The club Zoo has opened. At least, I think it’s a club. And I think it’s called Zoo. And, yeah, you guessed it, I think it has opened.
All that I can be certain of is that on Saturday night, there was a loud group of people milling about in front of the decrepit apartment building across from my home, and that, as of a few weeks ago, painted in big white, block letters on the front wall of the building is the word ZOO.
When my wife and I moved into our apartment 21 1/42 years ago, we were hoping that businesses would soon take over and spruce up some of the rundown buildings that surround us. But when peering at Zoo from the inside of our enclosed courtyard, my wife and I were not happy.
I guess we’d been secretly hoping for something a tad more upscale to open, you know, like a place that could afford a sign.
My wife and I crossed the street to investigate. Gina did the initial talking, as my personality combines the arrogance of a typical male who doesn’t like to ask strangers for helpful information and the timidity of a 7-year-old who’s being home-schooled.
“What’s going on here tonight?” Gina asked a scruffy, gangly guy waiting to get in the building.
“Ska show,” the guy replied.
Ouch, so Zoo is a ska club. It would have been better if the place was an actual zoo, I thought to myself. And if it had to be a club, why couldn’t it have featured different music? You see, I recently turned 30, and on my birthday, several people took me aside and told me that, while I was by no means old, I would have to start getting serious about regarding suburban white-boy ska as silly.
Meanwhile, this was also one of those times when I knew exactly what my wife was thinking.
She was, I was certain, busily reciting to herself the positive spin she’d give this new neighborhood development should we ever decide to sell our place: “And the best part of living here is that on Saturday nights, you can open the windows and enjoy the sweet sounds of the most exciting ska bands out of Glenview.”
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But she then gathered herself together and pressed on in her inquiry. “So, is this a regular venue now?”
“Dunno, I’m from out of town,” the fellow replied.
I astutely, or, as my wife would later comment, pathetically became concerned that we weren’t exactly coming across very well with this fellow. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: If there’s one thing scruffy, gangly out-of-towners waiting to enter a signless ska club across from your apartment are good at, it’s making you feel uptight.
So, to rectify the situation, I added these two magical words to the conversation: “Very cool.”
Given how convincing I sounded, I might as well have said, “Well, the Mrs. and I are going to grab some tapas at this cute little place we read about in Chicago magazine, but if you fellows are still playing your tunes at 9:30 p.m., we might just check it out.”
Still, I don’t mean to imply that I think I was actually being uptight, or that I should be immediately shipped off to the suburbs for praying that my block soon return to its former ska-less state. No, I maintain that it’s possible to hold onto one’s urban credibility and look unfavorably on Zoo.
And so, I have vowed to win the fight against Zoo.
Beginning this Saturday, I am opening my apartment up as a ska club. My only hope is to drive Zoo out of business and then immediately shut my club’s doors. If you are in a bad, loud, suburban ska band, please contact me as soon as possible.
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