Glowsticks Category
I attended my first rave in April of 1996, and some of the most intense learning experiences of my early- and mid-20s took place in front of speaker stacks. Raving is directly responsible for my writing career, my relationship with my loving partner, and the deterioration of my short term memory. Thank you, American Rave Culture!
Haaaappy New Year!
2
Jan
2001
In: Glowsticks
After a delightful anniversary painting pottery on Saturday, and then a rollickingly fun night at the OK Hotel’s “Dialect” club night, and a Sunday spent preparing, our 2001: A Forest Odessey party pretty much rocked the house last night. The alter-egos were ridiculous (Owen as a security guard, TW as a Mary Kay lady, Andreas as a wigger–that one was frightening!–and Megasoul as a chola), the cider was strong and deeeelish (although somehow we only got NINE DOLLARS in donations), and folks were still up at 7:00 when I passed out cold.
Some of the evenings high points included TW with a box of Certs breath mints squeezed between her breasts as she growled “I’m CERTain you will be having a very NICE night,” Andreas pulling out the stops on the disco moves ganked from “Saturday Night Fever,” Megasoul and I howling and vogueing our ways through “Stay Free” (a disco song who’s vocals of “INDEPENDANT!” make the whole song sound like an ad for Stay-Free Maxi-Pads. Ridiculous. It was especially good to see Owen!
Interesting how, when you party on New Years Eve, your first day of the new year (or new millenium) is spent glowering over your hangover, or tip-toeing around your own cracked out body.
And now, a story. The first time I’d ever heard the term “cracked out” was the night I met some friends in San Francisco in August of ‘96. In the haze of 4:30 am and waning a waning collective MDMA glow, a new raver friend looked at me and queried “You’ll be hanging out cracked out with us tomorrow, right?”
“Wait a minute,” I thought to myself, “Do these ravers use CRACK?” The really disturbing thing is that this unanswered question didn’t deter me from hanging out with them the next day, when I discovered that being “cracked out” simply means that you’re burnt out from the last night; hungover from the chemicals imbibed. The day after, I found that kicking it cracked out involved an exceptionally late brunch meal, glazed eyed joint smoking, empty headed badinage (look it up), and (in the case of that particular morning) half-assed making out with dry mouth.
Today, it included the late brunch (4pm at The Urban Onion, which was the only place open), sleeping while Dre and Megasoul and Tim watched movie after movie, and drinking Martinelli’s cider from the bottle. I took too long of a nap, now I’m wide awake while everyone else is sleeping (well, PERHAPS Tim and Megasoul are sleeping… 
)
Confessions of a disillusioned rave magazine editor
17
Dec
2000
In: Favorite Posts, Glowsticks, Narrative Non-Fiction
I still remember the first party I went to when I just didn’t feel it. I spent $40 (20 to get in, and 20 to do what I thought you had to do to have fun), six hours, countless liters of sweat, and ended the night thinking “THIS is what I’ve dedicated my life to? My money would have been better spent buying an eighth and laughing to myself as I took a walk on the beach.” After that first, there were others.
Let’s face the truth: at its worst, the beloved rave scene is nothing more than a bunch of kids on drugs dancing along crooked paths of self discovery/delusion in huge rotting warehouses. Then there’s some guy who thinks he’s a musician because he can spin two records at the same time, playing beats that are not always good, but are always loud. Promoters skulk around the edges of the room counting their money, and I leave feeling like I’ve wasted my time and energy, embarrassed by my own adopted family.
These are the times that I think “Ok, it is just about the drugs.” The more the media talks about raves being drug-filled parties, the more they become just that. The kids who really know what’s up get sick of dealing with the shit and move on, becoming hipsters in clubs, publishers of pretentious electronic music journals that make fun of the very readers who buy their shit, yuppies who laugh at their “wild years,” or burn-outs in the gutter.
These are the times I sit in my bedroom, wide awake at 7am on a Sunday, black grit under my fingernails, wondering about the deeper meanings of raving … and all I can come up with is a hollow acronym that is spouted most frequently by hypocrites: “PLUR! Wait, that person’s pants have cuffs that are less than 40 inches around? They’re not a RAVER — Fuck them!” We fight for PLUR and the noble Right to Dance “Officer, we’re dancing because we should be able to, damn it!” Well, that’s nice, kids — ever thought about protesting something that actually helps the world instead of simply entertaining bored middle-class kids (aka helping yourselves)? Ever heard of altruism?
These are the mornings when the drugs take their toll, and I feel like a plastic recreation of myself, with synthetic lubricants pumping through my fiberglass arteries. My emotions like a website, “Click here for disillusionment. Click here to buy drugs to take the doubt away.”
These are the mornings when I wonder why I’ve spent so much time here, who I’ve helped, what I’ve done, how I’ve made the world a better place. I’ve filled landfills with water bottles, punctured my health with drugs, wasted money on “good times” that weren’t always good (how many nights did I spend shaking in the corner, having frighteningly honest conversations with my own psyche as the bass beat embossed my soul with loud conviction?).
I talk to friends who have joined the peace corps or volunteered to help teach inner city youth, and I half-heartedly justify to myself, I’ve taught inner city youth — I’ve talked to kids who didn’t know about their health or birth control, discussed God with dilated pupils (get it?), I’ve patted the back of vomiting over-indulgers. But who have I really helped? And does a pat on the back of someone who’s directly responsible for their own vomiting really compare to teaching someone to learn to read?
These are the mornings that I take a shower long and hot enough to get the rave grime out of my pores, drink some chamomile tea, and sit in the garden listening to the bass of sap coursing through tree trunks, the treble of morning birds. The steady rhythm of my own heart, the epic build of my breathing.
I’d forgotten.
These are the mornings when I remember to turn down the music and listen to myself, for a change.
OK Hotel
3
Dec
2000
In: Glowsticks
Last night at OK Hotel was totally amazing. Always remarkable to find a club that’s just rocking with energy, verve, and collective excitement….and going to a club where a nationally famous DJ has show up unannounced (no-one had any clue who was spinning at Dialectic–even Jon Lemmon was like “Eh, I dunno, probably just some local residents) is extra fun. Mark Farina played fantastically, and everyone was loving it. Fun! The drive home at 2:30 was a little grueling, but that 60 minute drive from Seattle to Oly is becoming such second nature that it flies right by.
- 0 Comments
- Tags: clubbing, music
Haaaappy New Year!
2 Jan 2001 In: GlowsticksAfter a delightful anniversary painting pottery on Saturday, and then a rollickingly fun night at the OK Hotel’s “Dialect” club night, and a Sunday spent preparing, our 2001: A Forest Odessey party pretty much rocked the house last night. The alter-egos were ridiculous (Owen as a security guard, TW as a Mary Kay lady, Andreas as a wigger–that one was frightening!–and Megasoul as a chola), the cider was strong and deeeelish (although somehow we only got NINE DOLLARS in donations), and folks were still up at 7:00 when I passed out cold.
Some of the evenings high points included TW with a box of Certs breath mints squeezed between her breasts as she growled “I’m CERTain you will be having a very NICE night,” Andreas pulling out the stops on the disco moves ganked from “Saturday Night Fever,” Megasoul and I howling and vogueing our ways through “Stay Free” (a disco song who’s vocals of “INDEPENDANT!” make the whole song sound like an ad for Stay-Free Maxi-Pads. Ridiculous. It was especially good to see Owen!
Interesting how, when you party on New Years Eve, your first day of the new year (or new millenium) is spent glowering over your hangover, or tip-toeing around your own cracked out body.
And now, a story. The first time I’d ever heard the term “cracked out” was the night I met some friends in San Francisco in August of ‘96. In the haze of 4:30 am and waning a waning collective MDMA glow, a new raver friend looked at me and queried “You’ll be hanging out cracked out with us tomorrow, right?”
“Wait a minute,” I thought to myself, “Do these ravers use CRACK?” The really disturbing thing is that this unanswered question didn’t deter me from hanging out with them the next day, when I discovered that being “cracked out” simply means that you’re burnt out from the last night; hungover from the chemicals imbibed. The day after, I found that kicking it cracked out involved an exceptionally late brunch meal, glazed eyed joint smoking, empty headed badinage (look it up), and (in the case of that particular morning) half-assed making out with dry mouth.
Today, it included the late brunch (4pm at The Urban Onion, which was the only place open), sleeping while Dre and Megasoul and Tim watched movie after movie, and drinking Martinelli’s cider from the bottle. I took too long of a nap, now I’m wide awake while everyone else is sleeping (well, PERHAPS Tim and Megasoul are sleeping… )
Confessions of a disillusioned rave magazine editor
17 Dec 2000 In: Favorite Posts, Glowsticks, Narrative Non-FictionI still remember the first party I went to when I just didn’t feel it. I spent $40 (20 to get in, and 20 to do what I thought you had to do to have fun), six hours, countless liters of sweat, and ended the night thinking “THIS is what I’ve dedicated my life to? My money would have been better spent buying an eighth and laughing to myself as I took a walk on the beach.” After that first, there were others.
Let’s face the truth: at its worst, the beloved rave scene is nothing more than a bunch of kids on drugs dancing along crooked paths of self discovery/delusion in huge rotting warehouses. Then there’s some guy who thinks he’s a musician because he can spin two records at the same time, playing beats that are not always good, but are always loud. Promoters skulk around the edges of the room counting their money, and I leave feeling like I’ve wasted my time and energy, embarrassed by my own adopted family.
These are the times that I think “Ok, it is just about the drugs.” The more the media talks about raves being drug-filled parties, the more they become just that. The kids who really know what’s up get sick of dealing with the shit and move on, becoming hipsters in clubs, publishers of pretentious electronic music journals that make fun of the very readers who buy their shit, yuppies who laugh at their “wild years,” or burn-outs in the gutter.
These are the times I sit in my bedroom, wide awake at 7am on a Sunday, black grit under my fingernails, wondering about the deeper meanings of raving … and all I can come up with is a hollow acronym that is spouted most frequently by hypocrites: “PLUR! Wait, that person’s pants have cuffs that are less than 40 inches around? They’re not a RAVER — Fuck them!” We fight for PLUR and the noble Right to Dance “Officer, we’re dancing because we should be able to, damn it!” Well, that’s nice, kids — ever thought about protesting something that actually helps the world instead of simply entertaining bored middle-class kids (aka helping yourselves)? Ever heard of altruism?
These are the mornings when the drugs take their toll, and I feel like a plastic recreation of myself, with synthetic lubricants pumping through my fiberglass arteries. My emotions like a website, “Click here for disillusionment. Click here to buy drugs to take the doubt away.”
These are the mornings when I wonder why I’ve spent so much time here, who I’ve helped, what I’ve done, how I’ve made the world a better place. I’ve filled landfills with water bottles, punctured my health with drugs, wasted money on “good times” that weren’t always good (how many nights did I spend shaking in the corner, having frighteningly honest conversations with my own psyche as the bass beat embossed my soul with loud conviction?).
I talk to friends who have joined the peace corps or volunteered to help teach inner city youth, and I half-heartedly justify to myself, I’ve taught inner city youth — I’ve talked to kids who didn’t know about their health or birth control, discussed God with dilated pupils (get it?), I’ve patted the back of vomiting over-indulgers. But who have I really helped? And does a pat on the back of someone who’s directly responsible for their own vomiting really compare to teaching someone to learn to read?
These are the mornings that I take a shower long and hot enough to get the rave grime out of my pores, drink some chamomile tea, and sit in the garden listening to the bass of sap coursing through tree trunks, the treble of morning birds. The steady rhythm of my own heart, the epic build of my breathing.
I’d forgotten.
These are the mornings when I remember to turn down the music and listen to myself, for a change.
OK Hotel
3 Dec 2000 In: GlowsticksLast night at OK Hotel was totally amazing. Always remarkable to find a club that’s just rocking with energy, verve, and collective excitement….and going to a club where a nationally famous DJ has show up unannounced (no-one had any clue who was spinning at Dialectic–even Jon Lemmon was like “Eh, I dunno, probably just some local residents) is extra fun. Mark Farina played fantastically, and everyone was loving it. Fun! The drive home at 2:30 was a little grueling, but that 60 minute drive from Seattle to Oly is becoming such second nature that it flies right by.
- 0 Comments
- Tags: clubbing, music
Hey there. I'm Ariel Meadow Stallings, a native Seattleite who's written my way up and down the Left Coast. Electrolicious is where I post daily randomata, but I also write for a living. My first book, Offbeat Bride, was published last year.
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