CASTING
CULT OF COOL
No other details. I thought: Clearly, if anybody is is going to
be cool
in Bruges, c'est moi. I am tres cool out here. Indeed,
the coolness
required was so intense they had to use English to describe it -- French,
and god forbid, Phlegmish would not do at all. I commented to
Alissa, the
Russkaya likewise trapped in Belgium, let's try out. I imagined myself
(wavy screen):
In American Bandstand-like surroundings...no, it would be like Sooouuul
Train, evrybody dancing to the latest hits on local-access cable.
In
fact, i would make sure the Cult of Cool would have a cool, train-motif
tv-show-beginning-part (whatever they call those things) -- a tip of
the
hat to the great tradition embodied by the likes of Don Whatsisname.
Pardo? no....
I would be surrounded by the blase blond Brugeois, busting cool moves.
Blinking red lights, a mirror ball, techno music thumping in the
background, with me in the center, showing them how we Americans invented
cool, and indeed, that we built this city on rock and roll. I would
wear
leather pants, and do airplane maneuvers a la Jim Morrison -- though
I
might lurch a little in emulation of Sabena, the national air carrier.
I
would have them put on the strobe and do cool Frankenstein-walk things.
Do the wave, Spanish style, but alone -- they might mistake me for
a
person imitating a coral polyp, but what do they know? Coolness
transcends confusion.
I would occasionally yield the camera to succulent Belgian women (if
they
could find any) who could, you know, stick their butt out or something
--
whatever makes Brugers happy. Occasionally I would wear a blue
contact
lens like Marilyn Manson and scare the hell out everybody to demonstrate
their lack of coolness, as well my large, concentrated industrial supply
of it. I would bring along my remaining broken arm painkillers and
rant
mildly anesthetized diatribes against the evils of, uh, record producers,
those bastards, and how they attempt to distract northern Europe from
its
manifest destiny of all techno, all the time.
Needless to say I would try to make the show live up to its name by
creating a cult of personality around myself. The uncool would
be
ostracized, like Rudolph in his early, unknown days; they would need
to
bring me offerings of lace and chocolate to regain my good graces.
I would
also bring in conga drums and every once in a while have one of the
dancers become possessed by Xango or any other (cool) African god.
They
would smoke cigars and tell viewers how cool I am. I would be
mercurial
and saturnine, dionysian and apollonian, plus begin a new philosphy
of
dialectical coolitarianism, to get tax benefits.
Pretty soon all Belgium will be tuned into the Kult of Kool, I would
have
brain-sucking spinoffs, imitating Seinfeld, though my show would consist
entirely of the mindless bass guitar transitions. Doubters will
be
pronounced uncool and exiled to Luxembourg where they will undergo
harsh
and repeated private banking. Under my spell, the European Union will
pass
laws protecting me from competition and eventually providing subsidies.
Thence I may engineer my appointment as EU Directorate General of Kulture
and stamp out opposition to my Reign of Techno by putting MSG in my
enemies' french fries....
Of course eventually I would be martyred by some loony Basques who like
the Gypsy Kings or something, singing Volare and going riki-tiki-riki-tiki
with castanets. And I would think, was it all worth it?
And think: yes,
Coolness Vincit Omnes, man....
But unfortunately I was feeling pretty sick that day and passed up on
it.
One just has to take the road less travelled by....
Until #2 (unless you protest),
Daniel
PS I am going to London over Spring Break I think, for my interview.
That's 22 March or so.