Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Arizona raves suck
About a year ago Mike and I decided to attend a rave that Mike's buddy would be playing at. He told me that it would be in the middle of the woods up in Flagstaff Arizona. The campground environment and the fact that his friend would be spinning were the only reasons he agreed to attend. I just couldn't wait to get back to a subculture that I used to love so much in my late teens and early twenties, yet haven't revisited since my "maturing". Those were my heydays though, not high school or frat parties. Those nights when I was with friends and we were dancing, talking, smoking, tripping, laughing, joking, and generally loving life were some of the best of my life.
Let me stray off course for a moment to a related story. Recently a coworker and I were divulging our drug histories to each other. He comes from south Phoenix, kind of a ghetto, and he made it out so his experimentation was very limited. He had only one weed experience and lots and lots of binge drinking, especially in the Marines. So he was fairly shocked to hear about all the shit that I'd done, especially the acid. He had only heard of it, like most, through health class videos. You know the ones. A guy gets offered a hit after he's dumped or gets an "F" or something. He takes it and immediately starts wigging out. Usually he makes his way to the top of a building somehow and starts to see visions of devils or murderers pointing fingers at him or something horrible. He jumps. He dies. It was the acid's fault. Acid is evil and will kill you, lesson learned. Fine by me, actually. If you can't handle your high, don't ruin it for the rest of us. So because I had survived he wanted me to explain to him what it felt like to trip acid.
I told him it starts out like nothing. I mean you feel nothing. This can go on for a couple hours sometimes. But then you start to tweek, and I mean it's like you just did a quadruple espresso and you just stand there, grinding your teeth and flexing every muscle in your body. My wife jumps up and down. It feels great, but that's not what it's about. After the tweeking subsides, which is usually about 30 to 45 minutes you start to have mild hallucinations and you feel a warm buzz in the pit of your guts. This will go on for upwards of eight hours and it's here that the thoughts change and you enter a new realm that you are creating as you go. Only here does it make sense. But, like all things drug, the experience depends on the amount and purity of the shit you take.
With acid, it is true that you can potentially have a bad trip. And bad trips suck real bad. So, in order to prevent one, you keep good company and have your little adventures. You can't be afraid of tripping, because once you drop it's a little late for worries. And above all, you have either a babysitter of sorts or some way to trigger yourself into remembering that you're on drugs. For me it was a Bic lighter. I'd flick it and stare into the flame's corona, reminding myself that the world I'm in is only temporary and that I should enjoy it. Once everything dies down you fall asleep. You wake up and feel no after effects. And for me, that was about the extent of it. Everybody who's done it has their story. I never took more than a couple of hits at a time, so mine are pretty light.
But back to my rave story.
I wasn't trying to relive the past and I wasn't trying to act younger than I am. After all I still am young. I'm only 28. I still have a lot of raving left in these rhythmless feet. Before we left town I was picturing this fantastic spectacle in a clearing of the wilderness with lights and pulsing trance music, people dancing frantically with glowsticks, and a juice bar selling LSD and weed over the counter. That's what I'd grown accustomed to, and that was in lameass Indiana. This is Arizona, and the party was migrating to this location from Phoenix, so it was bound to be a trip beyond comprehension, right?
100% fucking wrong. Bummer.
I've seen more out of control baby showers. First of all, I didn't mind that I had to drive my car through an almost completely uncleared area. I thought that guaranteed us our privacy, and I suppose it did. And when we arrived we mingled and smoked some. We drank lots of beer. Normally alcohol is off limits at a rave, and I understand why completely. The sun went down and the music started thumping. The spinners were good and I really dug it. But there was something missing, aside from the acid. There was some element that is needed for it to be a rave that was sorely absent.
It was the mood. The place was so isolated that almost nobody came. But that's alright too. If the right people are there it can still be a special time. But the truth is that it was nothing but Mexican families there. I mean they brought their lawn chairs and formed a round table behind the dance area. They brought a grill and made carne asada. There were toddlers and women in their fifties. And they sure as fuck weren't planning on having Mike the gringo join their ranks. And those few of us who were there to have a rave were overwhelmed by the backyard barbecue feel of the whole thing. Mike was no help. He spent the whole event drinking and trying to hit on chicks.
So I did the only thing I could. I danced anyway. I did my weird little steps to the throbbing bass and pretended I was in some condemned warehouse celebrating my very existance. The stars were beautiful and the music was great, but it was all a futile effort. The whole event was contaminated by a lack of participants and an abundance of spectators. I got hammered and passed out in the car. Unlike acid, the next morning, I did feel something, hung over. I drove back, dropped Mike off at his car and went home to my waiting wife.
It just wasn't the same without her. Her and some hallucinogens.
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Let me stray off course for a moment to a related story. Recently a coworker and I were divulging our drug histories to each other. He comes from south Phoenix, kind of a ghetto, and he made it out so his experimentation was very limited. He had only one weed experience and lots and lots of binge drinking, especially in the Marines. So he was fairly shocked to hear about all the shit that I'd done, especially the acid. He had only heard of it, like most, through health class videos. You know the ones. A guy gets offered a hit after he's dumped or gets an "F" or something. He takes it and immediately starts wigging out. Usually he makes his way to the top of a building somehow and starts to see visions of devils or murderers pointing fingers at him or something horrible. He jumps. He dies. It was the acid's fault. Acid is evil and will kill you, lesson learned. Fine by me, actually. If you can't handle your high, don't ruin it for the rest of us. So because I had survived he wanted me to explain to him what it felt like to trip acid.
I told him it starts out like nothing. I mean you feel nothing. This can go on for a couple hours sometimes. But then you start to tweek, and I mean it's like you just did a quadruple espresso and you just stand there, grinding your teeth and flexing every muscle in your body. My wife jumps up and down. It feels great, but that's not what it's about. After the tweeking subsides, which is usually about 30 to 45 minutes you start to have mild hallucinations and you feel a warm buzz in the pit of your guts. This will go on for upwards of eight hours and it's here that the thoughts change and you enter a new realm that you are creating as you go. Only here does it make sense. But, like all things drug, the experience depends on the amount and purity of the shit you take.
With acid, it is true that you can potentially have a bad trip. And bad trips suck real bad. So, in order to prevent one, you keep good company and have your little adventures. You can't be afraid of tripping, because once you drop it's a little late for worries. And above all, you have either a babysitter of sorts or some way to trigger yourself into remembering that you're on drugs. For me it was a Bic lighter. I'd flick it and stare into the flame's corona, reminding myself that the world I'm in is only temporary and that I should enjoy it. Once everything dies down you fall asleep. You wake up and feel no after effects. And for me, that was about the extent of it. Everybody who's done it has their story. I never took more than a couple of hits at a time, so mine are pretty light.
But back to my rave story.
I wasn't trying to relive the past and I wasn't trying to act younger than I am. After all I still am young. I'm only 28. I still have a lot of raving left in these rhythmless feet. Before we left town I was picturing this fantastic spectacle in a clearing of the wilderness with lights and pulsing trance music, people dancing frantically with glowsticks, and a juice bar selling LSD and weed over the counter. That's what I'd grown accustomed to, and that was in lameass Indiana. This is Arizona, and the party was migrating to this location from Phoenix, so it was bound to be a trip beyond comprehension, right?
100% fucking wrong. Bummer.
I've seen more out of control baby showers. First of all, I didn't mind that I had to drive my car through an almost completely uncleared area. I thought that guaranteed us our privacy, and I suppose it did. And when we arrived we mingled and smoked some. We drank lots of beer. Normally alcohol is off limits at a rave, and I understand why completely. The sun went down and the music started thumping. The spinners were good and I really dug it. But there was something missing, aside from the acid. There was some element that is needed for it to be a rave that was sorely absent.
It was the mood. The place was so isolated that almost nobody came. But that's alright too. If the right people are there it can still be a special time. But the truth is that it was nothing but Mexican families there. I mean they brought their lawn chairs and formed a round table behind the dance area. They brought a grill and made carne asada. There were toddlers and women in their fifties. And they sure as fuck weren't planning on having Mike the gringo join their ranks. And those few of us who were there to have a rave were overwhelmed by the backyard barbecue feel of the whole thing. Mike was no help. He spent the whole event drinking and trying to hit on chicks.
So I did the only thing I could. I danced anyway. I did my weird little steps to the throbbing bass and pretended I was in some condemned warehouse celebrating my very existance. The stars were beautiful and the music was great, but it was all a futile effort. The whole event was contaminated by a lack of participants and an abundance of spectators. I got hammered and passed out in the car. Unlike acid, the next morning, I did feel something, hung over. I drove back, dropped Mike off at his car and went home to my waiting wife.
It just wasn't the same without her. Her and some hallucinogens.
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