Sunday, May 29, 2005

The Test Pattern Dance

Those girls at Latigo Flint's local nightclub establishment were completely unprepared for the raw passion and unbridled sexuality that is the Test Pattern Dance.

The rich, jaded beauties in this wretched, glorious City of Spanish Angels think they've seen every dance four limbs and a torso are capable of.

They don't know shit.

The digital children have never known the night-ending finality of a TV Test Pattern. They've never stood spread-eagle-naked in the color bar glare of a knob switched television as a steady droning tone screams out that any further entertainment must come wholly from them.

The digital children are accustomed to dancing with sampled, musical accompaniment - you're on your own when attempting the Test Pattern Dance. The digital children have only ever danced for fun - never to repel the demons of terminal boredom and Cribbage.

Latigo Flint locked eyes with that ancient DJ, Tunesmith Slappdyfunk. At 29 years of age, Tunesmith Slappdyfunk is a relic, a dinosaur, an analog ghost.

Latigo Flint spoke in his normal voice, low and cold. Tunesmith Slappdyfunk heard him perfectly, even from across a crowded, screaming floor.

(A true DJ always comprehends if you're saying something worth hearing. It's only the feebleminded, simpering nonsense that elicits a dismissive shrug.)

"Howdy there Slappdyfunk."

The pinky finger of Tunesmith's volume knob hand lifted and pointed directly at me. Tunesmith Slappdyfunk had never met Latigo Flint but he somehow knew me, and knew me well. Anything I said next would be heard.

"How's 'bout a little Test Pattern Dance there Tunesmith? A TPD one more time for me... I'm an analog ghost too you know."

There was a slight upward twitch in Tunesmith's cheeks (the DJ equivalent of uncontrollable laughter and joy). His left hand flashed and forty speakers fell silent. His right hand slid and a dozen giant monitors went black.

Hundreds of indignant, whiny cries were drowned out by the piercing, monotone of the TV Test Pattern. Seven basic colors blasted from the club's plasma screens, casting strange shadows on pretty, unwrinkled faces.

And in the sectioned half-light on a nightclub floor in a nation on the verge of forgetting its history, Latigo Flint began to dance.

(Of course I'd had a few or twenty too many beers, and fell flat on my face seven seconds in. The little hipster bastards threw me in the alley and went back to gyrating to the sounds of robots fucking, but that's neither here nor there and in no way devalues the story above.)


At 5:43 AM, Blogger The Macek Collective said...

Was this the original Test Pattern or the 12" remix?

At 10:19 AM, Blogger Cad Grublygold said...

Ya should have wowed those faggy little hipsters with that deadly little move called the Tomy Trout.

At 5:18 PM, Blogger OldHorsetailSnake said...

With your legs still movin' in time to the TPD, I guess you had no time to shuck leather. Too bad. Bastards have it coming.

At 9:37 PM, Blogger Ari said...

You make me giggle like Roscoe P. Coltrane with things like "the sounds of robots fucking."

At 10:44 AM, Blogger Frenzy Lohan said...

The sounds of robots fucking is probably my favorite album of 2005.

At 11:16 AM, Blogger Richard said...

The 2005 Sound of Robots Fucking CD was soooooo derivative and mainstream.

I stopped listening to them in 2003, when they signed a deal with the Sub-Sub-Sub-Pop record label. I mean, they totally sold out.

You were right to leave/get-thrown-out when you did, Latigo. Quickdraws don't need that kind of alt-rock-mainstream-radio crap.

At 3:27 PM, Blogger Lightning Bug's Butt said...

I'm picturing Richard Simmons with a six-gun on those Sweatin' to the Oldies.


At 5:41 PM, Blogger Gil The Carnie said...

Slappdyfunk. George Clinton masterbating?

At 10:32 PM, Blogger Kilroy Trout said...

I just copyrighted "Tunesmith Slappdyfunk", so please refrain from using it in future posts.

At 1:05 PM, Blogger Blog ho said...

you took one moment and made it yours. well done, mr. flint.

At 8:28 PM, Blogger Amandarama said...

And, I think the important thing to remember here is that the Test Pattern Dance should never, ever be confused with the Safety Dance. That's the kind of mistake that can get you shot.

At 11:53 PM, Blogger Latigo Flint said...

Howdy Macek - it was actually the 16:9 widescreen up-res version.

Ah, the Tomy Trout! My dear Grublygold, I don't believe those club patrons would have been able to handle the awesome power and presence that is the Tomy Trout!

Thank for commiserating Old Hoss - bouncing nose-first off the dance floor without any warning didn't help either.

And you make me chortle with references like Roscoe P. Coltrane, Ari.

I know it is Cara. That's why I name-dropped it on my famous internet journal.

Thank you Richard. That's exactly the way I felt. (Except with lots more bleeding and vomiting.)

Good God LBB!!! Why on earth would you ever want to picture that?! No, not even remotely.

Gil... uh, nevermind.

Kilroy, mighty fine to see you. Hey, that's no skin off my squinty eyelids but the man himself, valid birth certificate in hand, that does actually read: "Tunesmith Slappdyfunk" may have a big problem with it.

Thank you Ho. I have my windows - typically the two minutes between the 37th beer and accidental defecation.

Well see now Amandarama, there you go, that's absolutely right, I had forgotten that very point for a moment.

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