We have reached the fried part of summer when it’s good to go bimbo—cloudless mind, booty shorts, brain rotting in the sun. Which is why, when I saw that some opportunistic promoter in Seattle decided to throw a rave dedicated to Jimothy, the viral raccoon, I threw up an offer on Instagram to any intrepid raver willing to check out the party—I’d cover the chemical lubricants it took to get through the experience. Writer/ceramist Megan Gannon, who I met among the neo-wooks of Osmosis festival, took the bait. The result is our first guest post (!) on Rave New World—a critical investigation into the meme party mindset, “raccooncore,” and maybe even furries? (Reminder that articles are accessible for a week before it goes behind the paywall—bless you for supporting trash panda-loving journalists. ) — Michelle
Two weeks ago, a 33-year-old resident of Seattle’s Ballard neighborhood posted a four-second video to Instagram. “Whhhhat am I looking at?” she said, filming a raccoon scampering across a lawn with his short, round body, long limbs and loping gait—the result of a rare congenital deformity called short spine syndrome. The woman named him Jimothy. The post went viral, and caused everyone in my city to lose their minds.
When I saw the video, I experienced what I thought was an appropriate amount of brief delight at an oddly shaped, scrappy animal creeping around like a cryptid. But mysterious forces seem determined to keep Seattle’s rare meme moment alive beyond its usual life expectancy. The Seattle Mariners will host a Jimothy night next week with novelty shirts and rookie cards. Seattle City Council members officially declared the next few months “Jimothy Summer,” and hosted a Jimothy art competition where the top masterpiece was put on display at City Hall. At the Seattle Art Fair, I saw a Jimothy painting on sale for $1,250 by an artist who is 83 years old. I keep finding myself an accidental participant in the Jimothy cultural production complex: on the same day I got roped into hosting a Jimothy-themed members’ social at my ceramics studio, Michelle asked me to go to a cursed Jimothy-themed party for Rave New World.
The Jimothy Rave took place last Sunday afternoon at Nectar Lounge, a live music venue not far from Jimothy’s known habitat. It was organized by What the Dance, a San Francisco-based event production outlet. Among their offerings: “CRASH THE COTTAGE: A BRATTY RIVALRY DANCE PARTY” and “PREVIOUSLY ON…THE NOSTALGIA SOUNDTRACK DANCE PARTY.” The Jimothy event description promised EDM, throwbacks, something called “raccooncore”— and that “LIFE-SIZED JIMOTHYS WILL BE ROAMING THE VENUE.” My husband optimistically suggested this could be a dog whistle for Seattle’s thriving furry community—would they come through? I bought a single ticket for $16.63, a dollar of which went to a wildlife rehab center.
As the party approached, I felt nervous about showing up alone and kept texting my Seattle raver friends, begging one of them to be my Virgil. “lmao” and “ew no” was the general response. Nobody wanted to spend their Sunday afternoon at a viral meme party listening to cheesy EDM and pop edits in a crowd that would probably skew normie and bro-y (fair). Some people I knew in the underground scene were actively against the concept of a “Jimothy-themed rave.”
One friend told me, when I met them at a bar on Friday night, that theme parties quash individual expression in favor of consumerism. “Sometimes the lowest hanging fruit is the most rotten,” they said, adding that Jimothy fans would likely exterminate Seattle’s short-spined mascot if they actually saw him in their backyards.
Maybe I was feeling defensive. Jimothy mania couldn’t be evil if I was participating in it! I also had a contrarian impulse to argue with my friends. Maybe they were just being elitist about EDM! Maybe there were opportunities here for earnest, stupid fun, which I realized sounded no more sophisticated than “LET PEOPLE ENJOY THINGS.” I told myself it would be better to go to the party alone. This way, I could wrap my paws around the event without my friends’ judgment.
On Sunday afternoon I went home after work and nibbled a weed edible before I showered. I bravely ingested about 2mg, which is a 3x higher dosage than I would usually take as a pathetically anxious, infrequent user, but I thought I should at least try to loosen up. Michelle told me that she would cover the cost of any chemical lubricants and that my assignment was to try to have fun.
