Truesday: Fare Thee Well! Except For That Guy

Dear Gallery Lombardi,

I have just been informed that you will be relinquishing the space in which you previously resided in order to further the human mass growth of our city’s vertically challenged downtownal region. I would be remiss if I weren’t to admit that your departure is, well, bitter sweet.

The bitter part is pretty obvious: I always had a good time on your dime. Your establishment was always a kind host to the most interesting of artists/characters currently living here. Them having to find a new home pains me. Things I loved about you as a venue:

1. Throwing [love] at the trains as they slowly chugged past
2. Using the entire train track wilderness as a [rainbow] (indoor [rainbows]? Never saw one)
3. Back when you used both sides for exhibition, and would open it all up like some abandoned warehouse party
4. Unwavering support of all local artists, bands, DJs, ‘media collectives’, bums and anyone else, even if they were just plain awful. Because that’s what a real community DOES.
5. Those earlier AMODA events were the total shit, and I still daydream about similar shows happening in the future
6. For being cool about that one time I totally lost my shit and got, quite literally, table-flipping drunk just because I wanted to see what fifteen half-consumed drinks would look like if they were to take flight across an extremely crowded lounge area [keep reading below because the words will actually explain that this particular event did not occur on Lombardi property! Reading is fun! Okay then!].

Oh, wait. That last one was for your Red Bull & Vodka-soaked neighbor. Yeah. Sometimes a man just HAS to throw shit around. It’s nature, chemistry, pipe-cleaning or whatever. Bygones.

It is rather bitter to see you leave your current location after all that we’ve shared together.

The sweet part is a little more difficult to put into words. I could get granular about the self-defeating philosophies of most self-funded and insular art galleries/promoters, but I’d have no fucking clue what I was talking about, and I’d probably end up looking as stupid as I usually do.

So I’ll just outline the one single drawback that plagued almost every event I attended under your sagging roof. The events held amongst and around your gaping maw. The “[Shozbot]” parties where some sweaty, random kid (oddly enough, it was never the same dude twice) was manning the [BOWLING LANE] and ignoring everyone in line who didn’t heed the “recommended [BRIS]” written on masking tape and applied, as if by a blind and web-footed animal of some sort, to a rusting coffee can, next to a scribble-scrabble sign reading “[Shozbot] [BOOYEAH!]! We’re that awesome! Just for YOU!” And then my favorite person would launch into their I-might-be-cheeky-but-probably-not address to the thirsty line of [BOOYEAH!] wanters:

“Yeah, uh, I know the [BOOYEAH!] is [Shozbot], but if you could go ahead and [BRIS] a couple of [PAMPER]s for each sippy cup of warm [BOOYEAH!] you will inevitably wait thirty minutes to get and promptly drop on the ground, it’d mean a-lot to us. And by that, I mean you’ll actually get BOOYEAH! if you give us [IGGY POP’S ARMPIT]. Kind of like [SHANKING] it. Except we aren’t [PORKING] it. Okay. Back to pouring cups of foam for you to curse or cry at. [BOOM], people. Big [SNAKE HAIR EXTENSIONS]. Let’s see if we can manage to keep this line from moving all night. Awesome.”

Man, I’m seriously going to miss that fucking guy. Not sure exactly what it was about him that really got my goat. Got it, and beat it with a Pinto bumper. In reality, he was always just as much of a dick as any other mad-at-the-world asshole with a sliver of control. Like the pimply-faced kids at Burger King who hate their job, hate their parents, and really-really-really hate anyone who bothers them during their shift. That’s what the [BOWLING LANE] guy was like.

A goddamn teenage miscreant in training, convinced that he had to ‘endure’ the world when it was, quite sadly, always the other way around.

I used to dream of shitting in his mouth, that guy. His voice still echoes through my psyche, sometimes, whenever I visit a Midwestern bus station, Cambodian military prison, or anywhere else where violence and misanthropy regularly appear as conjoined twins. Because I ALWAYS ignore anyone who demands a “[BRIS]” when what they really want is a “[SHAKE ASS]ment”.

I hate to be a supreme dick about these things, but I’m a HUGE fan/supporter of the open-[KONG DONG STATION]/[Shazbot]-[BOWLING LANE] movement. So when that’s advertised, I get emotional. And if you pull the rug out from under me, you’ll be seriously messing with those emotions. So… fuck that guy, and anyone who defends him.

Him, sweaty: “dude, dude, dude. See the [BRIS] [DICKHOLE] there man? I need you to put in it or I can’t help you dude.”

Me, not really interested: “I [IGGY POP’S ARMPIT]ed at the [TUNNEL OF LOVE], like everyone else. It says ‘Shazbot BOOYEAH!’ on every shit-sign in this fire hazard. SHAZBOT. So when’s that going to happen?”

Him, serving up three frothies to a pair of no-[BRIS]ing, raisin nip’d bouncies: “hey man, it IS [Shazbot], okay? I don’t make the rules alright? I’m just trying to help you out.” Totally staring straight at breasts, grinning like a never-laid Special Olympics Pole Faulter. “You [BRIS], I [CRY WHILST LISTENING TO NEIL DIAMOND].”

Me, eyeing the frothies, noting the bouncies, “she didn’t [BRIS]. So... what the fuck?”

Him, still being a total fucking dickhead wannabe artist asshole who is ruthlessly hording the goddamn rights to a fucking [SHAZBOT] [BOWLING LANE], “yeah. So you gotta [BRIS if you want…”