Madison’s glitterati were in full regalia on Saturday night for the Madison Art Center’s Last Blast. Commemorating the Center’s past and future, several hundred artists, art aficionados, patrons and matrons danced the night away to the sounds of DJ Nick Nice. I can’t be certain, but there may have been some guy doing the funky chicken. It was far too fluid to be the robot.

Before the swing of the wrecking ball, this was a chance to come together one last time within the familiar white walls. Come springtime, this end of the Overture block, along with the shells of Radical Rye and Madison Masala, will be smashed to smithereens, so that a brand new Madison Art Center can rise like a phoenix from the rubble. There was an exhaustive set of architectural drawings on display for the new Center. I am pleased to report that the HVAC systems will be more than adequate.

I was at the previous Last Blast a few years ago, on the other end of the Overture block in the old bank building before construction commenced on Overture’s massive concert hall, and that Last Blast had drag queens. This one didn’t. Unless they were really good.

The center provided a fabulous spread, filled with foods to make Jaime Cohen’s mouth water. There were meatballs, chicken on sticks, and these little pastry things filled with stuff. There was also a massive pile of fruit. I ate a lot of pineapple from the aforementioned pile. This was also the first time I ever had biscotti, and it was pretty good.

Buckets of markers were provided for partygoers to fill in empty frames attached to the gallery walls. It was only a matter of time before entire walls were filled with fluorescent ink. This crowd does not color within the lines. “This is so much fun,” this one girl said. “The only thing I like more than markers is drawing with markers.” You are so right, girl. Many of the markers were provided by Meriter hospital, which is where marker users could expect to find themselves if said markers were used contrary to manufacturer’s intent. Hey those are for drawing!

I saw this one guy write “BUSH = SATAN” on the wall, and then another guy came and wrote a “P” and an “R” so that it said “BUSH = SPARTAN,” and then the first guy came back, saw the change, pointed at some onlookers while shouting “Hey!”, crossed out the added letters and left. Then a third guy walked up, changed the second “A” to an “I,” and wrote “Sheets” underneath. “BUSH = SATIN SHEETS.” I think that was very elegant.

Hey, who else likes automatic paper towel dispensers? Coupled with automatic urinals, automatic faucets and automatic soap thingies, the public restroom experience is almost completely automated. Almost.

Fortunately for the artists, there were enough mobile bar units (MBUs) scattered strategically throughout the three floors of the Center to give PACE a collective heart attack. The drink of the night was the Last Blastini, which featured some kind of blue booze and a cocktail onion. It tasted like burning. But the able bartenders also served up some stiff mixed drinks, which were much appreciated by the old people there, as well as a certain raccoon.

There was this one lady who was wearing a bag for a hat. She asked me the time. I replied, “Time for you to buy a watch.” That was a good one.

What would the Center be without a grand installation? The bill was filled by FIELDWORK, furnishing works hinting at the museum’s past, its many collections and its imminent demise. People drew all over this stuff, too. In fact, by the end of the night, there was nary a hand free of marker residue.

There was also a small auditorium with some sort of slide show. It was mostly Renoir paintings and racecar drivers. Oh, oh, and naked chicks, which are a central theme of art. There were also puppies. Everybody likes puppies. Almost as much as automatic paper towel dispensers. To the left was this dark room with black lights. I don’t know what was going on in there, but I thought I was at a basement house party on Mifflin Street, minus the smell of stale beer.

All too soon, the night drew to a close and it was time to bid adieu to the fated gallery. Goodbye, dear friend! Perhaps we will again say hello before not too long, though we may not recognize each other! I will be wearing a hat.