We at the Guardian spend a lot of time making enemies.
Granted, much of the hate mail and evil eyes are fired out of misinterpretation: No, we do not hate the Grove, just its paternal neglect; Yes, we understand the Koala must cater to a horny, immature demographic, just selfishly wish it would cater to us instead; No, we do not want the A.S. candidates to die a slow, painful death, just hold them to a standard of legitimacy that should be demanded of anyone looking to take on that kind of responsibility. And salary. And parking spot.
OK, so we also get wildly bitter up here, hacking away at an unread, dead-broke rag on fucked-up computers that smell like Hi Thai. Especially when ‘mdash; thanks our hilarious newspaper neighbors down the way ‘mdash; we can’t even get into the second-story bathroom, three hours and pussy-ass Rockstars past deadline. Thus, oftentimes taking the critic’s cap a little ‘mdash; way ‘mdash; too seriously.
Case in point: the Loft. I personally have developed a sinister, death-wishing undersneer throughout previews for concerts at the Loft that trap-doors every complement I do manage to squeak out. Too sterile. Corporate decor. Cafeteria seating. Over-eclectic (yikes ‘mdash; that must have been a long night). Since basically every concert worth previewing is held at the Loft now, I’m of course even more bitter about having to cater to a single venue, and do everything within my name-calling powers to avoid becoming your everyday brochure-blurb noodle.
Which essentially makes me no better than a 2-year-old who wants her teddy bear to be missing an eye before she’s bothered to drag it along the sidewalk a block or two. It’s right time I Frisbeed some long-deserved props to that ArtPower!-born venue-ling down in the scary airport part of Price Center. Because I mean, compared to those old Mandeville quintet snores, this shit is ebonics.
And what I mean to say is: Sorry, Loft. I fucking love you.
Wow. So seeing as I’m being so gosh-darn mature all of a sudden, I’d like to ask the same of the other butt of my almost-fifth-year fury: the A.S. Council, and specifically A.S. Programming (soon to be known as A.S. Concerts and Events, praise be Allah).
As long as I’m sucking enemy toes here, I should say that Garrett Berg and the gang really stepped up to the Sun God plate this year. We may not get day stages and uncontested slip ‘n’ slides just yet ‘mdash; savin’ all that for 2010, right, Gupta? ‘mdash; but N.E.R.D. and Girl Talk? The Cool Kids? Holy shit. This is good. Not just good in the way T.I. and Third Eye Blind were good ‘mdash; like, pop some E and revel in nostalgia and ridiculousness good ‘mdash; but creepy good, like I might even have less fun because I’m hushing the debauchery to listen good. (Do note, however, that I haven’t mentioned Iron and Wine.)
But earlier this year ‘mdash; in fear their student-fee referendum (to make up for greedy student orgs and funding oversights) wouldn’t pass, raining on the potential awesomeness of Berg’s Sun God before it could come to fruition ‘mdash; the A.S. Council did something unforgivable. They didn’t let the Loft onto the referendum. Just in case, they defended, students wouldn’t want to shell out $3 without getting some sort of Loft oversight.
Like students know what oversight is. Or
have any shadow of it concerning the other $2,800.
Meanwhile, A.S. Programming still uses the space for their own concerts ‘mdash; and great things happen. The No Age show was kick-ass, if kind of short, but it made one thing clear: We should all be in this together. Penny Rue was quoted as saying the university would never let the Loft die; however, that might mean chancellor brunches and ‘vine’ tastings until we get all pruney and beg for finals week. If we want the Loft to continue as is, sticking with the ‘pay as you can’ option, it’s time to throw down.
And paying as you can is really fucking crazy if you think about it. I’m paying $100 to go to Coachella this Friday when I could basically enjoy a free, week-long Coachella five minutes from my last class, any week of the year (albeit, sans Leonard Cohen. Then again, plus Jens Lekman).
So when the Loft crawls back for help from the new A.S. Council come inaugeration, there better be no fucking question in anybody’s mind. And that goes for you too, apathetic third-year. You should feel honored to shell out $3 a quarter for the Loft.
Oh, and uh, shout-out to the Che Cafe. Don’t hate me. You’re next.