Show me your boobies! (titties not included)

I'll never forget the first time I heard the term "pasties". It was a quiet New Years Eve, and for the 3rd year in a row, the Space network was airing "Flesh Gordon"- watch as Flesh and his friends, Flexi jerk-off and Dale (?), battle heroically to save the universe from the despotic ruler of the planet Porno, Emperor Wang, and his evil sex ray. This film was made in the late 60's and was technically pornography, but so did it pale to anything XXX that has come out in this half of the century, that it is now suitable for late night family viewing. This film also features the Princess, heir to the sacred power pasties, and the most shockingly racist one liner by a blond super hero I had ever hear at that point; "let the woman go you goddamn chink".

Which brings me to an amusing event held in my sleepy ass town once a year, giving everyone ample time to plan for it accordingly. I am talking about the annual Brain Injury Society's Jazz and Blues Dinner, Dance, and Burlesque Nite, full costume. It is one of the few occasions that draws out the under 70 crowd, and even dangles promises of "after party" in front of the bleary eyes of the horny, attention-starved former high school clique leaders, newly single into their late 20's and starting to bulge at the frump.

The presence of a full bar at a function to raise money for brain injury relief was an irony completely lost on the organizers, and caused my recovering date to bail at the last moment, but nonetheless, and a grand time was truly had by all.

The evening began with a nipple tassled strip down ho-fest, hoes liberally supplied by the city of Vancouver, and the promise of a "climax" during the band's intermission. Climax following the strip-ease? Isn't that a rather tall order? Of course, it turned out to be more stripping, away from the stage and into the fray. However, the mass town hall orgy that I expected would soon follow was doused by the need for key players at the event to keep leaving the doors open everytime they dipped out for a cigarette: the blast of carcinogenic ice wind that followed was enough to freeze even the warmest juices.

The acts were all well staged, with the rare treat of a female Elvis impersonator, sans beer gut, struting her stuff with great poise and class. At one point, she was drapped in an American flag, which elicited a loud gust of "Booooooooooooooooooo" from the audience, that turned to riotous cheers when she dropped it, stomped on it, and then threatened to piss on it. My town is a mill town with one of the highest catholic teen pregnancy rates in British Columbia, and would rarely be classified as a haven for radical liberalism, so it is a real testimant to how far the US has fallen in international public opinion that their flag will not be tolerated even in a burlesque skit.

My roommate and I managed even to secure an invitation to small gathering with the preformers afterwards, where I attempted to smoke pot for only the second time in my life, and it sucked. Sorry guys, but I just don't get it, and now no one can say I didn't try. This night was preceded by a dance-stravaganza hosted by the Town Pants, a local Celtic band. I felt compelled to ask why they called themselves that, and heard a tale of horse betting in Ireland on a horse called the Town Pants, which came in dead last and consumed in it's abject failure the few remaining the euros the band had. However, that story did not satisfy my need to know why anyone would call anything that. I love celtic music, but I admit, there is a limit to the number of songs one can tolerate about how far away I am, it's dark, need more whiskey, the boat and sea, arrgh, me lass, I'm drunk.

At least they don't sing about dying from lack of potatoes anymore. See, the world just keeps getting better and better.