Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day
cleanskies

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dirty old lady (Ladyfest Saturday)

Glad I was that I spent a few hours making my tiny Make Your Own Minicomics booklet before I went to Ladyfest as (through delaying to eat greasy food in a greasy caff while waiting for Debra) I arrived at the door with a princely ten minutes to spare before my workshop. I felt (not for the last time that weekend!) sorry for the organisers, who nevertheless made me most welcome and gave me beer.*

Also, for once, my workshop was useful for its participants, most of whom were zinesters who needed a bit more confidence in their ability to draw so they could confidently put comics in their zines, or even produce complete minicomics. So we did that, and it went OK. I'd negotiated a leisurely three hours meaning everybody could get their strips done, and I could get it all photocopied and put up on the exhibition wall they'd left for us. Last I saw of it, it was heading North in the back of a white van as part of h the Comic Book Queens exhibition for Frock on in Glasgow, in the nervous care of Heather Honeypears.

Out of the workshop (and pretty wiped out) I drifted off to the stage-place where a lovely lady with an electric cello was singing an entrancing song about a spider. Oh now who? Ah,
Mrs Pilgrim. Then I was talking a lot to different people for a while. More beer was certainly involved. Also Gertrude, who played some really complicated interesting stuff (and had a clarinet). Cheesy moments. A long involved story about snorting coke off hand-decorated mirrors. A drunken sashay through the streets of Hume to the local Asda for batteries and vegan treats. Pineapple wrangling.

Later again, I had to reload my film half-way through watching the Sissy Boys, a German Drag King Boy Band. They had that edge of seriousness that makes for perfect satire.

Night got darker, and the site began to suffer an influx of dodgy geezers. My heart went out to the organisers, we had a simlar problem with Caption one year (with wanky students) -- there's little you can do when they always go there, when they're mates with the site staff. But people got hassled, stuff got nicked. It wasn't safe space.

But then, the site didn't lend itself to safety; an vast old Victorian Unitarian Church gutted and rebuilt with floors at random levels and interconnecting staircases where you least expected them and perforated floors and ramps that went nowhere. The cafe was elusive, the toilets multifarious and the gallery lept out at you, with its guardian 8-foot-tall bare-chested bird-lady protector.

There were tears and taxis before bedtime. I was drunk and let jinty drag me away, but opted for the floor rather than sharing the bed (so sorry, mzdt, no tales to tell) and spent it wrapped in macho signifiers; old pizza boxes, pictures of Arnie, and a samurai sword by the bed.

* Ewan MacGregor diet now gone the way of most diets. Oh well.

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I need to stop now, as the room smells overpoweringly of overripe peaches and I have a changing shape in my left eye.

Also: some scientist is attacking a duck with an old chestnut. Again. Cute picture, though.
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