February 15, 2007

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Knickers in a Twist

The Last Bash

by Lippy Imp

It’s how Mizzi and I have spent every February 14 since we met four years ago, so I’m a little saddened by the fact that this year’s Valentine’s Bash was the last. Here’s how it works, in a nutshell, if you never made it: People sign up on a list, and with them they have an item from a failed relationship, a symbol of their heartbreak. Then, one by one, they are called to the stage where Dan Savage lets them tell their story. They then hand their item to Dan who gleefully destroys it to the cheers of hundreds of onlookers. It is not, in and of itself, a romantic way to spend the evening, but for Mizzi and I as a couple, it’s the only Valentine’s Day we know.

Every year, it’s pretty much the same shtick: I meet Mizzi at an empty nightclub, and together we cover the stage and surrounding area in plastic sheeting. Then, we lay out various items: a paper shredder, a blender, an anvil, a sledgehammer, a large tub of maple syrup. Louie, a wonderful guy who could best be described as a professional pyromaniac, arrives and sets up his cauldron and blowtorch while keeping close watch on his pit bull. Typically, I do more of the grunt work—climbing ladders and holding the sheet of Plexiglas used to protect the audience from flying debris, while Mizzi convinces the nightclub’s owner and staff that everything will be all right, assuring them that nothing bad will befall their establishment or its occupants.

“Now,” she’ll say to them, “how many fire extinguishers do you have and where are they?”

This year, liquid nitrogen was added to the arsenal of weapons of crass destruction, and so Louie and Mizzi spent some time figuring out which items would create the most dramatic effect when frozen and then smashed with a sledgehammer. Plush toys didn’t shatter the way they’d hoped, and paper only became crunchy, so it was decided that the liquid nitrogen would be reserved for things with a high water content—food, maybe, or flowers.

Maybe it was because it had been billed as the final one, but for whatever reason, this year’s Bash seemed particularly spirited. The crowd was electric, and the items they brought were better than the standard love-letter/mix-CD fare. One guy brought a camcorder, complete with videotaped footage of his ex bellydancing for him; a young woman brought two vibrators; another man brought a cactus plant which, when dipped into a container of liquid nitrogen and bludgeoned with a sledgehammer, shattered beautifully.

Just like every year, the place was packed and everyone had a good time. “So why is this the last one?” many people asked. The main reason, from what I’ve gathered, is that Dan didn’t want it to become a cliché. Sure, he could show up every year and break stuff, but eventually it would become old, and as someone with roots in theater, he understands that it’s best to leave your audience wanting more. It’s a display of restraint and dignity that’s admirable, and one of which I’m a tad jealous.

So the time has come for me to wrap up this column. Actually, it came a while back, but I ignored it, thinking maybe I could fake it until I felt inspired again. But that feeling hasn’t come back, and so I’m left with the choice of grinding out something half-hearted or walking away.

This doesn’t mean that Mizzi and I are breaking up, or that my sense of love and romance for her has evaporated. We’re still together, committed and convinced we are meant for each other. But we’ve been together for nearly four years, sharing a home and raising children. As David Sedaris once said, “They rarely make movies about long-term couples and for good reason: Our lives are boring.” With the newness and discovery mostly gone, Mizzi and I need to ride off into the sunset to make room for a fresh voice.

All of this occurred to me after the Bash as I sat on the bed with Mizzi, who was using tweezers to pull a shard of smashed coffee mug out of my neck.

“Whatcha thinking about?” she asked, disposing of the ceramic shrapnel.

“Oh… nothing,” I said. “Finished?”

“Yeah,” she said, dabbing the wound with alcohol. Then she blew on it and gently kissed it. It may not sound like it, but it was all incredibly romantic.

lippyimp@thestranger.com