Raiijacht Potlach Bastardson is not a moniker easily spoken, yet once you learn the rhythm and cadence, you find yourself saying it at the oddest times, just for the joyous fun of it. It's very much like her music; whimsical and poppy and confusing and frightening, yet hopelessly catchy.

Raiijacht herself prefers that her name not be spoken. She'd rather contemporaries and acolytes alike address her by whatever name they choose. One minute she might be Linda or PoopAss or Meth Rules... the next... Economy Bias Ply.

We're meeting in the formal restaurant of one of London's poshest and most staid grand hotels. Surprisingly, it was her choice. She loves to voyage to fresh realms, to experience the stimulating ripple which spreads through a room when she single-handedly conquers "unsuitable" territory, be it the opera or a Philadelphia crack house.

"I'm waiting to interview a famous singer!" I shout a smidge too loudly in the ear of the octigeniaric waiter who hovers uncertainly, unable to absorb the impact of my fuchsia and teal stippled, totally of-the-minute Steven Horchowskis. "I'm very nervous and I may have to urinate. Wait!! Here she is now!" I catch my first glimpse of the woman herself, or rather, a gawk of a glimpse. Her rarefied nature explodes from within, swaddling her in effulgent light beams and ethereal glitter dust.

Plus, she appears to be ensconced in a large, shiny plastic bag of some sort. Could it be a dry cleaning bag? The type we're not supposed to allow children to play with (but all secretly do?)

If so, what a daringly astute statement!

But why is the room so unfazed? Why aren't the assembled gray-haired stalwarts aflutter with cries of "It's just not done!" and other protestations suitable for the helplessly boring to utter when faced with such an incredible, incandescent, yet semi-unrecognized super-star.

"Oh. It's you," mutters the waiter as She stumbles into her chair and pokes her head from her bag, grinning and emitting her signature trilling wail.

"Don't be making that noise again young lady," the waiter snaps.

"You've broken enough crystal! I'll get you your usual." She pouts expressively, then attempts to execute a defiant modern dance step, but the bag is confining and unyielding. "I understand," I whisper. "That bag is a symbol. Or is it an homage?"

"Wha wif u caweeeee? Oh waf wif?" she sings.

An elderly woman across from us rolls her eyes. Then she yanks a tiny pair of solid gold scissors from her crocodile-skin "Bert and Ernie" Engagre bag and snips off a corner of a clean, white napkin and stuffs it in her ear.

"Oh waf NAMDE?"

"I'm going to call you evian, but with a small e. It's also an homage."

evian tilts her head rakishly, and stands upright, emerging gloriously from her ersatz cocoon.

The innovatrix who never disappoints with her breathtakingly keen sense of what is absolutely right... has done it yet again.

Her dress, composed entirely of ham sandwiches, is the cut and the shape of the moment before the moment. You're reading it here, now: ham sandwiches are the new black. evian is a post-modern checkerboard of pumpernickel and sourdough; with pink meat peaking almost sexually from between sliced bread. On her feet are a pair of Peet Flieg De Groots that the rest of the universe can't even get on the wait list for. Her purse is a silver-painted bike tire, thrown casually over her shoulder and holding the barest of necessities... classic red lipstick, clarified butter, a lump of coal, 47 Regular tampons, and a magic marker. "Because it is magic!" she exclaims in her charming, broken English. It's all too much, in other words, perfect.

The waiter appears with tomato aspic and a straw, which evian pokes into her hair. The discarded plastic wrapping comes in handy when she decides to wear the aspic as well. Is there nothing this creature won't do for her art?

But something is amiss. She throws her head back, her eyes flashing almost ferally, the first sign of that famous artistic temperament that is at once cherished and feared. As she opens her mouth, patrons and waitstaff alike scramble for the exits.

"Ayyyyyyyiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

First, a water glass disintegrates... and then...

When I finally recovered, the dining room was deserted. Sadly, the minute for my totally of-the-minute Steven Horchowskis had passed.

I still don't understand her... but since no one seems to understand her, I will learn to pretend that I understand her. It's what she'd expect me to do. First, I must get on the wait list for those shoes.

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