| dewy decimal |
2003-10-06 - 4:20 a.m.
Rebel Rebel is a party that boasts, "The only Indie Club in Hawaii," quite a bold statement, me thinks. When me, Vanz and Ara get there, I feel the edge of sobriety, and the displaced rigidness of not yet having found my place within the crowd.
But then I see Min and she gives me a deep hug and whispers, "My favorite," and I feel lucky to be the one who Mindy is happiest to see. She bites me on my shoulder like a teething pup, and without outwarldly showing so, I am charmed and dance triple-hard.
I am wearing a thin, white V-neck T-shirt which droops to the epicenter of my chest, dazzling the masses with my skinny-boy-clevage. Garlands of gold chains sweep the triangle of skin that is contained by the massive V, because I'm dancing berzerk, and Mr.fancy pants is hanging in the closet, starched like a YSL suit tonight.
There is a huge, red, plastic fan standing 4 feet tall in the corner. Its' sheer size invites us to do a Beyonc� dance move in front of it. But upon arriving at the fan, (which is resembling an oversized hamster wheel) we only get a lazy, spit-warm blow that disappoints.
I see Astra in one of her signature polka dot dresses, looking like a cute, ethnic Bjork, sitting on the Korean bar couches that are flush to the mirrored walls.
I made a mix tape for her the other day and the first song was !!!'s Me and Giulliani Down by the School Yard, which she introduced me to via her last tape. I didn't want it to seem like I forgot that she introduced me to the song, so I had to explain to her that when I receive mix tapes, I am less receptive to the songs, whereas if I discover a song on my own, my mind tends to be more ajar. Therefore I make it a point to make the opening song, one that is familiar to the recipient. That way the mind starts off dilated and the rest of the songs can pour in, sinuous and natural. It's just my thing, I guess.
(Mix tapes are interesting because my friend Chad wouldn't consider the recipient when he made the mix--he would make a tape essentially for himself. Astra makes tapes to introduce you to new songs, to turn you on to shit you've probably never heard. With the recipient in mind, I make tapes partly to introduce people to new songs, but mostly they are assembled as a tactically arranged experience with wispy drops and heavy pedalled momentums, for your listening pleasure. That's just my bag dude).
Then, here's a set that really reved our jets, set the shoes ajumble. Punk plus funk, along the lines of--Moving Units, The Rapture, The Liars, Gravy Train!!, etc.
Me and Vanz leave because after Love will Tear Us Apart the music goes straight to Back That Ass Up , a total non-sequitur if ever I've heard, and the spell is broken by crazy indie kids with big hair-dos, who flood the dancle floor with their tootsie rolling and pussy popping, trying to be ironic and shit but end up showing nothing but love on their faces.
We end up at Fusions, where all the lonely souls find themselves on Friday nights. The refugees are bathed in techno. Everet, Leo, Val, Ku'u, John, Dave, Jeff, Tony, Twan and everyone is out, cutting rugs, as they say, and the music is bullshit but we dance in the lovetrain fromat, connected at the crotch/ass, the way that good friends do because no one else is doing it with them. And I wonder, friends or fucking, which is really the next best thing? Who is the penultimate?
My, doesn't this all seem oh so familiar. But these are my friends, and I get the feeling that tonight in the Pacific, there's no where else I'd rather be without a date.
On the train. In the track. The snychronized swooping of hips. Quintuplets upon quintuplets cooperating musically to the absurdity of life.
And at the stroke of 4, we coast in our pumpkins to the warm-fuzzy of bed.
Good night and Amen. A droop in our pillows.