pm
foxtongue: (see the sky)
Reine's birthday party at Trout Lake has not been cancelled due to rain, they have merely moved to the gazebo.
foxtongue: (dream machine)
Hobo Party!

Dress up as one of the John Hodgman's 700 Hobos!

April 28th! 7pm!

The Concrete Lean-to on Richards and Smithe (Michael's house)!

Step 1: Pick a hobo name from THE LIST, (pictures are also included, if you need insight into how best to bring out your inner hobo nature).

Step 2: Dress as that hobo. (I am #253: The Young Churchill's Hated Bride).

Step 3: Come to the party and mingle with all hobokind!

If you want to head over to Sin City at Richards on Richards later on in the night, try to dress as a sexy hobo, or bring an outfit to change into.

BYOB, there will be food, a pool table, and general HOBOES!
foxtongue: (hot in here)
Wednesday, April 11th is the birth of Anton Szandor LaVey, founder of the Church of Satan.

To celebrate, we will be usurping Michael Elliot's hot tub in honour of DJ Spaz Mike's birthday.
He is now a grown-up and should be shown the error of his pure and pretty electrotrash ways.

All are welcome. Chocolate is encouraged, as are naughty underthings.

this event is downtown, at smythe & richards
either call or leave a comment for directions

Festivities commence at 7pm.
foxtongue: (Default)
Nick Petrie is having his annual Club 23 West Birthday bash this Friday, January 5th.

If you know who that is (or think you can fake it) you're invited.

I'm not sure when it starts, but I'm assuming 9.

edit: for those early bird types, festiviaties begin at 7 pm at The Jupiter Room, upstairs behind the Mac at Bute & Davie. (I'm glad it's still there. I really used to like that place).

People aren't going to Club 23 West, (which is at 23 wCordova), until 10:30. Cover is free between 10 - 10:30, though, so some of us are going there earlier.
foxtongue: (hot in here)
Ink is handicapped, in a way, because you can blow up a man with gunpowder in half a second, while it may take twenty years to blow him up with a book. But the gunpowder destroys itself along with its victim, while a book can keep on exploding for centuries. -Christopher Morley, writer (1890-1957)

I've submitted a story to Life For Change, an on-line writing contest. It's $100 for the author of the story with the most votes. It's a newer site, only active since January, but there's been two winners so far, and I hope to at least be short-listed for the next draw. Course, I need people to vote for me, that's how all these work. This means you.

Thank you to Adam, Andrew, Angus, Avi, Brian, Bruce, Christopher, Chris, Christaline, David, Dominique, Duncan, Ed, Erin, Gary, Eva, Gord, Heath, Jacques, Jer, Jordan, Keith, Kyle, Liam, Lung, Lee, Luciano, Navi, Nick, Patti, Paula, Michael, Mike, Mike, Sam, Sara, Sarah, Stephen, Steven, Simon, Travis, Robin, Ray, Reine, Ross, Ryan, Roger, Wayne, Vicki, and the other five to ten people who's names have momentarily escaped me.

Next time you're all signing a damned guest book.

I've made a Flickr Pool for party pictures, fashionably late birthday. Pass it on.

Roger, Jacques brother, was talking with someone about a car for sale. If this is you or you know who it is, could you get in touch with me? Roger was an older fellow with the short sandy hair who came later, the one with the amazingly inconvenient talent of avoiding being in any of the photos I currently have at my disposal.

And again, whoever forgot their keys, if they'd like them back, they should get in touch with me. (Otherwise, I'm just going to start using their nifty light-up key-chain). My Outlook thrashed itself this past weekend, I can't get at my invitation list to ask around properly, so I'm relying purely on word-of-mouth. The more of you send out feelers and harassment, the less likely someone will be panicking sometime this week.

Andrew, Sarah, Ethan, and Alicia, you still have books here that you put dibs on.

July 10th was Nikola Tesla's 150th anniversary. Tesla, the archetypical mad scientist, invented radio and alternating current, set the world record for man-made lightning, and was nemesis to none other than Edison himself, who was entirely a prick to him his entire career. After an intensely accomplished life, he died destitute and alone in a pigeon filled suite in New Yorker Hotel.

Part of the various celebrations, (2006 has been declared The Year of Nikola Tesla by Croatia, Serbia, and UNESCO. Croatia already has him on their money), is going to be a Christopher Nolan film based on The Prestige, a captivating novel by Christopher Priest, starring David Bowie as Tesla. In 1980, Orson Welles produced a Yugoslavian film named Tajna Nikole Tesle, (The Secret of Nikola Tesla), in which Welles himself played the part of Tesla's patron, J.P. Morgan, but I don't think it's going to match up to this. I had such a fierce secret crush on Tesla when I was growing up that it was silly, so this looks like it's going to be entirely too sexy for words. Seriously, casting David Bowie as Nikola Tesla, you can't actually craft a hotter idea than that. Not unless you somehow throw Phillip K. Dick in there as played by another David Bowie. Here's a link to the trailor.
foxtongue: (Default)
Someone left behind their keys at the party. I'll be taking them with me once Stephen and I have done the rest of the tidying. (With thanks to Dominique, David, Ed, & Wayne for cleaning up this morning.)
foxtongue: (feed me stories)
Every time I do a mail-out, I get to find out exactly how painfully out-of-date my address book really is. My in-box immdiately gets multiple replies from from Mailer Daemons and Do Not Reply's. In order to recitfy this sorry state of affairs, I've put together this little poll so that !!you too!! may be invited to my Spectacular Happenings (TM).

[Poll #766360]
foxtongue: (snow)

You are most cordially invited to

Jhayne's Fashionably Late Birthday Party

located at 2nd & Cotton, just off Commercial Drive.

Saturday, July 15th

from five:thirty onward.

Just follow the chalk arrows.

BYOB, friends, instruments, sweets, savouries, BBQ-ables, bubbles, whatever-you-like.

Re-post as appropriate.
foxtongue: (muppet mask)

Originally uploaded by Quasimodem.

June 9, from 8pm to 1pm with live entertainment beginning at 9:30.

Sunbury Hall, Sunbury Park, 10409 Dunlop Street, North Delta
(Arrangements are in process for a shuttle to and from Scott Rd. Skytrain)

Tickets: $20, $30 for an open bar. They are to be paid for in advance. Please RSVP at

No Guest Shall Be Admitted Without a RSVP Response Card. Pseudonym Formalwear and Mask are Required.


Speaking of parties, I need a venue for my birthday party. My apartment has grown too small for the number of people who've been asking what I'm doing this Saturday. Does anyone have a flat bigger than mine they would be willing to put up for a night? Or a house? House preferable, really. Back yards and porches are a double plus for any party, in my opinion. We're an exceptionally non-destructive group, the worst we've ever done was set off confetti bombs and I'll vouch that you'll get ice-cream.

Save Nazanin.

"Tories to legislate fixed American-style election terms": this is worrisome. Currently, it's up to the prime minister to decide when to call an election any time up to five years. The idea is that the government should fall when it can't pass legislation. Otherwise the electorate has no recourse, they have to wait for however many years to oust the government and get one that does have the support of the people. Right now in the U.S. George Bush's government is hovering around 25-28% approval rate. If this was Canada they couldn't get a bill passed in the House of Commons, but in the U.S. they get two more years of Bush. Another reason why fixed terms are bad is that only half the time the government is running for reelection (i.e. trying to please voters). Shouldn't they try to please the voters all the time instead of whenever the election looms around?

Researchers found that mice can pass on traits to their offspring even if the gene behind those traits is absent.
foxtongue: (hot in here)

Originally uploaded by noveltywearsoff.
KindelingBoy Michael is having a party tomorrow evening to celebrate his final freedom from Too Much School TM.

My cool news today is this letter:


Just a head's up to let you know that I've added your blog, Dreampepper, to the British Columbia Blogs directory and aggregator at - if for any reason you do not want your blog listed, please let me know and I'll take it back down immediately.


I don't know how they found me, but the list looks pretty small, so I'm pleased. Apparently the main criteria be that they're well written, been around for awhile, and update frequently, as well as having that undefinable "something".

Max Headroom creator made Roswell alien.
Deathboy makes a song based on the very first episode.

This week has been a successful book of matches, every day burning when I strike it with my eyes. I feel like a chemical reaction, sparkling and fizzing, exploding strong-box secrets and licking what's inside. If I were Rapunzel, this would be me letting down my hair, suddenly afraid that my princes were just a dream. This would be taking myself and my bedding and my famous blue raincoat to wind my fairy-tales a rope, offering them a way in instead of a noose, banishing my fears, losing them one by one like beads from a broken string.

AXE's GameKillers advertisement series.
Adidas Idicolor viral-marketing films. (watch PINK especially)

foxtongue: (moi?)

party at my place

housewarming : housecooling : birthday : publication

tuesday, march 21st
8 o'clock

call for directions
604. three too, one poem
foxtongue: (moi?)

next to city hall
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
Strangely, I found myself in a house last night that I used to be intimately familiar with. It's a small place just off Cambie, an odd little duplex left over from the sixties. Almost ten years ago, the tree out front had bicycles lashed to the length of it. It used to be a party house. If there was a crowd gathered out front, I would just walk in. Being there again was like looking through an incredibly distorted photograph. All the furniture was gone, replaced, different, but the underlying structure remained identical. I remember sweeping things off the tile counter that separates the kitchen and the dining room and using it as a small square bed. I curled with candles in my hands in the little window nook, my bare toes against the old thin glass, offering fire to the smokers congealing on the tiny porch next to it. Now Alec lives there, with his twin brother, gradually filling it with strange mechanical bits of home-made light-up furniture and rich vintage finds gleaned from local alleys.

I met him Friday, at Alicia's delightful Anti-Valentines party, and we spent from there until 7:40 this Sunday evening together. If he never talks to me again, I'll quite understand. However, I found him marvelous company. We stayed up late last night watching Six String Samurai and, honestly, anyone who doesn't question my sleeping with a knife is probably that much closer to being okay in my books. Thank you Alicia for the goodly gracious idea of inviting him. (Though you're only half right. He can out-geek me on technicals, but I out-geek him with culture).

Earlier than that, Friday, I was caught being ridiculous at my workplace by someone off the street I vaguely hope will either never see me again or spread the legend farther. See, the computer had been played with by the owner, James, the previous night and something he did had destroyed the sound card drivers. Silence drives me crazy. It was hours before he called me back and I received permission to do a RESTORE on the system. Hence, singing Gorillaz at the top of my lungs, trying to echo off the very back wall, and dancing on top of the counters in a lull between actual bouts of working. In my defense, it happened gradually. First I was simply singing, then louder, then dancing as I put shoes away and filled out little bits of paperwork. Finally I vaulted up and did the deed, shaking booty for the entire walking world to see. We have incredibly large front windows. People think I'm strange, but really, it's just that I forget what I'm doing.

The year 2005 may have been the warmest year in a century, according to NASA scientists studying temperature data from around the world.

I made a brilliant deal at the club tonight. Nicole and Matt brought me to Sanctuary and by chance we sat next to a friendly stranger. When I first began talking to him, I asked why he wasn't dancing. When he replied that he'd recently wrecked his ankle, I politely enquired how he'd hurt himself. He clipped a starling while sky-diving, he said. He'd been bringing his seven year old nephew up for a run and had turned on his back to show him what falling through a cloud looked like. Hitting a bird is a one in a thousand chance, he said, in an airplane. Million to one when you're free-falling.

I was impressed.

More so when I found out that he's illiterate. "How on earth did that happen to you?" I asked, taken entirely aback. He grew up in Northern Ireland. A bomb blast when he was twelve. "Oh right, you're the people who leave bullets in your post-office walls." A quarter of his bones are now made of steel, his right hand is warped, and his skull is almost entirely artificial. He still knows Gaelic, however, as that's what he'd been taught as a child. Home-schooling, apparently, though he's lost almost all his mandarin. (go figure?) So I struck a deal. First, before I entirely had a grasp of the bizarre situation, I offered to swap some English for some Gaelic. When he'd filled me in a little more, explaining that it hadn't been for lack of language programs with incredibly impressive pedigree, I offered something different. He chooses the book and I read to him in exchange for Gaelic lessons.

He stopped mid-thought, struck by that. "I just might, you know. That's a new one." I hope he takes it.

I've invited him to Korean Movie Night. I drew him a map.
foxtongue: (ferret)
Nick Petrie has rented Club 23 west Cordova for his birthday party tonight.
Doors open at 9. Cover's five bucks.
The company's going to be delicious and the music two-fold. Mike is going to wow us all with his skills as DJ Spaz, and DJ Heidrogen has come all the way from Kamloops. Be there or be bloody square, yo.

birthday - shirley temple 1938

Kissing by the bridge, that's something for my list of thing's I've always wanted to do.

So with many thanks to the glorious Stephen, Graham and I are back with internet.

birthday - 1934

exit, pursued by a bear.
foxtongue: (have to be kidding)

photographer David Byun
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
Sunday, January first, there will be a chill unwind-from-partying party-gathering at my apartment starting at three in the afternoon.

If you are unaware of the address, either e-mail me at bloodkrystal hot-mail or call three to one poem for directions.

It will also be a welcome home to Graham, who finalizes moving in with us on Sunday, and a chance for the locals to visit with James Everett, who's only in from Montreal until Monday afternoon.

We're having a hair-cutting party at Sara's house right now. The people around me right are drunkenly preparing to play strip poker, I think with the same sense of hope as young boys that agree to play stripping games with young girls who are loaded down with four layers of scarfs, costume jewelry, and gew gaws in spite of the obvious disparity against their t-shirts and jeans. (Though I admit that Mike may simply be playing because it's poker.) They are laying down rules and trying to pick on the men, who aren't complaining.

Sometimes I am almost appalled at my lack of interest in these things. Everyone else is rapt, impatient with their cards, (those who aren't having sex in the bedroom, that is), and I am across the room instead, lost in the laptop screen, feeling uncomfortable in my suddenly short hair and playing with the music, trying to find something that would be suitably amusing for people to take off their clothes to.
foxtongue: (holiday)
The party was an entertaining success.
By the end of the night,
my money gauge read like this:

[   ] Beatles
[   ] Andrew
[   ] Famous
[   ] god
[   ] birth control
[   ] Christopher Walken
[   ] Alan Rickman
[   ] European
[   ] cute bartender
[   ] Emo DJ
[   ] livejournal
[xx] fire spinner
[xx] myspace
[xx] real poets
[xx] discordian
[xx] goth
[xx] poet (angsty)
[xx] T.V. actor
[xx] poseur
[xx] your mom
[xx] startrek furry
[xx] easy as apple pie
[xx] Arts major
[xx] porn star
[xx] philosophy major
[xx] morris dancer
[xx] premature ejactulator
[xx] child actor
[xx] country singer
[xx] chopped liver
[xx] they never loved you
[xx] no self esteem

In the darkness I came to the mountainside. A red woman opened the door, velvet and calm, cats twining around her ankles. When I step outside of my work, if I escape early enough, and look up into the welcoming sky, the blue looks as thick as a hallucination. I think I cried in my sleep because there's a light smeary path of leached dye running down my cheek from my right eye. Just enough tracery of purple to catch my eye in the mirror when I blindly brush my teeth. I look like a comic book character. There's a curl of it on the back of my right hand too, where my face must have rested. A perfect curl describing the bones of my hand in Fibonacci's most perfect sequence of gold.

  • New world's largest telescope to dwarf Hubble's abilities.

    I feel adrift today. For the first time in over a week, I have no plans for my evening after work. When eight o'clock ticks to, I will be rudderless. My feet will be wind upon pavement waves and wandering. It will be cold, however, so I will likely go home. Weigh the anchor in folding the laundry that has eaten my bed from under me and tidy the endless small papers that collect in slippery drifts against my furniture. There are flat surfaces here, I just need to find them again under the detritus of never being home. I would rather that when people come in, they don't take a minute to wonder where it's possible to sit.

  • Television show hopes to convince participants they are in orbit.

    Jacques and I split the money fifty/fifty, (minus Ray's personal donation). He broke even and I'm going to be able to pay my transit inflicted debt. I don't know how many people came. I would guess a number around fourty. It was a room full of eccentric twenty-somethings and middle aged men, a very two dimensional look into my social life. I wonder how much they mixed. People like Chistoph and Will are likely to mingle with anyone, but so far my only word on the party was Dominique calling this morning to quickly tell me what happened after she, Rowan, Travis and Josh left the party.

    There is no buzzer for 440 w Hastings, so people took turns in the cold glass atrium, watching the door. On one shift, I invited in two people off the street who seemed as if they were coming to the party. Turns out we didn't know either of them, but they looked right. Long coats, long hair, a combined aura of geeky conversation. Another shift was twenty minutes alone, wrapped in my shawl against the chill and finishing Douglas Coupland's Miss Wyoming until my mother came down with my brother Robin. I was glad of the relief, I didn't want to miss Rowan playing pop songs on his accordion. It's delightful. An entire corner of the room dissolved into laughter when they realized they were listening to Nine Inch Nails. Anyone who took photographs, I would appreciate if you would send them to me to post, (fully credited), into my flickr account.

  • Jesus Monkey Pants in Space up to page 9.
  • foxtongue: (Default)

    jhayne as a southpark kid
    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
    Jacques LaLonde and Jhayne Holmes present


    a party of proportion

    #340 - 440 west hastings

    The Date: Friday, November 25th (today)

    The Time: 9:00 - onward

    The Goal: $300.00

    Pass it on.

    The day of the party has woken up. A thick spicy thing, too crisp to cut, with a sky too dull to remember. Another average Vancouver morning. It's warm, but it's wet. It's raining, but it's held close to our wool wrapped breath. I come home and put Brian Eno and Sigur Ros on to play in an attempt to escape the abrupt mundanity of walking home in the middle of a bland Friday morning full of school kids and transit commuters with sweeping grand songs about nothing at all. It's that kind of day. (The jury is still out on how it's working). Part of it is that Dominique kept me out later last night than I had planned and, unfortunately, my weariness has not only continued but spread, creating a fine measurement where guilt, intention, desire, and night come together into one thing. I'm not sure how I'm going to survive tonight. My endurance will be entirely complicit with whoever comes. Mark that file UNKNOWN.

    Jenn is coming over now, bringing milk to match my cereal, playing the cheerfully complimentary yang to my still yawning and starving yin. We would go out for the traditional breakfast, but we're broke, so instead I'm providing spoons and bowls and somewhere warm and welcome. Hopefully, I will have tided enough to make a habitable space by the time she arrives. It's difficult to clean around a sleeping ferret. It's possible for the animal, just over a foot long, to take over the entire bed. It's tempting to simply curl up around him, let the day turn awhile without me, and sleep until the heralding buzzer wakes me up.

    If anyone is interested in helping set up for the party, please either arrive half an hour early to the venue or call Jacques on his cell phone at 604.812.1496.


    foxtongue: (Default)

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