Depeche Mode at Salsa Bar

Why do guys invariably start sniggering when I offer to show them a photo of my cat? Friday night, whilst out in Soho, I asked the members of Depeche Mode if they would like to see a photo of my cat; they reacted the exact same way an IT systems admin guy did earlier in the evening: waves of hope and alarm, increasing in amplitude until at last they saw the photo -- then, laughter. The lead singer and the lyricist reacted in this manner; the third band member (I called him supercilious, but I don't think he knew what it meant and took it as a compliment) said he didn't understand: "You're saying this is art?"

"No, it's my cat."

"You mean it's representational reality?"

"No...it's my cat."

He stared at it awhile longer, then gave the phone back to me: "I'm not interested in representational reality. I'm an artist." Then, after a further pause, "You've got great tits. Can I feel your ass?"

I'd gone up to them earlier on when I was guessing people's professions. I asked them, "Are you guys on the radio?" They looked like they'd been kept in a dark place for a long time, albeit with regular facials and the occasional visit to a tanning booth. The two blonde guys had hair that had not faded with their years; it was golden. (Perhaps this attention to grooming led them to later leave off my ass and boobs and compliment most enthusiastically my hair.)

The lyricist said, "No. But we were in an '80s band."

I thought they said bank, but I couldn't think of any one in particular -- I was trying to think of the savings and loan George Bush's brother ran into the ground -- so asked them which one.

"Depeche Mode."

All I could think of was that dreadful song, People are People. I didn't really believe them, though it would've been a strange charade. I chatted awhile longer, then went back to my friend, Marko, and said, "Get this: they're saying they're in Depeche Mode."

"They are! I recognize them! Get back there!" And he shoved me back into their midst, where I didn't really want to be. I still didn't really believe it, until a couple women came up for autographs. They seemed bored with this, and I commiserated: "I know how you feel."

"You do?"

"Yes, I'm a female computer programmer. It's the same thing, really. Especially at conferences."

The singer, lyricist and I all ended up dancing together at the bar. That was fun -- they were great dancers. The singer was wearing a green-bead necklace and his shirt was unbuttoned to expose it. He reminded me vaguely of someone who makes regular trips to Thailand; I've since been told that's the way he is on stage. Except for his going on about my ass and eyes and hair, like I was a horse, he seemed nice enough, but louche. The lyricist seemed more interesting, if only because his pink and white striped shirt was buttoned all the way up, so he really did look like a banker...though lacking the hunted air so many have assumed lately. I don't even remember his name. After admitting I'd never listened to their music, preferring the Carpenters and the Pixies in that era (he nodded sadly, as if I'd said something sensible: "Karen Carpenter had a beautiful voice"), I attempted to compliment him on the popularity of his lyrics. He laughed bitterly. "I'm no Wordsworth or Keats."

Eventually, their 25 year old manager made himself too annoying and I skedaddled. (He kept talking about a "bitch" who had turned her back on him when he tried to chat her up. "No one turns their back on me!" As he told me that, I turned my back on him, which cracked up various others, but not him.)

Before I left, I wrote down the title of my favorite book, "Dance to the Music of Time," and gave it to the lyricist. He said he'd never heard of it. When I told him it was the British version of Proust, he looked confused...it was the first time I saw him with an unguarded expression. (Though earlier on, I noted the peaceful, almost joyous look all three had as they surveyed the bar...as if they owned the place, really, and were in no fear their wife was sleeping with the head waiter.)