Daily affirmations of a word mercenary
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!
Hi, Phidelity
24
Nov
2004
In: Glowsticks
This weekend I went to a hippie rave called “Space Traveler,” one of a series of events under the Oracle Gatherings umbrella. I’ll let you click that link to learn more about the events, but the overview is this: each party is themed around an “archetype,” and if you collect all the flyers at the end you’ll have an untraditional tarot deck with cards like “Mother Earth,” “Mystery School” and “Atlantis.” The party was a bit of a disappointment. The two redeeming points were:
1. I took some pictures
2. I found my new favorite DJ
As I’ve aged as a raver (if I even qualify as one any more), my tastes in music have slowed down to a snail’s pace. I listen to a lot of what’s known as “downtempo,” which is exactly what it sounds like it would be. This used to be music for Sunday mornings, but now it’s music for my Friday nights, and lemme tell ya: Phidelity plays it exactly how I like it. I missed all too much of his set on Saturday night (for some unknown reason he was booked to play in the back room while most people were watching the “space opera” in the front room), but what I heard made my ears all happy and was exactly my pace for the dancing.
And now, low and behold, I see that he’s got music to listen to online! A lot of music. I am in audio heaven.
Naturally he’s in San Francisco, so who knows if I’ll ever have the opportunity to dance to his music again, but I’m quite pleased to be able to listen to it all day at work. You should, too.
Spoiled
8
Nov
2004
In: Glowsticks
Working for dance music magazine completely ruined me in some ways. For instance, I almost always refuse to pay cover. How can I justify spending money on paying at the door when I spent four formative years getting in for free? When I was working for Lotus, I honed the art of just walking away if the promoter had forgotten to put me on the guestlist, and this skill remains with me (to a fault?) to this day.
Friday night I went to go meet Andreas at a bar where he’d been drinking with his foosball friends. Between the time Dre had gotten there and the time I showed up, the place had started charging. I shrugged and told the doorman to take my wallet for collateral while I ran inside and told Dre I wouldn’t be coming in. I guess Mr. Doorman took this as a negotiation device (it wasn’t), and let me in for free. Thanks, dude. In return, I downed two shots of tequila and got the hiccups.
Last night I took my hoop down to Flammable at Rebar. I’d heard rumors that it was free before 11, so I showed up at 10. Not a single soul was there, but the doorman explained that it was only free before the DJ arrived (which would mean maybe 9 or so) and that I would have to pay to come in. To an empty bar. Part of my point of going so early was that the DJ would be warming up, but no one would be there…perfect hooping space. But Mr. Doorman wanted money from the first person to arrive, and so I turned around and went home. Then I was grumpy and probably should have just paid the $7, but seriously: $7?!
In 1999, I knew a raver named Bonnie. She was 14 years old and wore homemade pink fuzzy Strawberry Shortcake overalls. I knew her in part because she was super active in the rave scene, but also because she was close with a friend and Lotus employee. This friend/employee was really sweet, a dedicated raver the likes of which you don’t see often. He saved every glowstick he ever used, archiving them by party name and date. He carried the most well-stocked rave bag I’d ever seen, filled with everything anyone might need: water, candy, lotion, Band-Aids, chapstick, and even tampons for his ladyfriends. He went out at least three nights a week. He lived with his parents so that rent money could go towards raves. He was also a 28 year old man who was in a close relationship with a 14 year old girl.
Those of us around him were always cautioning him. “Danger! Danger!” we’d say. The situation was legally sketchy for him, and an emotional nightmare. It could have been really bad news. It was trouble.
Despite the dangerous situation, I always sort of liked Bonnie. When a writer friend was writing an article about young ravers for a now-defunct teen magazine called Jump, I referred her to Bonnie. I wish I had a copy of that article. Bonnie posed in her pink strawberry overalls and talked about how drugs were bad and she had to go on antidepressants because of her bad experiences at raves. It was funny, because when I referred Bonnie for the article, Bonnie told me that she wasn’t totally sure about doing the piece. “I’m going to be a pop star,” she told me in all seriousness. “I can’t go burning my bridges.” At the time I laughed. Tee hee. Little candyraver is going to be a pop star.
Anyway, here we are in the present, and that 14 year old is now 19 and she got signed by a record label, moved to LA, and just released her first album, which I guess has been in the works for three years. You can look at her website, if you want.
When I saw that her album released, I decided to do some poking around for news. I found this article, in which Bonnie claims that most of her album, “Trouble,” is about “this guy who was much older than me. He was my first love, my first real experience with relationships.” Er, so this album is all about my former employee? The notorious candy raver of yesteryear? My goodness!
The interview is confusing though:
SM: Was it strange being with someone so much older than you?
BM: Well, in retrospect, it was ridiculous. I mean, I don’t hate him at all–he really saved me at a time when nobody else wanted to take the time to deal with me. But I do think that I was exploited. It was a really rocky relationship, and I definitely have a Lolita complex because of it. [laughs] … Teenage girls aren’t victims–they know a lot more than people think or probably want to admit. Nobody wants to believe that adolescents can be sexual beings and understand themselves…
So wait, she was exploited, but teenage girls aren’t victims? I’m so confused. One thing’s for sure: she’s certainly working it hard these days.
Regardless, my congrats to Bonnie for her album’s release. It looks like it’s getting some decent reviews. And to my former employee who seems to have inspired the album? Dude, we tried to tell you she was Trouble.
Phoenix Fest 2004
5
Jul
2004
In: Glowsticks
This weekend I made the trek back to Phoenix Fest.
For those who either don’t remember, or have chosen to forget, the last time I went to Phoenix Fest all hell broke loose. Or rather, all hell broke loose after I returned from Phoenix Fest and wrote about it for The Seattle Weekly.
The editor pushed for ever more prurient detail, I tried to navigate a 36 hour deadline, and the result was an article that the editor felt was a little “puffy” (i.e. too glowing) and that just about everyone else thought was an intentionally malicious handwritten note from the devil that would single-handedly bring about three things:
1. The absolute death of Northwest rave culture at the hand of conservative, blood-thirsty Seattle Weekly readers
2. The imminent dismissal of the Klickitat County Sheriff and total county-wide anarchy
3. The end of public sex as we know it!
Naturally, none of these things happened, but for a few weeks in the eyes of a few hundred people I was Seattle’s Most Hated Raver.
Never mind that I’d dedicated almost seven years of my life to the rave community or that I’d spent four years editing a magazine that sought to portray the West coast rave community in the most positive light possible. No, circa August 2002, I was a rave pariah, a whore of the highest degree (and yes: people actually called me a whore — thanks over-reacting rave community!). Everyone seemed to be angry, except for my editor at The Weekly, who sent me an excited email for every letter to the editor that was received about my article. He was pleased as punch that the community was so up in arms about something published in The Weekly, not a publication typically noticed by Seattle’s ravers.
Anyway. That was two years ago. Realistically, the whole thing was an excellent learning process for me, and I like to think a few other people as well. I learned a lot about editor’s goals vs. writer’s goals, quick turn-arounds, and how to gracefully stand your ground when criticized for expressing an opinion. I like to think that others learned a little about perspective and relativity.
Life goes on, folks. Ultimately, no one really gives a flying fuck what was printed in The Weekly two years ago. But for those who do, here’s a little treat: For the first time, I’m making my original draft of my 2002 Seattle Weekly Phoenix Fest article available to the public. You can read it here. Those of you who hated the final product can take a look at the original intent of the piece.
Perhaps as a peace offering (perhaps not, who knows?) one of the core organizers of Phoenix Fest gifted Andreas and I with two tickets to this year’s festival. So we went. And, in the spirit of Lotus Magazine event reviews, and the spirit of The Weekly desperately trying to sound more like The Stranger by snarkily writing about underground events, here is my event review. You’ll have to excuse me if I’m a little out of practice on this kind of writing.
The venue for this year’s Phoenix Fest was excellent. The fields where the event was hosted were under the looming shadow of Washington’s Mount Adams, and caught breezes intended for the Hood River. We camped in the Quiet Camping area, which was sheer heaven for aging ravers. The soundsystems were a 10 minute forested walk away. This meant that yes, there was a muffled continual thump of bass at the edge of our hearing, but only occasionally could we hear Chickenhed, my most reviled soundsystem from 2002.
We arrived in Klickitat County late Saturday afternoon, and found the weather ideal. Warm, but not too hot. Dry, but not excessively dusty … although I say that in relation to Burning Man. The temperatures hovered in the high 70s and low 80s for most of Saturday and Sunday, and got down into the upper 40s during the night. Perfect temperatures for modeling freaky techno-tribal daywear as well as trashy Burning Man freak-duds at night.
In terms of performances, I would have to say that the high point of weekend for me was Saul Williams. This strikes me as ironic: at a music festival, I was the most profoundly affected by spoken word. But if Saul Williams had taken a moment to scan the crowd, I’m sure that he would have seen that I wasn’t the only one who spent over an hour with my jaw unhinged muttering things like “…shit!” I don’t think it takes a writer to recognize that Saul Williams has a magical way with words, and when I went to tell him so afterwards, I got all choked up and blubbery with gratitude. (Dude: who is this sappy sniveling creature I’ve become? What’s next: weeping Jesus figurines on my mantel?)
Unfortunately, Saturday night also reacquainted me with a type of raver character I’d forgotten: the headtripper. Allow me to introduce the concept, although those of you who’ve spent time at raves, Dead shows, or other such events will know right away what I’m talking about.
There are people at these sorts of parties who like to have a little social gimmick. Perhaps they’re insecure and looking for a social crutch, or maybe they’re just tricksters who get a kick out of what they’re doing. Whatever: these headtrippers like to fuck with high people at parties. The sad thing is that they seem to assume that everybody at the event is fucked up, and most of them don’t seem to have much of an idea of what to do when they encounter someone who’s wits are still fully about them.
I had an encounter after Saul Williams with one such person. I got cold near the end of Saul Williams’ set, and spent the last ten minutes standing at the back of the crowd hooping to keep my blood moving. Next to me appeared a guy in a large top hat, a mask, and what appeared to be a foam rubber pumpkin costume. He stood next to me, strumming a guitar and waiting for me to acknowledge him. I, meanwhile, was complete focused on Saul Williams. Pumpkin guy kept strumming and trying to get my attention.
After Saul was done, I went to go have my afore-mentioned blubbery thank you moment with him. As I walked around the back of the stage, guitar guy followed me closely, strumming and sort of dancing around. I finally got irritated and turned to him and demanded, “Did you need something?” He seemed taken aback (”Wait a minute — SHE’S NOT TRIPPING!”) but refused to step out of character and acknowledge that he was trying to trip out someone who wasn’t exactly receptive or interested. I mean, I think I was supposed to be like “WOAH! GUY IN WEIRD OUTFIT! WOAH!! AM I SEEING THIS? WOOOOOAH!” Instead I was asking him what he wanted, and he answered by dancing around and saying “Ooh, I’m not shadowing you … I’m not shadowing you!”
People who go to parties just to fuck with high folks need to get something better to do. It’s a bit mean-spirited, but more than anything else it’s really irritating to those of us who don’t get so fucked up that we’re completely confused by someone in a mask and a guitar, or someone making meowing sounds in the dark. Maybe other people get a kick out of this sort of thing. I never have. At a party many years ago, I once helped a friend procure some acid. The guy who I got it from assumed that I had injested it, and then tried to fuck with me by speaking in strange rhythms, reallyfasttalking and then really…slowed…down…speech. I told him to shut the fuck up, stop assuming I was high, and get out of my face. I hate headfuckers.
Perhaps I was just irritable at Phoenix Fest. I had an encounter later in the night with someone who was heckling Blackalicious. Chief was taking a couple moments to introduce one of their more political songs, and heckler was standing in the back of the crowd shouting “PLAY SOME FUCKIN’ MUSIC! SHUT UP AND PLAY SOME MUSIC! I GOT CNBC AT HOME! PLAY SOME FUCKING MUSIC!” I finally just had to storm up to him and remind him that he had six stages of music to choose from, and could he please shut up. He sloshed some of his beer and slurred, “There are a thousand people here — why you gotta talk to me?” Dude, because you’re a prick. Now shut the fuck up. I didn’t say that, though. I just said, “Hey: I’m just reminding you that you’ve got a lot of options here.” Somehow this became a metaphor for me about people who would rather bitch than take the situation into their own hands, but realistically I think the guy was just drunk.
Seriously: if he was going to heckle Blackalicious, he should have heckled them about their continual shout-outs about “How’s it going, OREGON!” I winced every time. Whoever picked these guys up at the airport needed to let them know that they were playing in Washington. Every time they said something about “Let’s hear it, PORTLAND!” I thought about how cool it would have been if they were like, “HEY KLICKITAT COUNTY, GIMME SOME NOISE!” Or, “TROUT LAKE, LEMME HEAR YOU!” That would have been incredibly cool.
I spent most of Saturday night wandering from stage to stage. I like the house stage in the far corner of the field, but the trance stage next door was set up in a way that created some really awful sound bleed. The breakbeat stage was gorgeous, and I caught part of Tipper’s set, which wobbled between totally inspired and somewhat intolerable. Guy can scratch, and I liked some of his deep bass-y tunes, but some of it felt undanceable to me, and so I didn’t catch the whole set.
I caught the fire performance. I’ve written critically in the past about fire shows, and I’m afraid that this performance lived down to my expectations. The performers did not seem to be having any fun and as a result, I didn’t have fun either. The fire performers did have the best heckler of the evening, though. Kudos to the woman who walked by shouting, “Oooh! LOOK! FIRE! BURNING THINGS! THERE’S A BURN BAN! THERE’S A BURN BAN!” It’s true. There is a county-wide burn ban in Klickitat county, something that was at the forefront of my mind when the fire dancer with the flaming hula hoop got tangled in her hoop and threw the flaming circle onto the tinder-dry yellow grass. Everything was fine, but I couldn’t watch the remainder of the show.
I also liked the techno/house stage near the vendor area, but the fluorescent lights that were facing outwards into the field from the dance area pushed me away. I spent 40 hours a week under fluorescent lights…having them set up facing outward was like a reverse magnet, pushing me farther and farther away, despite how much I liked the music. The ambient barn, while gorgeous, was too loud. I mean, it’s an ambient barn! And the music was REALLY LOUD. And there were BEATS. That’s not ambient, although I will not debate that it was in a barn. And that the barn was decorated gorgeously.
Like the aging raver I am, I was asleep by 2am. This meant I missed Eddie’s sunrise set, which sort of breaks my heart. But I will say that I slept GREAT. The quiet camping area really was QUIET (unlike last year, when the “quiet” area was filled with the sounds of one Chickenhed clapping).
I think I heard my favorite musical set of the weekend Saturday afternoon. Swank hit the nail on the head for me with a mix of Sting, Outkast, and various songs about lazy sunny afternoons. PERFECT.
Socially, I saw people at Phoenix Fest who I haven’t seen in many many years. I even met a couple people who I knew of, but to whom I had never been introduced. I met one NWtekno.org regular who informed me that I was “much cooler” than he expected, and he thought I would be seven feet tall. It was all a sham, of course: I secretly am a seven-foot tall stark raving bitch who eats event promoters for dinner and shits out op-ed pieces. I only look like a normal person when I’m trying to get a good pull-quote for an article. My talons pop out once people’s backs are turned. Oh, and I have an army of flying monkeys.
I was especially thankful to have an excuse to explore this gorgeous corner of the state. My camping crew and I stopped at Multnomah Falls and hiked for an hour on the way home. The people-watching was exquisite! We even got soft-serve swirly cones.
Oh and PS: For anyone who criticized me in 2002 for writing about “public sex” at Phoenix Fest, I witnessed people having sex out in the open again this year. Believe it!
Also, I have a few pictures.
Mother Earth
21
Jun
2004
In: Glowsticks
How about a long diary-like post with lots of passive tense and no culminating point? OK!
This weekend Andreas and I packed up the truck and headed northward on the black ribbon of death (aka I-5) to Bellingham.
Our first stop found us at the brand new home of Susannah, Michael, and baby Hank. They just bought a bungalow out on the Mount Baker highway, and Dre and I swung by for what I thought was going to be a quick visit.
Hank was already sacked out, so we had a “grown up dinner” just the four of us, followed by a wedding cake taste test. Susannah offered to make us two wedding cakes, one vegan and one not. Friday she took a first stab at a vegan carrot cake with fake cream cheese frosting. OH MY GOD. It was good. It impressed even me, the non-vegans. SO YUMMY! Susannah also has great ideas for how to design the cakes with our circle/hoop/ring theme. So exciting!
Our quick visit stretched later and later, and by the third glass of wine we’d abandoned our plans of making it to Mother Earth, the Oracle Gathering that was happening a few miles away. Andreas and Michael sat around a campfire in the backyard while Susannah and I gossiped about our families. We were all asleep by 12:30.
I woke up Saturday to the sounds of Susannah excited about Hank sitting on his baby potty. Suz’s sounds changed quickly though, after Hank stood up and peed on her foot right before she had to run off to work.
We were out of bed by 7:30 or so, and enjoyed cups of coffee (side note: I drank coffee! woah!) with Hank and Michael. We puttered around in their new huge back field, fed the goldfish in the enormous murky pond, and marveled at Hank’s verbal skills. He’s AMAZING! I don’t know how much of that is just him, how much of it is Suz and Michael, and how much of it is thanks to Hank having done infant sign language workshops with Echo, but WOAH. He is an absolutely stunning communicator.
Dre and I headed into Bellingham to stock up on food at the Co-op. Andreas had flashbacks from his days as a failing freshman and sophomore at Western Washington University, when he used to hang out in front of the B’ham co-op for whole days.
We were stocked up and headed out to the Deming Logging Show fairgrounds — only three miles from Susannah and Michael’s house — where the Oracle Gathering’s solstice party was being hosted.
Even though we’d been awake for three hours, we arrived just as the festival was slowly waking up. Gorgeous grounds — the party took place in the parking lot of the fairgrounds, which was soft green grass, soft rolling hills, and a few trees for shade. Perfect!
We plopped down our blanket in the shade under a tree. We were near the main stage (which was empty at our early hour of arrival) and sat with our books and my hoops.
Over the course of the next couple hours, we watched a couple workshops about DNA activation. Out of respect for those who interested in the practice, I will simply say this: the concept doesn’t, um, resonate with me.
Instead, I hooped. I hooped and I hooped. People would approach and hoop with me for a while, and then wander off. I kept hooping. MORE HOOPING.
We followed the shade of the tree as the sun moved across the sky. Our blanket moved ever couple ours to keep us in the shade, and I hooped more.
Since it was so close to her home, I convinced Susannah and Hank to come by for a few hours. It was Hank’s first festival, and I think he had a great time.
I spent most of my time people watching. I love being among these people. Even though I haven’t seen some of them for a couple years, they’re still delightful to stare at. There was the bearded beat boxing hippy who changed his clothes seven times during the course of the day, wearing a series of brightly colored, transparent women’s lingerie. The culmination of his fashion show had to be the hot pink unitard with the butt cheeks sliced open.
Due to noise complaints the night before, the organizers of the event were forced to start the music much earlier than usual … the sound system turned on around 5pm. I’ve gotten used to my Southern California day parties, so I was wishing that the music had been on since noon, but 5pm was good. It meant that there was dancing and hooping all through the late afternoon and sunset, the dance floor fully packed at twightlight.
I’m absolutely a day dancer. This might be related to my (relative) sobriety, or just be thanks to the fact that I like to SEE the people I’m dancing with. Plus, it’s midsummer and I want to celebrate the sunlight! There’s plenty of cold months for dancing in the dark.
So I was happy happy hooping into the evening. There was some beautiful spoken word performed by a woman named Laura Kelly, and the music was relatively up my alley. Not QUITE funky enough, and maybe a few bpms below my optimal rate, but pretty damn good.
By 11pm or so, I was getting tired out. I’d been hooping in the sun all day, and energy reserves were getting very low. I managed some last attempts at dancing, and then sat down in preparation for the midnight ritual performance.
Now, let me say this: in years past, I have been deeply critical of ritual performances at parties. The entertainment struck me as too passive, clearing the dance floor so that people could watch OTHER people dance. In addition, the ritual performances I’d seen at Oracle Gatherings in 2001 and 2002 were, well, amateurish. Not only was the dance floor cleared, it was cleared so that we could watch people do stuff that wasn’t all that entertaining. I reached a certain point where I would simply leave the dance floor and go elsewhere rather than watch the performances.
Well, I stand corrected. I stayed to watch this performance, and the quality of the show was fantastic! The story line was familiar territory to anyone who’s familiar with pagan practices — an act for each direction/element/season/etc, showing the cyclic nature of mother earth, etc etc. I’ve been attending my mother’s pagan pageants and goddess revivals for years, so it wasn’t the theme or ideas presented in the performance that wowed me — it was the skill of the performers! Belly dance, elaborately choreographed staff and sword fights, tribal ballet duets, acrobatics, and a little fire … but not too much. It was a great show, and I even got sort of choked up at the end. (?!)
It was funny afterwards to hear my friend Owen say, “How often do you see something like THAT?” to which I had to respond, “Dude, I’ve seen things like that almost my whole life …. but that one was actually really good.”
Then, so as to avoid noise complaints, the sound system was shut off. This may have disappointed a lot of people, but for a day dancer like myself, it was heaven….dance all day, and then go to bed! NICE.
The only bad thing about the weekend? Someone walked off with one of my hoops, and I lost my Haviana flip-flops.
If you want to see a few pictures, here you go.
This was a segment from my book proposal, but due to a restructuring it doesn’t fit any more. So I’m sharing it here.
I had a glimpse into the creation of popular culture, and I saw first hand the lack of reality in what we see and what we think we want. I got right into the thick of the wanting. And it made me want a little less.
Spring of 2001 I attended Gathering of the Tribes, which brought together underground rave organizers and community members from up and down the West Coast. I attended as the editor of Lotus Magazine, filling dual roles as reporter and community activist.
At the conference I met the founder of a harm reduction organization that was building a popular and successful national drug education network. The founder told me that he’d been in contact with some MTV-affiliated filmmakers who were making a documentary about Ecstasy. They were looking for a couple people to demonstrate the responsible, adult use of the drug.
“Would you be interested?” he’d asked me. I said that I was, in part because there was a cute friend involved. Cue the lights, I’ve got my hair gel applied and was ready for my close up.
A month or two later, MTV flew me to San Francisco to be a part of the filming of the documentary. By the time I arrived, the film crew had already been in town for a day, and the “plot” of the documentary was already well under way.
My cute friend and his polyamorous girlfriend assumed pseudonyms, and played the part of affluent San Francisco professionals who occasionally used Ecstasy. The truth, however, was that these two both worked for the harm reduction organization and did drugs whenever they pleased. Their non-profit wages don’t go very far in San Francisco, and apparently the film crew was unimpressed by my friends’ small Oakland apartment. Filming arrangements were made with a retired dot-com friend who had an expansive house in The City.
By the time I joined the documentary, my friend and his girlfriend were clearly under a lot of stress. They’d been filming all day and were starting to feel the weight of staying in character. The girlfriend stood, chopping vegetables and trying to pretend like the dotcom retiree’s kitchen was hers, even though she wasn’t sure which pots were in which cabinets. Not much off-the-cuff banter here: conversation was carefully thought-out, in an effort to convey Ecstasy use in the best, most responsible light.
I found the situation odd and uncomfortable. I had to remember to call my friend and his girlfriend by their pseudonyms, and interacting with them on screen felt about as natural an improv theater exercise. “YES, and! Ecstasy is also bla bla bla.”
The filmmakers had decided that it was more important for me to use my real name and job title for clout. Already unsure about the ramifications of on-screen intoxication, once the decision was made to use my real name, I realized that my role was going to be as the sober friend.
My big MTV debut, and I was the sober third wheel with blue dreadlocks. In New Kids terms, I was to be the Danny Wood of the show. The awkward one that no one remembers.
I stayed out of the way for most of the evening. It’s never that much fun to hang out with high people when you’re sober — even when your high friends aren’t mugging for the rolling cameras. I made a few brief appearances, including one where I sat cross-legged on the living room floor and talked about why I wasn’t doing Ecstasy.
“I’ve found that using Ecstasy too often gives diminishing emotional returns,” I lectured. “The more often you do it, the less often you get much out of it. Therefore, [pause to look around earnestly at the gathered sitcom family including Gramma Whimple and Mrs. Pool] I’m not doing Ecstasy tonight.” Needless to say, I ended up on the cutting room floor. Needless to say, I preferred it that way.
If you watch the documentary, you see me smoking a cigarette on a roof, and dancing at a street fair. You also see two very good friends of mine playing the roles of people they aren’t. I agree whole-heartedly with the reasons they chose to play the roles. The cultural landscape is desperate for a few examples of responsible adults who can use drugs recreationally and NOT become crack whores. But having seen first hand just how clouded even documentaries are by the agendas of those involved, my love affair with popular culture became much more difficult.
Hi, Phidelity
24 Nov 2004 In: GlowsticksThis weekend I went to a hippie rave called “Space Traveler,” one of a series of events under the Oracle Gatherings umbrella. I’ll let you click that link to learn more about the events, but the overview is this: each party is themed around an “archetype,” and if you collect all the flyers at the end you’ll have an untraditional tarot deck with cards like “Mother Earth,” “Mystery School” and “Atlantis.” The party was a bit of a disappointment. The two redeeming points were:
1. I took some pictures
2. I found my new favorite DJ
As I’ve aged as a raver (if I even qualify as one any more), my tastes in music have slowed down to a snail’s pace. I listen to a lot of what’s known as “downtempo,” which is exactly what it sounds like it would be. This used to be music for Sunday mornings, but now it’s music for my Friday nights, and lemme tell ya: Phidelity plays it exactly how I like it. I missed all too much of his set on Saturday night (for some unknown reason he was booked to play in the back room while most people were watching the “space opera” in the front room), but what I heard made my ears all happy and was exactly my pace for the dancing.
And now, low and behold, I see that he’s got music to listen to online! A lot of music. I am in audio heaven.
Naturally he’s in San Francisco, so who knows if I’ll ever have the opportunity to dance to his music again, but I’m quite pleased to be able to listen to it all day at work. You should, too.
Spoiled
8 Nov 2004 In: GlowsticksWorking for dance music magazine completely ruined me in some ways. For instance, I almost always refuse to pay cover. How can I justify spending money on paying at the door when I spent four formative years getting in for free? When I was working for Lotus, I honed the art of just walking away if the promoter had forgotten to put me on the guestlist, and this skill remains with me (to a fault?) to this day.
Friday night I went to go meet Andreas at a bar where he’d been drinking with his foosball friends. Between the time Dre had gotten there and the time I showed up, the place had started charging. I shrugged and told the doorman to take my wallet for collateral while I ran inside and told Dre I wouldn’t be coming in. I guess Mr. Doorman took this as a negotiation device (it wasn’t), and let me in for free. Thanks, dude. In return, I downed two shots of tequila and got the hiccups.
Last night I took my hoop down to Flammable at Rebar. I’d heard rumors that it was free before 11, so I showed up at 10. Not a single soul was there, but the doorman explained that it was only free before the DJ arrived (which would mean maybe 9 or so) and that I would have to pay to come in. To an empty bar. Part of my point of going so early was that the DJ would be warming up, but no one would be there…perfect hooping space. But Mr. Doorman wanted money from the first person to arrive, and so I turned around and went home. Then I was grumpy and probably should have just paid the $7, but seriously: $7?!
In 1999, I knew a raver named Bonnie. She was 14 years old and wore homemade pink fuzzy Strawberry Shortcake overalls. I knew her in part because she was super active in the rave scene, but also because she was close with a friend and Lotus employee. This friend/employee was really sweet, a dedicated raver the likes of which you don’t see often. He saved every glowstick he ever used, archiving them by party name and date. He carried the most well-stocked rave bag I’d ever seen, filled with everything anyone might need: water, candy, lotion, Band-Aids, chapstick, and even tampons for his ladyfriends. He went out at least three nights a week. He lived with his parents so that rent money could go towards raves. He was also a 28 year old man who was in a close relationship with a 14 year old girl.
Those of us around him were always cautioning him. “Danger! Danger!” we’d say. The situation was legally sketchy for him, and an emotional nightmare. It could have been really bad news. It was trouble.
Despite the dangerous situation, I always sort of liked Bonnie. When a writer friend was writing an article about young ravers for a now-defunct teen magazine called Jump, I referred her to Bonnie. I wish I had a copy of that article. Bonnie posed in her pink strawberry overalls and talked about how drugs were bad and she had to go on antidepressants because of her bad experiences at raves. It was funny, because when I referred Bonnie for the article, Bonnie told me that she wasn’t totally sure about doing the piece. “I’m going to be a pop star,” she told me in all seriousness. “I can’t go burning my bridges.” At the time I laughed. Tee hee. Little candyraver is going to be a pop star.
Anyway, here we are in the present, and that 14 year old is now 19 and she got signed by a record label, moved to LA, and just released her first album, which I guess has been in the works for three years. You can look at her website, if you want.
When I saw that her album released, I decided to do some poking around for news. I found this article, in which Bonnie claims that most of her album, “Trouble,” is about “this guy who was much older than me. He was my first love, my first real experience with relationships.” Er, so this album is all about my former employee? The notorious candy raver of yesteryear? My goodness!
The interview is confusing though:
SM: Was it strange being with someone so much older than you?
BM: Well, in retrospect, it was ridiculous. I mean, I don’t hate him at all–he really saved me at a time when nobody else wanted to take the time to deal with me. But I do think that I was exploited. It was a really rocky relationship, and I definitely have a Lolita complex because of it. [laughs] … Teenage girls aren’t victims–they know a lot more than people think or probably want to admit. Nobody wants to believe that adolescents can be sexual beings and understand themselves…
So wait, she was exploited, but teenage girls aren’t victims? I’m so confused. One thing’s for sure: she’s certainly working it hard these days.
Regardless, my congrats to Bonnie for her album’s release. It looks like it’s getting some decent reviews. And to my former employee who seems to have inspired the album? Dude, we tried to tell you she was Trouble.
Phoenix Fest 2004
5 Jul 2004 In: GlowsticksThis weekend I made the trek back to Phoenix Fest.
For those who either don’t remember, or have chosen to forget, the last time I went to Phoenix Fest all hell broke loose. Or rather, all hell broke loose after I returned from Phoenix Fest and wrote about it for The Seattle Weekly.
The editor pushed for ever more prurient detail, I tried to navigate a 36 hour deadline, and the result was an article that the editor felt was a little “puffy” (i.e. too glowing) and that just about everyone else thought was an intentionally malicious handwritten note from the devil that would single-handedly bring about three things:
1. The absolute death of Northwest rave culture at the hand of conservative, blood-thirsty Seattle Weekly readers
2. The imminent dismissal of the Klickitat County Sheriff and total county-wide anarchy
3. The end of public sex as we know it!
Naturally, none of these things happened, but for a few weeks in the eyes of a few hundred people I was Seattle’s Most Hated Raver.
Never mind that I’d dedicated almost seven years of my life to the rave community or that I’d spent four years editing a magazine that sought to portray the West coast rave community in the most positive light possible. No, circa August 2002, I was a rave pariah, a whore of the highest degree (and yes: people actually called me a whore — thanks over-reacting rave community!). Everyone seemed to be angry, except for my editor at The Weekly, who sent me an excited email for every letter to the editor that was received about my article. He was pleased as punch that the community was so up in arms about something published in The Weekly, not a publication typically noticed by Seattle’s ravers.
Anyway. That was two years ago. Realistically, the whole thing was an excellent learning process for me, and I like to think a few other people as well. I learned a lot about editor’s goals vs. writer’s goals, quick turn-arounds, and how to gracefully stand your ground when criticized for expressing an opinion. I like to think that others learned a little about perspective and relativity.
Life goes on, folks. Ultimately, no one really gives a flying fuck what was printed in The Weekly two years ago. But for those who do, here’s a little treat: For the first time, I’m making my original draft of my 2002 Seattle Weekly Phoenix Fest article available to the public. You can read it here. Those of you who hated the final product can take a look at the original intent of the piece.
Perhaps as a peace offering (perhaps not, who knows?) one of the core organizers of Phoenix Fest gifted Andreas and I with two tickets to this year’s festival. So we went. And, in the spirit of Lotus Magazine event reviews, and the spirit of The Weekly desperately trying to sound more like The Stranger by snarkily writing about underground events, here is my event review. You’ll have to excuse me if I’m a little out of practice on this kind of writing.
The venue for this year’s Phoenix Fest was excellent. The fields where the event was hosted were under the looming shadow of Washington’s Mount Adams, and caught breezes intended for the Hood River. We camped in the Quiet Camping area, which was sheer heaven for aging ravers. The soundsystems were a 10 minute forested walk away. This meant that yes, there was a muffled continual thump of bass at the edge of our hearing, but only occasionally could we hear Chickenhed, my most reviled soundsystem from 2002.
We arrived in Klickitat County late Saturday afternoon, and found the weather ideal. Warm, but not too hot. Dry, but not excessively dusty … although I say that in relation to Burning Man. The temperatures hovered in the high 70s and low 80s for most of Saturday and Sunday, and got down into the upper 40s during the night. Perfect temperatures for modeling freaky techno-tribal daywear as well as trashy Burning Man freak-duds at night.
In terms of performances, I would have to say that the high point of weekend for me was Saul Williams. This strikes me as ironic: at a music festival, I was the most profoundly affected by spoken word. But if Saul Williams had taken a moment to scan the crowd, I’m sure that he would have seen that I wasn’t the only one who spent over an hour with my jaw unhinged muttering things like “…shit!” I don’t think it takes a writer to recognize that Saul Williams has a magical way with words, and when I went to tell him so afterwards, I got all choked up and blubbery with gratitude. (Dude: who is this sappy sniveling creature I’ve become? What’s next: weeping Jesus figurines on my mantel?)
Unfortunately, Saturday night also reacquainted me with a type of raver character I’d forgotten: the headtripper. Allow me to introduce the concept, although those of you who’ve spent time at raves, Dead shows, or other such events will know right away what I’m talking about.
There are people at these sorts of parties who like to have a little social gimmick. Perhaps they’re insecure and looking for a social crutch, or maybe they’re just tricksters who get a kick out of what they’re doing. Whatever: these headtrippers like to fuck with high people at parties. The sad thing is that they seem to assume that everybody at the event is fucked up, and most of them don’t seem to have much of an idea of what to do when they encounter someone who’s wits are still fully about them.
I had an encounter after Saul Williams with one such person. I got cold near the end of Saul Williams’ set, and spent the last ten minutes standing at the back of the crowd hooping to keep my blood moving. Next to me appeared a guy in a large top hat, a mask, and what appeared to be a foam rubber pumpkin costume. He stood next to me, strumming a guitar and waiting for me to acknowledge him. I, meanwhile, was complete focused on Saul Williams. Pumpkin guy kept strumming and trying to get my attention.
After Saul was done, I went to go have my afore-mentioned blubbery thank you moment with him. As I walked around the back of the stage, guitar guy followed me closely, strumming and sort of dancing around. I finally got irritated and turned to him and demanded, “Did you need something?” He seemed taken aback (”Wait a minute — SHE’S NOT TRIPPING!”) but refused to step out of character and acknowledge that he was trying to trip out someone who wasn’t exactly receptive or interested. I mean, I think I was supposed to be like “WOAH! GUY IN WEIRD OUTFIT! WOAH!! AM I SEEING THIS? WOOOOOAH!” Instead I was asking him what he wanted, and he answered by dancing around and saying “Ooh, I’m not shadowing you … I’m not shadowing you!”
People who go to parties just to fuck with high folks need to get something better to do. It’s a bit mean-spirited, but more than anything else it’s really irritating to those of us who don’t get so fucked up that we’re completely confused by someone in a mask and a guitar, or someone making meowing sounds in the dark. Maybe other people get a kick out of this sort of thing. I never have. At a party many years ago, I once helped a friend procure some acid. The guy who I got it from assumed that I had injested it, and then tried to fuck with me by speaking in strange rhythms, reallyfasttalking and then really…slowed…down…speech. I told him to shut the fuck up, stop assuming I was high, and get out of my face. I hate headfuckers.
Perhaps I was just irritable at Phoenix Fest. I had an encounter later in the night with someone who was heckling Blackalicious. Chief was taking a couple moments to introduce one of their more political songs, and heckler was standing in the back of the crowd shouting “PLAY SOME FUCKIN’ MUSIC! SHUT UP AND PLAY SOME MUSIC! I GOT CNBC AT HOME! PLAY SOME FUCKING MUSIC!” I finally just had to storm up to him and remind him that he had six stages of music to choose from, and could he please shut up. He sloshed some of his beer and slurred, “There are a thousand people here — why you gotta talk to me?” Dude, because you’re a prick. Now shut the fuck up. I didn’t say that, though. I just said, “Hey: I’m just reminding you that you’ve got a lot of options here.” Somehow this became a metaphor for me about people who would rather bitch than take the situation into their own hands, but realistically I think the guy was just drunk.
Seriously: if he was going to heckle Blackalicious, he should have heckled them about their continual shout-outs about “How’s it going, OREGON!” I winced every time. Whoever picked these guys up at the airport needed to let them know that they were playing in Washington. Every time they said something about “Let’s hear it, PORTLAND!” I thought about how cool it would have been if they were like, “HEY KLICKITAT COUNTY, GIMME SOME NOISE!” Or, “TROUT LAKE, LEMME HEAR YOU!” That would have been incredibly cool.
I spent most of Saturday night wandering from stage to stage. I like the house stage in the far corner of the field, but the trance stage next door was set up in a way that created some really awful sound bleed. The breakbeat stage was gorgeous, and I caught part of Tipper’s set, which wobbled between totally inspired and somewhat intolerable. Guy can scratch, and I liked some of his deep bass-y tunes, but some of it felt undanceable to me, and so I didn’t catch the whole set.
I caught the fire performance. I’ve written critically in the past about fire shows, and I’m afraid that this performance lived down to my expectations. The performers did not seem to be having any fun and as a result, I didn’t have fun either. The fire performers did have the best heckler of the evening, though. Kudos to the woman who walked by shouting, “Oooh! LOOK! FIRE! BURNING THINGS! THERE’S A BURN BAN! THERE’S A BURN BAN!” It’s true. There is a county-wide burn ban in Klickitat county, something that was at the forefront of my mind when the fire dancer with the flaming hula hoop got tangled in her hoop and threw the flaming circle onto the tinder-dry yellow grass. Everything was fine, but I couldn’t watch the remainder of the show.
I also liked the techno/house stage near the vendor area, but the fluorescent lights that were facing outwards into the field from the dance area pushed me away. I spent 40 hours a week under fluorescent lights…having them set up facing outward was like a reverse magnet, pushing me farther and farther away, despite how much I liked the music. The ambient barn, while gorgeous, was too loud. I mean, it’s an ambient barn! And the music was REALLY LOUD. And there were BEATS. That’s not ambient, although I will not debate that it was in a barn. And that the barn was decorated gorgeously.
Like the aging raver I am, I was asleep by 2am. This meant I missed Eddie’s sunrise set, which sort of breaks my heart. But I will say that I slept GREAT. The quiet camping area really was QUIET (unlike last year, when the “quiet” area was filled with the sounds of one Chickenhed clapping).
I think I heard my favorite musical set of the weekend Saturday afternoon. Swank hit the nail on the head for me with a mix of Sting, Outkast, and various songs about lazy sunny afternoons. PERFECT.
Socially, I saw people at Phoenix Fest who I haven’t seen in many many years. I even met a couple people who I knew of, but to whom I had never been introduced. I met one NWtekno.org regular who informed me that I was “much cooler” than he expected, and he thought I would be seven feet tall. It was all a sham, of course: I secretly am a seven-foot tall stark raving bitch who eats event promoters for dinner and shits out op-ed pieces. I only look like a normal person when I’m trying to get a good pull-quote for an article. My talons pop out once people’s backs are turned. Oh, and I have an army of flying monkeys.
I was especially thankful to have an excuse to explore this gorgeous corner of the state. My camping crew and I stopped at Multnomah Falls and hiked for an hour on the way home. The people-watching was exquisite! We even got soft-serve swirly cones.
Oh and PS: For anyone who criticized me in 2002 for writing about “public sex” at Phoenix Fest, I witnessed people having sex out in the open again this year. Believe it!
Also, I have a few pictures.
Mother Earth
21 Jun 2004 In: GlowsticksHow about a long diary-like post with lots of passive tense and no culminating point? OK!
This weekend Andreas and I packed up the truck and headed northward on the black ribbon of death (aka I-5) to Bellingham.
Our first stop found us at the brand new home of Susannah, Michael, and baby Hank. They just bought a bungalow out on the Mount Baker highway, and Dre and I swung by for what I thought was going to be a quick visit.
Hank was already sacked out, so we had a “grown up dinner” just the four of us, followed by a wedding cake taste test. Susannah offered to make us two wedding cakes, one vegan and one not. Friday she took a first stab at a vegan carrot cake with fake cream cheese frosting. OH MY GOD. It was good. It impressed even me, the non-vegans. SO YUMMY! Susannah also has great ideas for how to design the cakes with our circle/hoop/ring theme. So exciting!
Our quick visit stretched later and later, and by the third glass of wine we’d abandoned our plans of making it to Mother Earth, the Oracle Gathering that was happening a few miles away. Andreas and Michael sat around a campfire in the backyard while Susannah and I gossiped about our families. We were all asleep by 12:30.
I woke up Saturday to the sounds of Susannah excited about Hank sitting on his baby potty. Suz’s sounds changed quickly though, after Hank stood up and peed on her foot right before she had to run off to work.
We were out of bed by 7:30 or so, and enjoyed cups of coffee (side note: I drank coffee! woah!) with Hank and Michael. We puttered around in their new huge back field, fed the goldfish in the enormous murky pond, and marveled at Hank’s verbal skills. He’s AMAZING! I don’t know how much of that is just him, how much of it is Suz and Michael, and how much of it is thanks to Hank having done infant sign language workshops with Echo, but WOAH. He is an absolutely stunning communicator.
Dre and I headed into Bellingham to stock up on food at the Co-op. Andreas had flashbacks from his days as a failing freshman and sophomore at Western Washington University, when he used to hang out in front of the B’ham co-op for whole days.
We were stocked up and headed out to the Deming Logging Show fairgrounds — only three miles from Susannah and Michael’s house — where the Oracle Gathering’s solstice party was being hosted.
Even though we’d been awake for three hours, we arrived just as the festival was slowly waking up. Gorgeous grounds — the party took place in the parking lot of the fairgrounds, which was soft green grass, soft rolling hills, and a few trees for shade. Perfect!
We plopped down our blanket in the shade under a tree. We were near the main stage (which was empty at our early hour of arrival) and sat with our books and my hoops.
Over the course of the next couple hours, we watched a couple workshops about DNA activation. Out of respect for those who interested in the practice, I will simply say this: the concept doesn’t, um, resonate with me.
Instead, I hooped. I hooped and I hooped. People would approach and hoop with me for a while, and then wander off. I kept hooping. MORE HOOPING.
We followed the shade of the tree as the sun moved across the sky. Our blanket moved ever couple ours to keep us in the shade, and I hooped more.
Since it was so close to her home, I convinced Susannah and Hank to come by for a few hours. It was Hank’s first festival, and I think he had a great time.
I spent most of my time people watching. I love being among these people. Even though I haven’t seen some of them for a couple years, they’re still delightful to stare at. There was the bearded beat boxing hippy who changed his clothes seven times during the course of the day, wearing a series of brightly colored, transparent women’s lingerie. The culmination of his fashion show had to be the hot pink unitard with the butt cheeks sliced open.
Due to noise complaints the night before, the organizers of the event were forced to start the music much earlier than usual … the sound system turned on around 5pm. I’ve gotten used to my Southern California day parties, so I was wishing that the music had been on since noon, but 5pm was good. It meant that there was dancing and hooping all through the late afternoon and sunset, the dance floor fully packed at twightlight.
I’m absolutely a day dancer. This might be related to my (relative) sobriety, or just be thanks to the fact that I like to SEE the people I’m dancing with. Plus, it’s midsummer and I want to celebrate the sunlight! There’s plenty of cold months for dancing in the dark.
So I was happy happy hooping into the evening. There was some beautiful spoken word performed by a woman named Laura Kelly, and the music was relatively up my alley. Not QUITE funky enough, and maybe a few bpms below my optimal rate, but pretty damn good.
By 11pm or so, I was getting tired out. I’d been hooping in the sun all day, and energy reserves were getting very low. I managed some last attempts at dancing, and then sat down in preparation for the midnight ritual performance.
Now, let me say this: in years past, I have been deeply critical of ritual performances at parties. The entertainment struck me as too passive, clearing the dance floor so that people could watch OTHER people dance. In addition, the ritual performances I’d seen at Oracle Gatherings in 2001 and 2002 were, well, amateurish. Not only was the dance floor cleared, it was cleared so that we could watch people do stuff that wasn’t all that entertaining. I reached a certain point where I would simply leave the dance floor and go elsewhere rather than watch the performances.
Well, I stand corrected. I stayed to watch this performance, and the quality of the show was fantastic! The story line was familiar territory to anyone who’s familiar with pagan practices — an act for each direction/element/season/etc, showing the cyclic nature of mother earth, etc etc. I’ve been attending my mother’s pagan pageants and goddess revivals for years, so it wasn’t the theme or ideas presented in the performance that wowed me — it was the skill of the performers! Belly dance, elaborately choreographed staff and sword fights, tribal ballet duets, acrobatics, and a little fire … but not too much. It was a great show, and I even got sort of choked up at the end. (?!)
It was funny afterwards to hear my friend Owen say, “How often do you see something like THAT?” to which I had to respond, “Dude, I’ve seen things like that almost my whole life …. but that one was actually really good.”
Then, so as to avoid noise complaints, the sound system was shut off. This may have disappointed a lot of people, but for a day dancer like myself, it was heaven….dance all day, and then go to bed! NICE.
The only bad thing about the weekend? Someone walked off with one of my hoops, and I lost my Haviana flip-flops.
If you want to see a few pictures, here you go.
This was a segment from my book proposal, but due to a restructuring it doesn’t fit any more. So I’m sharing it here.
I had a glimpse into the creation of popular culture, and I saw first hand the lack of reality in what we see and what we think we want. I got right into the thick of the wanting. And it made me want a little less.
Spring of 2001 I attended Gathering of the Tribes, which brought together underground rave organizers and community members from up and down the West Coast. I attended as the editor of Lotus Magazine, filling dual roles as reporter and community activist.
At the conference I met the founder of a harm reduction organization that was building a popular and successful national drug education network. The founder told me that he’d been in contact with some MTV-affiliated filmmakers who were making a documentary about Ecstasy. They were looking for a couple people to demonstrate the responsible, adult use of the drug.
“Would you be interested?” he’d asked me. I said that I was, in part because there was a cute friend involved. Cue the lights, I’ve got my hair gel applied and was ready for my close up.
A month or two later, MTV flew me to San Francisco to be a part of the filming of the documentary. By the time I arrived, the film crew had already been in town for a day, and the “plot” of the documentary was already well under way.
My cute friend and his polyamorous girlfriend assumed pseudonyms, and played the part of affluent San Francisco professionals who occasionally used Ecstasy. The truth, however, was that these two both worked for the harm reduction organization and did drugs whenever they pleased. Their non-profit wages don’t go very far in San Francisco, and apparently the film crew was unimpressed by my friends’ small Oakland apartment. Filming arrangements were made with a retired dot-com friend who had an expansive house in The City.
By the time I joined the documentary, my friend and his girlfriend were clearly under a lot of stress. They’d been filming all day and were starting to feel the weight of staying in character. The girlfriend stood, chopping vegetables and trying to pretend like the dotcom retiree’s kitchen was hers, even though she wasn’t sure which pots were in which cabinets. Not much off-the-cuff banter here: conversation was carefully thought-out, in an effort to convey Ecstasy use in the best, most responsible light.
I found the situation odd and uncomfortable. I had to remember to call my friend and his girlfriend by their pseudonyms, and interacting with them on screen felt about as natural an improv theater exercise. “YES, and! Ecstasy is also bla bla bla.”
The filmmakers had decided that it was more important for me to use my real name and job title for clout. Already unsure about the ramifications of on-screen intoxication, once the decision was made to use my real name, I realized that my role was going to be as the sober friend.
My big MTV debut, and I was the sober third wheel with blue dreadlocks. In New Kids terms, I was to be the Danny Wood of the show. The awkward one that no one remembers.
I stayed out of the way for most of the evening. It’s never that much fun to hang out with high people when you’re sober — even when your high friends aren’t mugging for the rolling cameras. I made a few brief appearances, including one where I sat cross-legged on the living room floor and talked about why I wasn’t doing Ecstasy.
“I’ve found that using Ecstasy too often gives diminishing emotional returns,” I lectured. “The more often you do it, the less often you get much out of it. Therefore, [pause to look around earnestly at the gathered sitcom family including Gramma Whimple and Mrs. Pool] I’m not doing Ecstasy tonight.” Needless to say, I ended up on the cutting room floor. Needless to say, I preferred it that way.
If you watch the documentary, you see me smoking a cigarette on a roof, and dancing at a street fair. You also see two very good friends of mine playing the roles of people they aren’t. I agree whole-heartedly with the reasons they chose to play the roles. The cultural landscape is desperate for a few examples of responsible adults who can use drugs recreationally and NOT become crack whores. But having seen first hand just how clouded even documentaries are by the agendas of those involved, my love affair with popular culture became much more difficult.
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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