ON THURS. NITE, we spent some pleasant, albeit quite warm, hours at the glorious Lower Level performance space on Capitol Hill.

There, the enterprising Francophile DJs known as La Boum! (one of whom’s also involved in the Cicada fashion boutique) presented a quite sprightly, defiantly girlie, and ultimately playful fashion show, featuring both vintage and new ensembles.

…and those of us who simply love old pop ephemera, can view entire issues of pre-1970 skin books (even the articles!) at Vintage Girlie Mags.

IT’S THE THIRD AND LAST PART of our look at the LGBT Pride rally/parade. Yesterday we saw the gents; today it’s the ladies.

The Pride festival’s officially all about forthrightly declaring one’s sexuality, no matter what people say.

So I’ll forthrightly declare: I mainly go to Pride to enjoy the presence of the women.

The fact that the women are mostly lesbians (with a few bis and post-op trannies mixed in) matters not one atom.

In my long life, I’ve viewed and adored thousands of women who didn’t want to have sex with me. From this point-O-view, lesbians are merely one subset.

Like a Medieval troubadour toward a lady of the court, my attraction to the Pride Parade lesbians is both defined and enhanced by knowing my desire probably won’t be physically consummated.

Rather, I can only express my admiration and my yearning as artistically as I can, and trust that, at least on some level, these strong women can gratefully accept my highest regard for their faces, their bodies, and their courageous hearts.

Of course, should any one of these women turn out to be bi (or het-curious), and find herself reading this, I would love the chance to channel this high adoration toward a lower plane.

IT’S PART 2 OF 3 of our documentin’ last Sunday’s LGBT Pride Parade.

Today, we separate the boys from the girls, since that’s what gaydom essentially does.

The prime contradiction of the “gender diversity” and gay-rights movements is that they (rightfully) demand society welcome a broader range of gender-types and relationship-types, yet the most common of these uncommon sexualities is that of men who prefer to smooch it up with their fellow men. William Burroughs and other commentators have noted over the years that male-gaydom isn’t a weaker or sissier masculinity but a more exclusive masculinity. It’s manhood uncompromised by the need to live with, or satisfy, women.

Given that, of course, there are still many, many types of man-loving men and man-and-man relationships. I predict that even when (not if) gay-tolerance finally spreads out to the vast suburban and rural stretches of this country, gays will still choose to congregate in the major cities, because only in a large population base (or via net-dating) will a pseudo-Eurotrash fashion victim in search of a leather-bondage cowboy be likely to discover his soulmate.

But then again, bifurcating and bisecting’s what U.S. society seems to be all about these days. We’re (including my own het-self) spinning out into ever-narrower subcultural niches. In this regard, it’s commendable that the Pride people have kept so many queer-culture subsectors involved all these years.

Among these subsectors: Drag afficianados. If we’re to believe the papers, drag-queen performance, on both pro and amateur levels, is significantly less popular than it had been in the ’90s. Still, for those who truly care for the art form, it’s never mattered whether it was considered “in” or “out.”

On his net-radio talk show Sex Life, local “sexpert” Dane Ballard recently discussed why the Pride Parade seems to have become passe to many local gays. You can hear it all here, once the archive file’s been placed online (which should be as early as today).

By the way, ’twas nice that the Seafair Pirates showed up. For some fifty years, the Pirates have represented a just slightly more acceptable image of rowdy male bonding, in a town that’s spent the past century trying to distance itself from its rough-hewn frontier past.

THIS WEEK, highlights from our sunburn-inducin’ trip to the Fremont Solstice Parade and street fair. Today, the beautiful costumery and skinosity. On Tuesday or Wednesday, the rest of the spectacle.

The “World Naked Bike Ride” the previous weekend was billed as a participant event, but seemed more like a spectator event. The unofficial bicycle nudes at the Fremont parade are often judged as a spectator event, but seemed this year more like a participant event.

By this, I mean the naked ladies & gents walking and biking, and the more or less clothed audience members standing and sitting, all behaved as if they were of one joyful whole. There was no public making-out, but there didn’t have to be.

Fremont Parade nudity isn’t about the mechanical or hydraulic aspects of sexuality. It’s about showing off yourself, seeing and being seen, just as you are. It’s about freedom and comfort, and togetherness. It’s about having your physical, mental, and emotional beings united. It’s about taking appropriate pride in the gifts with which we were created, and with which we may help create others. It’s about demystifying the female body, and un-demonizing the male body.

And, with or without paint, the nudity is ultimately just another costume choice. You can parade as a human, or as a flower or a bat, or as part of a team uniformly dressed for group unity.

The Science Fiction Museum and Hall of Fame, Paul Allen’s latest vanity monument, opened Friday morning with a simple ceremony. Instead of the all-star weekend of free rock concerts that marked the opening of SFM’s parent organization, the Experience Music Project, SFM merely had some short speeches by the usual suspects (Allen, Mayor Nickels, author Neal Stephenson, etc.).

Nickels, bless him, turned out to be a geek at heart. He thanked the costumed “extraterrestrials” in the audience, and closed his remarks with “Live long and prosper.”

Several of the suspects then jointly pressed a button which set off metallic confetti showers, some steam spurting out of the robo-bug gizmo on the building, and “Also Sprach Zarathustra” (a.k.a. the 2001 theme) blared forth.

Among the costumed fans in attendance was our ol’ pal and Punk Lust zine editor Willum Pugmyr (above).

Management didn’t let me take pictures inside the museum. But I can tell you it’s a fanboy’s dream. For the (relatively costly) price of admission, you get to see dozens of real movie props (Captain Kirk’s chair, the Lost in Space robot), costumes, illustration-art pieces, fanzine pages, book covers, toys, and more. There are also many clever computer-based displays, including the “Hall of Fame” section (honoring some three dozen influential authors), and two impressive globular video-projection units.

And as a writer, I was pleased to see all the attention given to the written origins of sci-fi.

The space is smallish. But since the EMP’s vast Sky Church auditorium’s adjacent, it can be used for any SFM special events, which I hope will include author panels, film festivals, and other fan-convention favorites.

The place is fun, and the strolling experience through the small space is appropriately akin to traversing a cramped spaceship. I’m just disappointed at the $10 admission fee. Perhaps Mr. Allen needs to be reminded that some of us have less spending money than he does.

The “World Naked Bike Ride,” held Saturday in Seattle and various other burgs planet-wide, was supposed to be a political statement against foreign oil or car-culture or censorship or some combo of the above. Its local incarnation was more of a fun run.

Dozens of men, and six or seven women, pedaled their bare buns through Fremont, Westlake, Seattle Center, and downtown. At several stops along the way, cheering spectators and avid photographers expressed their vocal appreciation for those who dared to bare. (Though, unlike the body-paint bikers at the Fremont Solstice Parade, this was intended as a participatory, not a spectator, event.)

There were no arrests, and only the most formal of official disapprovals. That’s good.

Now if we can only get a legal public nude beach in this town….

I WAS ONCE one of those who scoffed at the Folklife Festival as the “Forklift Festival.” That was back during the apex/nadir of smug boomer culture, when I’d come to define myself by my rebellion against the hammered dulcimer and everything it stood for.

But in my own creeping middle age (birthday next Tuesday, hint-hint guys!), I’ve come to appreciate the festival’s broad range of acts. The costumed dancers, the bagpipe players, all the accordion players, the tile artists, the butoh and kabuki troupes.

Besides, folk culture is the original DIY culture. It’s by the people, of the people, and for the people. And it’s the original bastion of female creativity.

So let’s all be, as the cable show says, queer as folk.

“Have a moisted weekend! (April 30 to May 3)This weekend is all about taking it into low gear going out, but maybe upping the attention on personal appearance just a touch. For instance, your feet. Are they a nasty shade of tallow white with yellow toenails? Maybe it’s time you got a pedicure. You can’t wear boots all year round. (Please don’t). Anyway, take a long draw from your favorite beverage, get yourself moisted, because it’s going to be a fabulous, fun weekend.

By the way, I’m thinking that FREE is really in right now, so this week’s column is going to be devoted to free and cheap.

FRIDAY, APRIL 30: It’s your last chance to party it up right this April, so here’s an idea. (This next one I cribbed from Mike Nipper at the Stranger, who, if you’re a usual reader of my column, you realize is the cutest, most unavailable, somewhat androgynous writer this side of the Rockies. And he’s got good taste).

‘WOGGLES, GIRL TROUBLE, LOS PELIGROSOS (Fun House): Fuck YEAH! I swear, even though they’ve been beset by the tragic loss of their ace ax man George Holton (AKA Mister Montague), the Woggles have rebounded respectfully and gracefully and have been workin’ some of that sweet, fine Wogglin’ ass right the hell off! And dammit if the Woggles don’t always impress me, not so much for their fucking ace of a stage performance… which is heavenly… but for their cool, always clean and perfectly executed, sweat drippin’ ‘n’ riff rippin’ ’60s-style garage rock. And, by the way, their latest LP, Ragged but Right, is a damn fine testimony, Woggle style!’

The only problem with this show is that it’s at the Fun House, which is basically Zak’s. That place was gross. I’m not sure how I feel about its reincarnation. If you’ve been there, email me and tell me whether I should check it out.

Another idea is to see a fun show at Patti Summers (great place for the first day of summer!) Blank Its are having a record release party there, and will be joined by the Dead Vampires, Leatherboy, $5, 21+. This show has the advantage of being close to Le Pichet and The Alibi Room, both of which are great places to whet your whistle.

SATURDAY, MAY 1: Despite what calendars say, May 1 always feels like the beginning of summer. You crave freshness. So, check out DJ Superjew (Marianne)’s opening (sounds like it’s FREE):

Pattern vs Happenstance opens Saturday May 1 7-11pm at the Black Lab Gallery (4216 6th Ave NW at Leary in Ballard) Show runs May 1-24. **also starring Dawn Cerny, Tory Franklin, David Herbert, DW Burnam, others… see http://www.sublevelthree.com for more info.

You’ll also want to go to Linda’s anytime in the evening (at least by 7:45 p.m.). Besides the usual patio and pool fun, there’s a birthday party for this really great guy named Paul who works for the Stranger whose last name I can’t ever remember. Anyway, you probably know him. If not, I’m sure you guys would get along great (he’s very loveable).

Lastly, I hope to end up at a ‘monumental’ brit-pop night at Mulleady’s Pub (on Dravus St.; 9p.m.-2a.m.; free; 21+). The host, Coulter, claims he has rare Morrissey for us. For those of you who drink Guiness, this would seem to be the night for it.

Just so you know, if you’re in LA this weekend, don’t bother w/ Coachella. Apparently that is not the thing to do. The thing to do would be to go to the SMELL (one of my favorite clubs in LA) to see Old Time Relijun. They are from Olympia and for someone who isn’t really into that whole Olympia thing, I really like this band.
SUNDAY, MAY 2 at 10:00pm, episode one of DOOMED PILOT will air on channel 27 (the pubic access station). Per Christian, ‘Doomed Pilot is a half-hour collection of short experimental film and video curated by yours truly, featuring work by Jon Behrens, Sebastian Del Castillo, Ryan Adams, William Weiss, and  crimsonclover- essentially a who’s who of bed-wrecking cinematic pretentiousness.’

Who could resist that?! I hear there may be a screening party. Drop me a line if interested and I’ll see what I can do. slowdiva@yahoo.com

MONDAY, MAY 3: OF MONTREAL, THE MINDERS, TERRENE (Sunset). Elephant 6 is still so cool, and it’s a nice little venue. Let’s go, shall we? It’s only $7. That beats the pants off of Snow Patrol at the Croc for $12. Come ON, Croc. Ever hear of capitalism? It’s based on competition for people’s cash. Might want to try it sometime.

Whatever you do, have a great time. And don’t drink and drive with disgusting yellow toenails. If you’re going to run the risk of going to jail and wearing those jail flip-flops, you need to get your nails done.

Love, Heather

P.S.:  For those of you who think “moisted” is not a word:

MOISTED, a. Made moist. Also (occas.): that moistens. 1549-62 T. STERNHOLD & J. HOPKINS Whole Bk. Psalms cxvi. 8 Thou hast deliuered… my moisted eien from mourneful teares. (Thanks, Catleah).

Heather Rogers, who derives more enjoyment from drag shows than I do, contributes the following second installment of personal entertainment recommendations:

“Hello you pretty people,

Today’s Earth Day, so cut the whole “I’m so over the whole PC thing… I gave up recycling in ’94 along with my Birks” attitude. Today’s a great day to do something good. Like make a window box of flowers. Or get your soil tested for lead and arsenic and report the results to the city (it’ll help you with your lawsuit later on!). And you know what—you’re helping the environment RIGHT NOW—by reading fabulous online media (although I know a lot of you print out my column so you can read it in the bathtub while touching your “special place”. But I forgive you, you dirty doggies!)

Speaking of special places, you need to read Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides. It’s Hedwig chilled and served with a slice of baklava. It’s a fuller Bildungsroman. It’s fabulous. I know I mentioned it last time, but I don’t think enough of you are actually reading it yet. Plus if you want to be part of Nerd Out book club, you need to read it. Our next meeting is May 9 at 3 pm. There will be a special screening of Hedwig following the meeting, featuring erotic food. Email me for more details at slowdiva@yahoo.com.

Now, onwards to what the hell are you going to do this weekend:

Make time this weekend for the MC5 True Testimonial film at the Little Theatre. It’s playing April 23-29 (no show Mon.) at 608 19th Avenue East, $7. Dir: David C. Thomas. This will also go along great with Middlesex because it, too, will Detroit race riots in the late ‘60s, albeit from a very different perspective. Plus, a rare MC5 photo show following the film Dial 206- 675-2055 for more info.

Tonight: Rest up—you’ve got a busy weekend ahead of you.

FRIDAY NIGHT, the favorite choice is the BIG GAY DANCE NIGHT at Chop Suey. Or you could check out the Turn-Ons and Film School at the Croc. But I think we all need a little big gay dancing right now. (Oh, underagers—you could go see a cool band called Holy Ghost Revival at the Old Firehouse. But I’m mean and don’t like that venue, and I don’t go to the Eastside. Sorry! I’m a West End Girl now (see below for details).)

SATURDAY NIGHT, the music isn’t really making my slot go ca-ching, but I know what will… and you heard it hear first. Check out the window peep show at Salon Dewi, right by the Baltic Room. Travis the Waxing Diva will wax a girl’s private area (that is, PUSSY!) in public. Ooh, Naughty Naughty. Anyway, it starts at 10 pm and it’s free. Perfect—you have some din-dins over at Machiavelli, then watch some poor innocent girl (he always seems to talk some clueless little thing from the suburbs into this action—it reminds me of that sexy ravishing-of-the-innocent-girl scene in Interview with the Vampire. Yum.) have her icky old hair removed, exposing her oh-so-tender, flushed, peachy flesh… Then go to the Baltic Room after you’re all charged up and dance sweatily to house music with someone hot. OK!

Monday is actually the BIG NIGHT this weekend (or week, whatever). You have to choose between Kraftwerk at the Paramount and BLACK REBEL MOTORCYCLE CLUB and the Rapture at the Showbox. Whatcha gonna do now?  Huh?  (Tho’ I love BRMC and the Rapture, the correct choice is obviously KRAFTWERK. Duh. They’re playing only three American cities, I heard).

So, I’m moving to West Seattle this weekend, so I’m going to rely on my gentle (and rough) readers to give me the skinny, because though my ear will still be to the ground, the vibrations will have to travel farther to get to me. So, fork over your fab events and if it sounds cool, I’ll tell everyone.

You know what? I love you. I really, really do.”

The Dutch have come up with the next stage beyond monster-green contact lenses: Eyeball jewelry, tiny shiny things surgically implanted into the eye’s mucous membranes.

(Thanx and a hat tip ot Anne Silberman for the link.)

Che Guevara?

Symbols of empowerment or retro-kitsch?

…for wearing pink shirts? Of course not.

JUST IN TIME for the tenth anniversary of his leaving us, fresh Cobain shirt designs are in the tourist shops.

ANYONE REMEMBER Professor Egghead?