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Wednesday, July 20, 2005
They Wrap Horses in Pastels, Don't They?
The phone rang. It was Mr. Loaf.
 MR. LOAF: Hey buddy, how's it hangin'? You still rockin'?
BLAMB: I never rocked. You know that.
MR. LOAF: Just being polite.
BLAMB: Hi, Mr. Loaf.
MR. LOAF: I haven't talked to you guys in ages. Been reading your blog, can't wait to find out what happened in Paris. How's things, buddy? What are you up to?
BLAMB: I visited the Spoke Club, tonight (RobotJohnny was there, too). That might be a place you'd be interested in.
 MR. LOAF: What is it?
BLAMB: It's a private, invite-only club for the city's arts and media crowd. "Celebrities" and people like that. I think they offer memberships to out-of-towners. You'd like it.
MR. LOAF: Would I?
BLAMB: Yeah, it seems to be geared towards Boomers. I saw a few members and they were variations of the same white-haired, khaki Dockers and pastel-coloured-shirt-wearing man. They must enforce a dress code that matches their website.
MR. LOAF: That's not me.
BLAMB: That's who you became as soon as you sang that, "Sex, drums and rock n' roll." line.
MR. LOAF: Aren't you ever gonna fuckin' let that drop? So I switched the lyric, what's the big deal?
BLAMB: On the other song you sang that you're not "politically correct" and then you ...
 MR. LOAF: I KNOW! I FUCKING KNOW! YOU'VE WRITTEN ABOUT IT ON YOUR BLOG TEN MILLION TIMES ALREADY! JUST DROP IT!
[ silence ]
MR. LOAF: You still there?
BLAMB: Yeah.
MR. LOAF: Okay, tell me more about this stupid club. What's it like inside?
BLAMB: Well, the parts I saw looked a little 'Forest Hill cheap'. The interior design was fighting the building instead of embracing it. Too much white paint and ugly hipster furniture, not enough wood. There were also some crazy chandeliers and bad, white plexiglass "art". Before it was the Spoke, it was the offices of Infinet Communications where Merv worked. Back then it was comfortable, spartan loft space.
MR. LOAF: And you think that would appeal to me?
BLAMB: I dunno, you celebrity big shots like some pretty weird shit. I went to a party at some swanky club a few months ago and there was a group of slick bouncers watching the door and they greeted you in an extra-polite -- almost grovelling -- manner and you could tell that they'd been trained to be obsequious to cater to the coke-fueled egos of the club's regular patrons. It may make you feel like a bigshot, but it creeped me out.
 MR. LOAF: Hey buddy, I'm the real deal.
BLAMB: You celebs get a taste for grovelling and like it.
MR. LOAF: Whatever. You think you know shit, but you know what shit you know? You know no shit. That's what shit you know. Tell me more about this club.
BLAMB: We were in the library room. If I was part of their target demographic and had a tour of the place, I'd walk out as soon as I saw the "library". You'd think that a library would be the central feature in a club for the arts and letters crowd, but their bookshelves were an afterthought.
MR. LOAF: Get out, buddy. What were they like?
BLAMB: If it were a section in a bookstore, it would be called the "Baby Boomer Fatigue" section. It was just a tired, bland selection without any character. It was like a bunch of books gathered up from their members' attics. And they didn't have any sci-fi. The newest book I spotted was Barrel Fever. You know when that was popular?
MR. LOAF: No.
BLAMB: 1995.
MR. LOAF: You saw the bookshelves of your country's "cultural elite".
BLAMB: In this case, the elite who organized this joint are a lawyer and a guy who runs a grocery chain ... so really, it's not a big surprise. Who knows, maybe they have another library besides the library.
MR. LOAF: I still think I'll sign up.
BLAMB: Yeah, I'm shocked.
MR. LOAF: Last time I was in your city, I wound up sleeping on your floor and sitting around in a community centre playing cards with Quon'dar and a bunch of WWII vets. If I sign up for this, I can avoid the riff raff and hang there during the day!
BLAMB: You know, if people want to start little private clubs and do their own thing, that's fine with me. But don't try to tell me that this club is for the "cultural elite", cause it's not, it's a place for the "culturally stagnant". It's cheesy at best, at worst it's a place set up by rich kids hoping some "culture" will rub off on them without having to get their hands dirty. The place is a parody of "culture". Culture does not happen in a sterile, pastel clean-room.
MR. LOAF: I wrote Paradise by the Dashboard Light in a gritty, stinking hole!
1:20 PM
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