bernaerts veilinghuis, antwerp november 16th 2000



Let me start off be expressing my apologies to the millions of Rudy-fans out there who have been waiting for this review of what must be the Belgian social event of the century. I just got back from Las Vegas where my attorney and myself were wisely spending the "research money" Quinten had given us for this journalistic mission. The reason this review is about a month late is, well, good research takes some time. Just look at Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, you'll see what i mean. Or any of Tracy Lords' early work. Anyway back to the event.

Quinten had asked me wether I'd need a microphone or not, but I said I wouldn't need one because Rudy would definitely not be performing during his exhibition. "I won't need one because Rudy definitely won't be performing during his exhibition", I said. When I got there, the band was all set up to perform the performance of their performing career. I cursed Quinten for not giving me the recording equipment I repeatedly asked him for. But then, its his loss. Everybody was there, Tom Barman, Stef Carlens, Tom Barman, Andy Warhol, Britney Spears, and even Rudy Trouvé! And Tom Barman. Not Quinten, though. No, he was propably at home fetishising his precious audiorecording equipment. Like the time I caught him in his room naked with a [hose] waxing his [baseballhat] with a copy of [a-team pyjama's]. [Censored with random words by the editor] But never mind any of that. I was slowly strolling past the paintings on the wall in the exposition and decided to have a word with the artist himself, Rudy Trouvé! See, there was a reason to keep reading. Anyway, Rudy and myself are good friends, from way back in the Gulf war. We helped George Clooney steal back hundreds of microwave ovens and blenders from Saddam, which he is now selling in Antwerp on the Russian market. Ah, those were the days. I stepped closer to my old friend, but he didn't seem to recognise me. I said "hey, Rudy, how about saying hello to and old friend, you bastard" but he gave me a strange look, almost as if.....he was someone else! In fact, he was! I began to realise the truth - a conspiracy, a plot to replace the members of dEUS with intelligent cyborgs. I quickly drew my HK-47-PDW and fired a couple of rounds at the imposter. Had I known the evening would erupt into an orgiastic Covert Ops debacle, I'd have dressed in a saucy miniskirt and stilletto heals to properly obscure my identity. I rather like wearing that sort of thing anyway as it reminds me of what a real man I am. After a few moments of awkward silence, I realized that I was attempting to assisinate my favorite counter-cultural icon with a banana I removed from the hat of a nearby ambassador of some small tsi-tsi fly infested island country. "Jesus! What did you put in this punch you smug bastard!" I yelled at Rudy from afar. He gave me a sideways glance as if to say "How'r all you crazy cats and kittens doing tonight?" As a matter of fact, that's what he did say. "Dear god no!" I began to mumble incoherrently at that point, as Rudy seemed to be launching into his repetoir of Tom Jones tunes. "Where did you get tha polyester jumpsuit you starlette whore!" I yelled again. Rudy crecendoed out of his version of "She's a lady" as he walked towards me. He stopped suddenly. I could feel my heart climbing slowly up my throat, as he looked my way. He was...talking to me. "Hey brother, you really oughta learn to spread the love around." At this point he segued into a down tempo tune called "Spread the love around". I nearly died on the spot. Had I worn panties, I'm sure I would have been flinging them Rudy-wards at this point. But that's not what I was here for. I'm a reporter dammit! And I'm here to get some dirt. "Rudy! Are the cocaine rumors true?" As the words spilt forth from my mouth, a large hand grasped my abdomen from behind. Was this the end? Is Rudy putting his deathsquad on me? I began to think "I suppose life in a concentration camp won't be so bad." as I realized it was Quinten. He seemed very angry, and I wasn't sure why. Was I not a reporter? Was this not the mother of all scoops? Of course, what happened after that was a complete blur of finger nails and broken champaigne bottles. My starlit neon dreams crumbled before my very eyes and I was left to pick through the detritus for any scraps of journalistic integrity I had left.

The last thing I remember was sitting on the sidewalk in front of my house, quietly weeping. Was this the glitteratti I'd so strived for all of these years? I heard Quinten's voice say "Maybe you should take a cold shower buddy." as he tossed a few coins at my feet. I wondered if he wanted me to use a coin operated shower, but my thought process was interupted by something. Something called Tom Barman. He walked towards me in a way reminiscant of the grim specter of death stalking his next choking victem. "Hey kid. I saw what you did tonight. I must say, I like your moxy." he said to me. I tried to hold back the tears, but they came. I think a part of me wanted them to come. To show the world what it looked like on the inside of a person who's dreams have been smashed. I asked Tom, "Tom? Is life always this hard?" "Always, this hard." He said. And we embraced. fin.

by Jan van den Hemel and Byron Hussie