The Ghosts of Last Chance Cafe
The name alone had me going, but I must admit the up-front offerings at the site were a bit disappointing, way too courant and mainstream. But then -- the single greatest thing I've read recently was in the boilerplate of the "Custom" section at The Tijuana Black Velvet Painting Galleries of Indignico Inc, which seems to be the MicroSoft, or pehraps the WalMart of velvetry. Here is the purple promise:
And every one of these paintings in this photo set that was not commissioned by Indignico Inc. for its own proprietary corporate purposes was commissioned by ordinary average everyday folks from the internet--people just like yourselves--for reasons only they know, who thought it well worth $250 to $1250 to have their very own personal idea envelvetized for all time by an authentic, professional Mexican Velvet Elvis Artist carefully selected from the galleries and tiendas of Tijuana and then relentlessly driven onward by the kind, nurturing guidance of a trained Indignico Inc. Curator-Of-Sales.
I think there must be others places with better collections, and surely the best are to be had in some dusty brick-and-mortar 'galleries' along the forgotten kudzued byways of Dixie; indeed, in terms of average abomination, the 'Tijuana Gallery' is a pale reflection of the Williamsburg Pottery Factory’s once-great Velvet Valhalla. Still, Tijuana's "Custom" section shines. What a line-up: Phil Spector, Batboy, Jon Benet, Condi, and "Vice President Dick Cheney's Good Friend and Hunting Buddy Mr. Harry Whittington." Fuckinay -- as we usedta say in Newp't News.
I myself have had a truly, deeply, meaningful experience with envelveted heroes, one which, unlike many of my peak experiences, was easily replicable, with witnesses for verification. In fact, one Michael B., pround owner of this pricelessly precious objet, once (long, long before he met his present wife) accompanied me on a research mission to measure the phenomenon and so can also attest to its transcendent transcendentalism.
Some years ago I lived in south Richmond, a place about which Tom Robbins famously opined, "...there are land mines more tender, cans of dog-food more splendiferous." Smack at the rectal epicenter of south Richmond was the Last Chance Cafe, poetically situated on the aptly named Belt Boulevard, among check-cashing establisments, rent-to-own emporia, thrift stores, chop-shops, Baptist Basilicas and other bottomfeeding enteprises. (Just to give you the flavor of the area: I once witnessed a high-speed police chase that ended, at the liquor store across from Last Chance, when a state trooper, returning fire, shot the fugitive redneck pistolero through the heart.)
The Last Chance Cafe was sort of an oasis, more a Temple of Terpsichore than actual eatery. I would not have ventured in for the lunch special (hot dog and a Budweiser: $3.00), but, at the time I was tending bar in another establishment, the manager of which was well acquainted with many of the svelte yet somehow world-weary gals employed at Last Chance. Apropos the gals who'd been drinking and talking to him at my bar he suggested I go check the place out "at shift-change" and provided such a colorful description of the transition that I soon took his advice.
At about 6 on a Friday afternoon the dancers going off from the day shift, and the dancers coming on for the night, would (all ten or twelve) mount the mirrored runway in their diaphanous costumes and towering heels and dance rather listlessly (because in this one instance, they were not to be the center of attention) as the disc jockey played a spirited rendition of Dixie. All the patrons rose, doffed their Harley caps and put hands over heart as we all (woe unto anyone who failed in this) faced, on the south wall of course, spotlighted velvet portraits of Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee. Meanwhile, shining dots from the mirror-ball flashed off the brass poles and crawled hypnotically over the lot of us, through the smoke, through our drinks, through the dancer's gossamer tops. It was...unique in my experience.
It occurs to me now, that Tijuana Gallery's aptly snarking motto, 'From scary clowns to Republican Presidents,' catches a good bit of that Last Chance weltschmaltz, that way, and the spirit in which, the ass-clowns of the Reich-wing will someday worship their envelvetized heroes.
(Thanks to Greg L. for further field research towards this study.)
posted by Kalkaino at 8:08 AM
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