Saturday, August 20, 2005

Paul Van Dyke

Trance God...that's what I heard him referred to as at work. He was going to be playiong a long set at Nation tonight, and so I decided taht, if I didn't feel like shit after getting home, I'd take a shower and head down. Hopefully there would be tickets at the window (they were selling many online), and hopefully my metro ride wouldn't be wasted.

I get there, I buy a ticket, I make it in. It is early, and the god isn't due for another hour it seems. I zone in and out to the house DJ, satisfying what may be my most guilty pleasure: I really like bright lights and heavy thumps, foggers and glow sticks. I likje seeing hot women in skimpy clothing. I like seeing people flipping out in rhythm. I like to attend raves and their club equivalents.

I'm on Coke. The good stuff, mind you, headquartered in Atlanta. I find this to be the Nectar of the gods, and wonder if Paul van Dyke likes it. I've never heard of the guy before tonight, but find myself very curious as to what makes a trance god. As if I could tell. I do assume, however, that like all gods he must like Coke. And that, given time, he'll make it rain manna from the sky to feed all the worshippers on the dance floor.

The house is packed tight, the main dance floor giving little room for anyone to show their stuff. I end up between a couple guys and in front of a vision sent from Heaven itself. Glasses, nose stud, lip ring, book tucked into the waist of her long pants, hair fastened back by some simple hair pins, sandals, skimpy top. She's with a friend in a similar get-up, but with a Care Bear t-shirt instead. The Vision dances, her friend does not.

I do my best to let me body go with the base.

I get groped by women. I get groped by men. I don't really care at that point, too many people to avoid it. I grope women. I occasionally groped men. My hands would just go out and see what they got. I imagine its like fishing, where it doesn't matter that much what you catch, if anything at all. You can always toss it back.

Paul takes over the DJ booth. The sermon begins. The energy in the crowd was almost palpitable and was contagious. Thirty minutes into the set something new: the blast the fog machines directly into the crowd and kick up all the strobe lights. The effect: zero visibility that alternates between darkness and white. T3h awesome. People let loose then. Nobody cared about who was grinding on what, myself included. By the time the fog lifted, I noticed my hands had been on the Vision. What warmed my heart, though, was that we had both stopped a second to wipe our glasses down. Thats some movie shit, right there, if they made decent movies.

The vision and her friend are driven out of the crowd by some jerk that is hitting up on them despite their requests telling him to go away. I lose track of her for good, more or less. Depression sets in, possibly due to losing a golden opportunity, possibly due to the liquor kicking in.

A man offers to sell me "poof." I decline, saying "No, but thank you very much." He laughs. I suppose that was entirely too polite a rejection for that sort of thing, but I'm not one to be rude. I catch a couple in the corner, girl giving the guy head. I wonder if anyone else notices. I join the thrashers in the smaller dance floor for a while, feeling the need to unwind. I watch the breakdancers for a while, wondering if I should make a total ass of myself.

All in all, it was fun. Paul van Dyke may very well have been a god, his music damn good from the little I understand of the genre. Even the wonders of a trance god can't make vodka and red bull taste good, though. I'll stick to Rum and Coke. Tomorrow is Mousetrap. Trance it isn't, but Britpop may be even better. Doubtless I'll be graced by another vision. Maybe this one I'll get a number for.

Daniel "Danger" V

P.S. - Sorry to hear about the water problems, David. Don't plot evil against the bitch, Meg, just lay down a clear and obvious ultimatum about who lives there, pays rent, and has 2/3 voice in who the fuck gets to come in or not. Where did you get the hat, Jack? Where the fuck are you, David's younger brother?

P.P.S. - WTF is poof? Marijuana, I'm guessing. Maybe I should have taken the guy up on it, just to see what it was. Or maybe he was a NARC.

9 Comments:

At Sat Aug 20, 11:41:00 PM EDT, Blogger Dave/Scott said...

I've done a search on poof and the only thing I can find is "smoking ice." I'll ask the druggy roommate whenever he comes back.

 
At Sat Aug 20, 11:50:00 PM EDT, Blogger Jack and Coke said...

I'm back and will be posting more that I'm not working 60+ hours a week.

 
At Sun Aug 21, 01:49:00 AM EDT, Blogger Dave/Scott said...

Yeah, I'm getting tired of looking at my own posts here. Ya'll need to post more.

 
At Sun Aug 21, 02:23:00 AM EDT, Blogger Danger said...

Quality, not quantity...

*rereads post*

Well, at least it's sort of long...

 
At Sun Aug 21, 09:21:00 AM EDT, Blogger Dave/Scott said...

True.

 
At Mon Aug 22, 04:59:00 PM EDT, Blogger Dave/Scott said...

Well, if "poof" is "smoking ice," then there's a good chance it's crack.

 
At Mon Aug 22, 10:17:00 PM EDT, Blogger Danger said...

After some investigation, I found out it was Crystal Meth. Wicked...

 
At Tue Aug 23, 12:29:00 AM EDT, Blogger Jack and Coke said...

you grope men?

 
At Tue Aug 23, 07:26:00 AM EDT, Blogger Dave/Scott said...

Sounds like a rave-like-deal.

 

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