The options: head out to L.A. to (the club formerly known as) Funktion for Mark Farina (, a drop-dead boring NOS party up the street from my house (sigh), or Galaxian, featuring none other than Paulina Taylor (hoo-hah!). Sounded like a no-brainer. At least I thought so. Indecision is a bitch, and after a couple popped balloons, some sad shaking of my head at such blatant disregard for that membrane that separates your brain from your skull, and getting at least two people pissed off at me for telling them to “uh, call me back in a bit; we don’t know what we’re doing yet” thrice each, we finally managed to round up a carload for the lo-o-ong trek to Riverside. And, after the (mandatory) ATM, gas station, and liquor store stops, we were on our way. Nevermind it was already nearly 12:00, the night was still young.

An almost hour-long drive to the middle of nowhere is definitely cause for some quiet reflection time (for me at least), that is, unless a full bottle of peppermint schnapps is ‘magically’ discovered amidst the wreckage of flyers, dead glowsticks and assorted crap that is required for any raver’s backseat. It was hailed by all involved as a good omen, and we weren’t far off. Actually, the only drawback to the drive (other than the extra money spent on gas and unnecessary engine wear) was our resident cynic smirking from the back seat and calmly informing us on many occasions that “dude, we missed Paulina Taylor. Sorry“. Faithless Bastard.
Before the party, there was a wedding.  I think the bride was down to party...  Hey babe, are you sure you want to get married at such a young age? -37I’ve been to some parties in interesting places, a slick-floored roller-skating rink in Timbuktu had topped the list until Galaxian. It makes my heart swell with pride at being a raver to think of what the daytime patrons of the place would have thought if they had seen what we did to their bowling alley and strip mall parking lot. I’m sure the people at the Christian Fellowship offices would have been first in line to hit up the Pikachu bounce-house. After purchasing our tickets (damn indecision!) at the van we headed in. And as an aside, the only place security ever checks what’s in my hands, as opposed to the multitude of pockets adorning my pants, is at Circus Disco. Galaxian was no different than all the others, and as usual my ziplock full of pills and Glock-9 made it in safely (kidding). God loves the posted set list, and it was the first thing we checked. If schnapps is a good omen, I need to buy a case, because we had arrived not five minutes before Paulina Taylor was set to make my brain melt with happiness. There are few things that will without fail get my adrenaline gushing, my pulse racing, and my muscles jittering. The ’Teacups’ at Disneyland is one, and knowing that in scant moments I will be dancing to happycore is another.
Having missed Paulina Taylor, and good happycore in general at so many other parties, I was primed to be blown away, and was not let down. When ’everytime I close my eyes’ hit the speakers I was literally somewhere else, somewhere better, and as far as I’m concerned, everyone else in that room was there with me. I couldn’t wipe that smile of my face for the life of me, and I wouldn’t have wanted to. My traditional bitch after a party is that there wasn’t enough room to dance (I’ve trained in modern and ballet and can take up a good amount of space if I want to), but the thought occured to me that if there was more room to move, there would have been less people, and the energy coming off all those people in there was (for this kid) better than any drug I could have dropped.
The party could have ended right then and I could have left knowing I got my money’s worth. But wait! There was more. On to the ’trance alley’ I wandered, drained from the intensity of the hardcore closet. Now, I’m not cool enough to go to ’cosmic bowling’ at my local tiki lanes, so the scene in the actual trance room was just about as surreal as it gets for your average Saturday night. In retrospect, the music was average and the sheer amount of square space coupled with low ceilings made for an acoustically poor setup, but at the time I just wanted to go off and dance, so technicalities weren’t foremost on my mind. The lighting and laser effects and such were definitely better than many I’d seen, and the overall theme made for a novel set-up, but it really wasn’t that crowded. I, for example, could make my way easily on to the dancefloor, right up to the turntables or the speakers with a minimum of dodging dancers, and entirely no crush. Such is the benefit of a massive space, complete with nice little chairs for those so inclined to sit (as opposed to underfoot); more room overall. The drawback, as I see it, is that for as much as I bitch about a crowded party, more people equals more energy equals more fun. I felt like the party was ending whenever I went into the trance room, simply because there wasn’t that crush of people trying to dance in between each other to give it that “going off the hook” feel.
Not long after our “fashionably late” arrival, my associates drowsily informed me that, yes, they had taken pills. Which meant that I couldn’t (drat), because it had fallen into my lap to be the group caretaker and ensure that everyone was having a good time, keep the water and blo-pops flowing and, of course, drive home. They assured me that it wouldn’t happen next time.
The rest of the night was a haze of bass, cushy chairs, dancing, various glowing items, and good-vibe people. I had an especially good time in the house hallway, which is actually kind of frightening, if anyone knows what I’m talking about (I suppose my own personal house vs. trance controversy is a matter for another piece). Nevermind the space it was shoehorned into. I personally loved the turntables set up in front of the bowling-trophy case. It was pure kitsch, all night long. The music was as good as any I’ve heard down at the Shaolin Temple (and the room was cooler, too), but Wally Callerio was conspicuously absent, despite near top billing on the flyer. Or maybe he was there. I didn’t notice. I do know for certain that I missed Dazy, which upset me greatly (I made up for it at Futurehouse, though). At worst, the house area was an overglorified, well-lit footpath to the trance room, and at best it had good music and was a nice place to chill without going outside.
I finally broke down and got my own pair of white gloves, which I quite enjoyed. And while at the vendor booth, I nearly purchased a kandy necklace, but it occured to me that buying one just isn’t right (I suppose my own personal ’to kandy or not to kandy’ dilemma is a matter for another piece). I honestly could not force myself into the jungle room. I can handle D & B, but unless I’m partying with two very specific people, I just can’t do it. The area looked nice though.
Quite a night. Or early morning. For me, the party was definitely going at full speed from the moment we passed through that gate into our little realm of alternate reality, but lost it’s momentum after those first few (fast) beats of bliss, slowing until the inevitable, cracked-out stumble to the car. An hour later, we were at Del-Taco by my house, watching the overcast sky get lighter and lighter.
As a prologue, after wiping the crust out of my eyes around 4:30 (pm), I set about to my Sunday rituals of laundry and such, when I was contacted by a dear friend who informed me that I should start getting ready. “Ready for what?” I inquired. “Why, FutureHouse tonight in L.A.” came the reply. I groaned. “How long will that go off for?“ “Don’t worry! It goes off until ten a.m.!” Sigh. It didn’t go off that long, but that’s a matter for another piece.