Contemporary gentlemen

We were convinced the cab driver was swindling me. I’d flagged one down outside Gangnam station but the direction taken felt lost and far away. I passed my cell to the cabbie to speak Korean to an accomplice, and the car came to a screeching halt.

My cell phone rang and I was told to turn around and wave. I’d made it to the right place. Around the corner was Platoon Kunsthalle, a German gallery constructed out of old shipping containers, with a mandate to let the city of Seoul come to it.

Inside we spun up the stairs and into a performance piece, some women’s prison modeling contest, a comment on how reality TV has twisted its knife up into the cunt of our culture.

Outside on the balcony a glassed boy in a bow tie complained he’d been promised drag queens and had only seen but one. That’s when the heels started to click. One Beyonce, a raging redhead, and a leopard print brunette fought for the silver spotlight, strutting down the makeshift runway to pop songs playing in their heads.

The shining eye closed to blackness bursting music on the floor. We shook to the beat, then towards the exit, to another song, another club, another cab, another party. On and on until our legs and arms ached for bed.