It has been a heartbreaking weekend. God bless Amanda Palmer for cheering us up.

** If you don’t see a picture, go here.

Last night I went to see Amanda Palmer, aware that I might feel emotional, since Max loved Amanda and introduced me to The Dresden Dolls in the fist place.

I couldn’t get as close to the stage as I’d hoped, but we managed to find a pretty good place to stand. Before the opening act started, a girl directly in front of me felt compelled to dance  theatrically  to the piped in music. I turned to my companion and said: “This is a test from god. He put her in front of me to see if I can take it.” I added that all I really wanted was to not get my nose broken by her flailing elbows.

We managed to move closer to the stage and away from the dancing girl. In a break between the two supporting acts, I got something in my eye and asked a big friendly girl to hold my drink for a minute. She was adorable, like an enormous puppy but I can’t remember her name. She works at Trader Joe. I felt happy about our  camaraderie  and excited about seeing Amanda.

Suddenly, I experienced the shock of being whacked in the face by a plastic bottle that some fucker had thrown in my direction. The people next to me had seen it coming and I turned to see them cringing in horror. I felt my nose to see if it was still there. I wanted to cry but decided not to. You can’t believe the force of a flying plastic bottle! When I got home, I saw that there was a small bloody cut on the bridge of my nose. (see above)

Why did I have a premonition about my nose? Did I manifest a blow to the nose by Putting Out a negative thought? Does everyone get hit in the nose if they go to enough concerts?

Amanda was terrific, as always. Her embodiment of both male and female energy is so mesmerizing, and luckily, marriage has done nothing to tame her.

One of Amanda’s rituals is to answer personal questions from fans, selecting them randomly from a basket. She started reading one that didn’t make sense. It was just a name, like Quinn Something. She  threw  it aside, but someone in the audience yelled that Quinn was asking for a middle name. She said “Oh, sorry, I guess I didn’t read the whole thing.” Then she paused for a moment and shouted: “MAX!”

Suddenly everything became surreal. I expected Max to appear, summoned by Amanda Palmer. My jaw dropped in wonder. It was only a second but it was amazing. I was thrilled, freaked out, then tearful.   She added. “It’s one of my favorite names.”

Was it a sign? Say yes.

And what about my nose?

Stop what you’re doing and listen to Amanda Palmer‘s brand new song “Map of Tasmania“…an ode to pubic hair.   You’ll be humming it all day.   God bless her.

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*Listen here

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Amanda Palmer shows attract misfits,
The disenfranchised
Cute gay Latino boy with his Mohawk lover
Noserings must get caught when they kiss

My sons are amped up and ready
One angry about taking off his hat.
The other
Protects me from a big sweaty douche
Who pushes up behind me, up
Against me with his big male self

Amanda is sad about Michael Jackson
But not sentimental
Billie Jean is not the one
But is
The one we want her to sing

She opens her legs at her piano,
Wide open
Creamy thighs like the ones men
Always talk about.

I see for the first time
Why they want to bury their heads there
Amanda works us over like a first rate whore
And delivers us from our petty differences

Even the big fat girl in the wedding dress
Takes on the glow of a martyr in holy communion
With the Source

I feel a Christlike compassion for the fat girl
For the gay boys,
The Goth schoolgirls swaying, arms around each other
The nerd holding up a lighter
But not the big douche.

Whenever I need to learn something new, I turn to Susan. If it’s cool, she knows about it. She introduced me to photographer Jennifer Tzar, whose photos tend to have an air of otherworldy nostalgia. This girl with the purple hive is exactly who I want to be!

I now realize that I’ve snagged lots of pictures of Girls I Want To Be. Here’s another one.

She’s wearing a skirt I’ve seen on Amanda Palmer, and god know I’d like to be Amanda Palmer! This next one is in the same ballpark, but with Natalia Brilli accessories.

Now, this one is a little scary but she’s still a Girl I Want to Be (wearing accessories by Manuel Albarran.)

The saddest thing ever is that I’ve always wanted to be blond, even though my BFF’s wig proved beyond a doubt that god didn’t make me blond for a good reason:

Aaaaaah!   So, now the trick is to remember that I’m not 20.   Yesterday, while not considering this key fact, I flipped out over these blue sequin pants….but luckily I remembered this morning, when I saw them again for $100 less.   Be gone, sequin pants, and don’t slam the door on your way out!

At least I can sort of approximate Patti Smith in my Ann Demeulemeester jacket.

It’s good to be satisfied with who you are and what you look like, probably. But wouldn’t a purple beehive be fucking fantastic?!

Skin.Graft is an L.A. based label I first heard about via Amanda Palmer of the Dresden Dolls. That’s how hip I am. But I forgot about it until recently, and now I can’t get enough. Look at the antler girl! I asked for antlers, and the universe answered. The ruffled skirt is one of Skin.Graft’s trademarks, and I think it rules.

For their fall/winter 2009 collection, designers Jonny Cota, Cassidy Haley and Katie Kay pulled their inspiration from “neo-Victorian royalty and overly tarnished motorcycles smashing into each other at high speeds.”

Sounds good to me.

While my bosom was still heaving over Skin.Graft, I learned that Louis Verdad has a new collection that is also heavy on the Goth-inspired leather and spikes.

Mmmmmm. When I retire to the attic like Mrs. Rochester, I plan to be swathed in Louis Verdad on the occasions that my Victorian mourning gowns are in the wash.