We had a full moon in Pisces on the 26th, which apparently was a good time to unleash creative energy and interact in new social ways. Last Friday night, I did a bit of both.
Must be a Slytherin. . . .
I loved this house, and this old green couch; the couch, at least, needs repairs
Two Potter-related "wizard" events happened this weekend: a rave dance party, which I went to, and a pub crawl, which I didn't. For one thing, I'd be going alone --- I hadn't scraped up any friends. I figured at the rave, I could watch the live acts and dance and still have fun, but a pub crawl? That struck me as the sort of thing you only want to do with friends: It was a pub tour combined with some online app trivia contest, costume contest, sorting hat whatever. . . .
There are fans. And, there are legits. My real friends know which one I am. There is, "Hey, let's get dressed up in costumes we bought, and buy themed drinks, and do trivia and see if we can win the souvenir wand set, it'll be fun." Then there is: "I bind my own books, sew my own robes, carve my own wands, work real hexes, read the fucking stars, don't need to prove my trivia knowledge because I know already how damned good I am, and I can brew a dozen potions that will kill you. Say, I'm free later this week . . . wanna go out for a drink?"
Get the idea?
There's a bunch of fun-loving, douchey young Muggles dressed up; then there's that, "Hey, that's a good Snape --- wait a minute, is that real?"
Kind of a party pooper, aren't I.
Yet I'm not. Friday night proved, to my satisfaction, I can still bust it out with the best of them.
Switching to swing shift can be tricky if you have evening activities. I got off my week's last shift and rode home antzily on the bus. After hurrying to get ready in my Snape clothes and missing the No. 72 bus by seconds, I grabbed my bike, shouted "Fuck you, Universe, outta my way!" and raced the bus, wearing black at night on a bike with no lights like a total bloody madwoman, to 42nd Street, where I caught the No. 75 instead of missing my connection. There were two bikes on the front already, but the driver let me bring mine aboard. I don't care what house she's in, it gets fifty points!
The line for the rave was long out the door. But the wait became considerably shorter when I began chatting and joking with the people next to me in line. Yes, they were young and a bit douchey, but Snape had a couple of, ahem, potions before setting out, and had another right there in line --- one of the benefits of wearing bottles on one's costume! Just in case the doormen checked me, I downed my small cargo of port. "Hey Snape, what kind of potions you got for us?" one guy asked. I held up an empty vial, swayed theatrically and told him, "You're too late!"
Several of my fellow waiters, a trio of young men, had outrageous accents. It was hard to know who was "faking Brit" or not, and it turned out they were genuine, red-passport-carrying Irishmen! Then we were all in, and I was on tip-boots trying to see over the dense crowd.
At the rave:
All eyes on the Dark Lord
. . . .or else!
It was clearly a LGBTQ-friendly event, which I am glad to see going strong. The live acts were silly, sexy lip-synch cosplay performances of characters, including Myrtle, Hagrid, Hermione and Bellatrix; the last was a seven-foot-tall crossdresser in amazing makeup and frizzy black wig, a fearsome drag-queen whose rapid act was nothing less than insane (as fitted Bellatrix!). But the final act took the cake: a deliciously terrifying female Voldemort who (from what I could tell) sat on someone and wand-whipped him to 'Say my Name', until the crowd was shrieking and laughing. Her white-veined head makeup, as with the Bellatrix actor, was fantastic.
Lethally hot: a sort of dark kindred to my female Snape, a woman channeling Voldemort! We couldn't exactly kiss the hem of her/hir robes; I wasn't close enough in the crowd to see if anyone tried kissing anything else.
I don't actually go to many Potter events; not since the movies. I've never been to any Cons (conventions, i.e. ComicCon, KumoriCon). I'd certainly never been to an event quite like this.
The live acts ended, then it was everywizard for her'imself as the dance party resumed. My newly-made wand served well on one guy's backside, and glow-sticks waved on all sides. Rarely has Snape been seen to freak-dance so well; and I saw no other Snapes there: many folks weren't even of a specific character. But Snape doesn't dress to dance like that, and I got very sweaty very quickly. This would be one time Snape washed his robes!
I hadn't grind-danced in nearly a decade, of the sort I'd done in college. But I certainly did that night, after pairing up with a non-costumed fellow who turned out to be as surprisingly considerate of my comfort as he was willing to push the edge of our moves --- if I could rewind to the end of the night, I'd actually thank him more articulately. He had the treat of mutually arousing dance with the great Severus; and while such dance isn't easy when the parts you want to grind are draped with wands and bottles and belt-pouches and more bottles, Snape is a master for a reason, and managed perfectly well, thank you.
Severus, you wicked thing, you!
Genuine Irish Gryffindor song and chivalry (well, Katie's not Irish).
Who are these people? I still don't know, but that guy on the right looked a helluva lot like Rupert Grint's brother.
Salty bum!
Irish bloke does white-trash American
For some reason, I was reluctant to ride home; I kept chatting with the little group I'd met while waiting, as they debated their path onward outside. It turned out the house of one of the Irish boys, Alex, was right over on Clinton Street. Well? I had my bike. So I took a chance on them and hung out at their place a couple more hours, and made a few acquaintances, at one point donning a silly wig that looked like the spawn of Bellatrix and Captain Hook, parrot included. New friend Katie invited me to the ComicCon --- next weekend, as it is.
Things got wild quickly. Gryffindors, it seems will ride anything, including each other.
"Um, Bellatrix. . . .?" Put a bird on it! The most feasible item I could find for myself in the "you gotta wear something" box. The parrot sold me. . . .
. . . .but it didn't want to stay put.
After a nicer-than-expected ride home on empty streets under a fat yellow moon, I nestled gratefully into bed about 6:15 a.m., into the waiting arms of my black-haired animus.
This is a rare type of event for me, as it was for another gal at our little post-party. But it was fun, cost me little (thanks to my instinct and sense of caution, besides financially), and served to stir the cauldron of my life with a little extra spice and make some memories.
Having been into magic and sorcery since before Potter, I walk in a weird space. Can I remember "witchy" stuff before HP came out? Yes, I can: I'm old enough, and thank Gods for that. I remember before it took possession of anything and everything "magical", or at least tried to. There's a clear difference between real magehood and the dorky pseudo-magic, stereotypical wizard-slash-frat kid culture of Harry Potter in a context like this, at a themed party. The line blurs elsewhere, though, thanks to how many things the Potter series borrowed and appropriated --- it's nearly inescapable at this point, so that you might be fine in public in merely a witch's pointy hat; but if you're seen packing a quill, or broom, you might have to start fielding comments because the HP shit is so culturally ubiquitous. I'm thinking your best bet for that, besides shirking obvious House affiliations or merchandise, is to wear a big, blatant pentagram. Nobody in the Potter series wears one of those. And maybe an equally big pair of headphones . . . the kind that scream: Don't bother me, don't ask me stupid questions; I'm a real mage, and I am fucking serious.
But for a night like this, there's no harm in getting into the spirit, and loosening all that uptight, student-of-Magistery-for-life seriousness with a little abandon.
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