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Stumbling
through a plethora of litter-strewn psychescopic neon curryhouses,
pool halls and off-licenses in Brick Lane, I finally came across
the venue. The map was crap, I'd tossed it into a pile of discarded,
week-old club fliers a couple of blocks behind me, and found directions
from a kindly hairdresser.
This
is it, I thought, a Web journalist's dream. It was a phenomenon
I'd imagined had died out months ago, after the tech-stocks crisis,
after Boo.com (the first one), an untimely demise wrought through
a realisation across the New Media Industry that substance, and
not market-spend was the key to success.
But
here it was. I flashed my press card, and the tuxedoed bouncer pulled
back the red cord and let me through, flashing a grin as I walked
past. The music blaring through the corridor, stretching out beside
the devastatingly beautiful coat-check girl, drew me in past a scantily-clad
waiter offering champagne and cocktails.
I was
inside. I thought I'd seen my last; a tear of nostalgia ran down
my cheek as I tried to discern the meaning behind this event. Looking
up I saw a laser display that made the ceiling breathe, supermodels
were rubbing shoulders with celebrity DJs and in the corner, a pin-up
film star was shyly agreeing to autograph a short woman's breasts.
A silence
cut through the air like a razor blade through a gram of cocaine.
The lights came up to reveal the obligatory CEO's speech. It was
over in minutes but left a bitter taste in my mouth; I realised
this wasn't heaven but merely a launch party for a new Internet
venture.
The
sheer cost of what I saw around me made my mind meander. It came
to a parting in a forest, and went down both roads. Down the first
a voice illuminated a rosy future for consumer-facing e-commerce
in 2001, a flurry of IPOs flew around my head on golden wings. Down
the second path a stern voice snapped me back into reality, "Stop
fooling yourself. You know where this one's going. They've flushed
their cash to create a brand, holding promises they don't have the
technical ability to fulfill."
The
words echoed as I placed my champagne glass on an elaborately constructed,
amorphous, yellow furry table, and left.
Copyright
© 2000 Bryan Porter. All Rights Reserved.
Bryan Porter is a London-based journalist for Internet marketing
and the e-commerce magazine New Media Age. Born in South Africa
in 1977, Bryan has explored the potential of the Internet on both
halves of the globe. Email Bryan at party_reborn@yahoo.com.
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