There was a parking spot in front of the Sanford and Son shops last night that some hooligan mucked up for the lot of us, or at least for one lucky, early parker.  A huge terra cotta pot had exploded, sending out a cry for “First Night“ help.

And at the Sept. 27th Sanford and Son-hosted 100th Monkey Party the politically infused undercurrent sought to claim First Night and possibly rename it â€" “Last Night”? As “100th Monkey on Steroids”?  And then there were the undercurrents of an altogether differently ambitious project that may see its fruition five years from now, 10 years from now.  Take that infant Tacoma art scene and see how she grows up.  A photo album of sorts.

Ideas with huge implications notwithstanding, a boozy-fun time was had by all, particularly, myself.

Starting my evening, I saw friends showing familiar faces atop unfamiliar art.  I saw shoes I loved (which, I'm sad to say died by evening's end) attached to a body and a face I didn't even know I knew, and then realized I knew well.  I met the requisite three new people. I talked with old friends, new friends, notable socialite diva rock star friends (hi Ebony, hi Natasha, hi Ginger, hi all kinds of artists I know, because I have met you)

Also, I shopped. I commissioned a new coat, and I saw things I want so badly â€" Haitian lightweight super-cool bowl and vintage silk kimono.  All 100th Monkeys should be this interactive shop-happy-friendly, I'm thinking.

I listened to great music.  The Celtic band made me happy, and the hearing Kim Archer belting “Me and Bobby McGee” made me so much happier. Hearing the song I so slaughtered in karaoke years ago, revived in all its glorious, soulsy- ballsy beauty, I had to revel in the lip-syncing audience singing along, nodding to Kim's rendition.  Dang, it was nice.

Upstairs, the arts, and the artists, were nice.  I loved the incognito soul mate-of-artist-in-mask (despite sweaty heat.)  I loved the $16 CD art, and sub-$50 uber cool handbags by Mindy, a super cool super nice chick. I loved the shops, the people, the life, I saw all around me.  It was like Christmas gone horribly right.

The night, of course, ended, as the best of nights should.  I stood, grasping for an empty bag of wine bottles or a random bag of trash.  Not only are 100th Monkey nights a bit local-politics swayed, they're also intent on cleaning up after themselves.

So how un-P-C is it to  say, God bless Tacoma? â€" Jessica Corey-Butler