Welp, it’s autumn and fuck me don’t we all know it. The heating here decided to follow the example of pretty much every fucking electronic device in my immediate surroundings, and die on me. Right now that I am refraining from eating to save money (for more overpriced electronics, you see), my electrical heater broke. Mother fucker.
This place is a drafthole and hard to keep clean, but you can’t beat its location. Not only am I two blocks away from the city center, but it’s quiet here and there’s a cute little park nearby. And that last thing, is what’s awesome around this time of year.
From one day to the next, the street is coated by a thick carpet of dry leaves (or wet leaves, eventually) as if an Ent passed by and took a shit on the pavement.
Just last year I felt like kicking them up instead of legging over them, and at that moment, an epiphany revealed itself to me in all its glory.
Just when did this child in us die? What told us that it’s not okay to consider the floor lava, or leaves should be kicked? If you think about it, it’s not so hard to put yourself in that child-like state of mind- or is that just me? Be honest. Do you remember when the world was a mystery to you? How the grown-ups seemed like they could do everything, and know all? How you didn’t get why we had to sit in that car for so many hours, just to end up in the Ardennes? How it didn’t make sense to have a tv screen in a hall, and it wasn’t playing cartoons?
Do you remember growing up? The warm comfort of no responsibility whatsoever; not a care in the world but the chalk on the pavement. The games we used to play, real games unlike those of today. The limitless fantasy we had, a world of good guys and bad guys and LEGO kung-fu (in my case).
Around the time when we hit puberty, we lost track of it with all the new worries. You remember, that night you couldn’t sleep because you had a crush. Yes you do. Suddenly forward became the way to go, and adulthood should be embraced as swiftly as possible. Graduate, graduate again, get a job where you were an intern, buy a car.
Next time you encounter a pile of leaves, just wade through. It’ll make you feel good, and make you wonder why the grown-ups no longer do.
Everybody knows you dance like you fuck,
You dance like you fuck,
you dance like you fuck.
Holy shit am I beat. You know it was good when your ears are ringing, your voice is sore and you’re as sober like Mother Theresa after she quit smoking. Or is that just me?
Amusing how, after seeing five years in the business worth of live acts, and studying as a stage technician who should have a relatively refined taste in music, I still find my entertainment in (besides the Silversun Pickups- so sue me) dark bars in the entirely wrong end of town, with chains hanging down from the ceiling and the entire eight pieces of Hellraiser on four widescreens on the wall. And did I mention the electro blasting through the speakers?
If you go through my entire, badly organized (since The Crash) MP3 collection, you might find a few on there of that particular genre because I happen to be a fan of VNV Nation. But other than that, I don’t care much about the whole cybergoth scene.
Except! They happen to build the best parties in town. There’s something about the music that triggers me, not to mention the BDSM atmosphere hanging there. Sitting in a corner chilling out is amusing in itself, watching the door and all the odd costumes walking through. All the clichés are there: There’s the pink bunnies, the cyber-outfitted dreadlocks with plastic tubing, cockteases with strategically placed gaps in their clothing, the sunglasses too cool to dance, and of course the dickweeds like me who don’t bother with the “scene” any more than necessary to be allowed in.
And yet, while at other events you get odd looks for dressing or walking different, they hardly give you a decent look-over here. Which is fine by me. Everybody looks like the Tron: Legacy trailer threw up on them and dances like a freak, and nobody is going to stare or point because you’re different. Put that on top of no-nonsense, scarily aggressive beats and you’ve got my kind of party. Standing among the freaks in a room lit by no more than four Double Derbys and two lasers, under mutilated baby dolls, is where I feel right at home.
What does that say about me, anyway? I chose not to care. What I can tell you is how badly I needed this yearly outlet.