Screaming Planet

Where old bloggers come to die.

Pass The Glitter, Please

Posted on | October 15, 2009 | No Comments

scifi_logoNo excuses this time. Right beneath your window, burly muscle assembles wood, carpeting and floodlights into an impromptu black-carpet private affair, complete with bouncers, hostesses and those silly aluminum posts with bits of velvety rope strewn between them to herd the new arrivals in an orderly line. An innocent soul with the shit luck of having parked in the wrong spot at the wrong time has their freshly scrubbed Volvo towed to an unknown detention lot by the diabolical imps of the city parking “service”.

Familiar souls congregate before the entrance, trading jokes and typing furiously on their communicators before descending through the carpet-strewn portal. An hour into the affair, you stomp down from your elevated perch on the opposite side of the street, an odd figure, coatless in the near-freezing temperatures, past the bored muscle, straight into the welcoming smile of a familiar looking hostess (Am I supposed to know her? Who the hell is she? Why does she look so damn familiar? The strobing flash of recognition hitting you hours later – you occasionally share the same bus to work in the morning), with corporate-branded forehead furrowing amidst shifting silver-glitter gown folds as you mutter your affiliation, the esoteric password for entry into the magical realm of free drinks and The Schmooze.

Descending into the gray underworld, well known faces abound and the twisted night of awkward encounters is free to play its wild improvisations as confused paparazzi snap pictures of goggly-eyed nerds confused by the unfamiliar territory and sudden flashing intercepting them at the entrance. Good luck picking the celebrities out of that potage.

Wait, what? Celebrities?

Well, the concept twists and turns oddly during the evening. Who are the proper celebrities here? Who are the proper VIPs? The regular club crowd here for the drinks and an odd (Wednesday) night out? The glitterati, in their moderately haute couture mildly amused by the subject of the event and severely confused by the small throng of unfashionable eyewear sporters that have invaded their realm and are interfering with the already overtly hard work of being noticed amidst the silvery flashes of waiters with branded foreheads balancing trays brimming with glasses chock full of ice cubes. Or is it the gruff cabal of writers and writer wannabes, orbiting the focus of their universe, Notre-Dame de la Publication, silently observing the proceedings from behind the central slot of the impractically positioned concrete table-slabs, with the occasional snigger or snide comment shout-whispered in their neighbor’s ear. Or perhaps, could it be that there is a sweet spot, embodied in a singular chimeric figure of the fan who is also an author who is also a journalist who is also a blogger who is also a twitterer who is also a regular nightlife connoisseur?

Perhaps, or perhaps not, yet the night unfolds further, into an orgy of ill-planned incursions, a veritable clash of parallel universes with little in common, delivering no high drama as the genre is oft fond of imagining, but instead awkward pauses, people holding speeches none can or want to hear, yawn-inducing modern-dance interpretations of science fiction by people who can’t tell Star Trek from Star Wars in front of an audience that considers both to be light years beyond passé, the repetitive dull thump of promo jingles for failed shows attempting to brainwash through repetition those already annoyed beyond continence by repeat calls to tune in for such epic flops as Flash Gordon! on the very TV channel being promoted that everyone already discovered either through word-of-mouth or by pure chance during aimless channel-hopping sessions.

They can stop now. The intended audience is not interested. Double the dose of TNG and Futurama reruns sloshed amidst the regular B-movie fare and everyone will be happy. Really. All the brand! spanking! new! shows were downloaded way back when they first ran them across the Atlantic and no one was impressed enough to keep watching. Geography ain’t what it used to, and an entity calling itself Scifi (and thank Our Lord of Undead Resurrections that they have not expanded the vomitorial SyFy re-branding over here) should be the first to understand that this is the future, baby. Shit’s gone global faster than you can say transplanetarianism.

Onwards the show! The xmas-tree decoration dancer survives repeatedly banging herself against the swinging spotlights and various unforeseen structural supports, tangling and untangling among the struts held together by duct tape (a sweet nerdular touch if done intentionally, if not, a sure candidate for There, I Fixed It) and thereafter things rapidly disintegrate in a cloud of half-brained dance remixes and rhythmless attempts to bust a move by angular lads attempting to impress their escorts while the in-crowd sips their drinks, faces indistinguishably pasty-white for reasons entirely different that the nerd patrol, with “going out” being solely a vampiric after-dark activity reserved for smoke-filled underground bunkers where the music is too loud to talk yet too shyte to dance.

On your way to help a friend fetch a drink, you are lost in a series of increasingly eccentric orbits taking you further and further out until you are breathing fresh air, glittery silver confetti crunching under boot soles. Dreamy, but not surreal, the word you are looking for is definitely awkward. Good stuff, you think to yourself as the chill wind hits your sweaty scalp signaling its time to make like the atom and… you know.

Split.

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    Written in minutes and fact-checked in seconds via Google. May contain unsafe levels of self-righteousness. Past cleverness is no guarantee of future results.
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