Six years ago today, I was just waking up and finalizing my plans for New Years Eve. I was headed to a party called “Oberon’s Palace” that evening, and had been preparing for over six weeks, abstaining from my most favorite intoxicant so that I could guarantee that I would be really, thoroughly, completely delerious at the start of 1998. (Six weeks seems like a pitiably short duration now, but to a serious raver that was a long ass time.) I had my outfit picked out: a neon pink bobbed wig, a white ribbed tanktop, a jeans that were roughly 30″ around the cuff. Also: a HAPPY NEW YEAR tiara that matched the wig. In addition: a plastic beaded necklace from an old rave icon.

I went to the party alone, parking my white Honda on a side street. I still remember the parking spot, if you can believe that. I met with my extended circle of friends inside the warehouse, which pretended to be artsy with the name Eyedrop Studios (there are condominiums in its place now). K and her simpleton boyfriend N were there, sneaking off to do lines of coke. D and C were there, recently back from a trip to Central America. The Microsoft raver/geek patrol was in full effect. I had my up in my left pocket, and my down in the right as I snaked through the event, eyeing the gorgeous decorations that were (and still are) standard at parties organized by these people. Tree boughs strapped to columns formed forest-like overhangs. The hallway between rooms was lined with thin golden fabric that shifted and appeared to breath as you walked by it. The back room offered an enormous banquet of fruit, laid out with candles, christmas tree lights, and whatever religious icons were trendy at the time.

Sometime after midnight, pink wig disposed of because it made my sweating forehead itch, I ran into a boy wearing olive green courderoy overalls and shoes curled into commas by months of dancing.

The rest is basically history…the smoking on a staircase, the retiring to the cloud-painted loft, the gentlemanly way he asked if he could kiss me (let’s ignore the fact that the kissing was AFTER he’d already been sucking on my fingers), the embarassment I felt even in my delerious state…what would my friends think of me, making out for hours with some boy at a party, dragging him across the alley to pin him between the wall of a neighboring bus barn and my sloppy kisses? What if the boy thought I was just some rave hussy? Wait, I sort of WAS a rave hussy, but that was all in the past. I certainly wasn’t like that any more. This was somehow the real deal.

Naturally, my concerns were unneccessary. Here we are six years later. I love you, Andreas. Happy anniversary!