I saw Peaches on Friday night! At Bimbo's! I was all set to stay home and do laundry and read and sip the shit out of some tea when Amy P., the foxy ER nurse, called to say she had an extra ticket and did I want to go? I hesitated, because really I was well warmed to the idea of a night at home, but then I realized just what it was I was debating, Peaches versus laundry. Had I truly come to this? So, yes! Yes I'll go!

Great! You have ten minutes to get ready. Ten minutes! Just as well, though, because if I'd been given enough time to truss up, I still would have fallen well, well short of even the median high-energy fashion worn by the crowd at that show. Given an extra FOUR HOURS to get ready, I still wouldn't have come up with an outfit that was in the same LEAGUE as those twenty-nothing kids and their neo-eighties mohawks and three-inch minis and eight-foot heels. Whatever I would have tried to dare things up with -- an "eccentric shirt" or I don't know, lip gloss -- would have have been third-grade kick ball compared to the world series those punks were playing, for serious.

Amy herself was a cute ROCKET in an incredible black slip dress modified with an applique and ribbons by cute LA clothes maker, Kitty-[something-something-hoo-hoo-can't-remember]. There was also the little matter of a pink under-slip and pink legwarmers with orange ... stars? and cute black heely-sandals and glitter-rooted fake eyelashes. So yeah, I was happy I didn't get the chance to do anything but play it safe in plain old pants a tee-shirt.

Peaches wore some insane stuff herself, layers of leotards and bras and panti-briefs (hole e. shit, that woman's tummy is now officially at the very top of my Christmas list) and wigs and white leather jackets. She also COMMANDED THE STAGE all by herself for an hour plus, which is really something. I couldn't take my eyes of her -- partly it was her insane charisma, partly a desire to keep fake blood and chewed cupcake she spat onto the crowd right where I could see them.

The duet with Iggy Pop was pretty amazing, too. They projected a movie of him doing his patented arrhythmic, martial arts dance thing -- shirtless, always shirtless -- onto a screen as Peaches stood "next" to him and postured and danced and reacted in a series of well-rehearsed gestures that made it seem, in a surreal and very off sort of way, that Iggy was right up there with her. And man, did he look GREAT, like he'd lost twenty years somewhere.

(Oh wait, HERE they are! I found them ... right here in the wrinkles under my eyes and the grey hairs lining up underneath my dye job.)

A startlingly cut body has always been Iggy Pop's thing, but like ten years or so ago a layer of loosened skin formed on top of all the musculature, just the barest whisper of proof that he was participating in the same space-time continuum as the rest of us. But now that proof is gone!

I kept wondering if maybe the song, and the footage of him singing it, were from the eighties and Peaches had just written her lyrics in hindsight? But no, apparently it's all new. You know -- he never at any time in the movie turned around. Maybe he clothes-pinned the extra skin back?

(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)

(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)