Another Saturday Night

Dear Chicago hippie ravers,
leave your goddamn hula hoops at home before I find a way to kill you with them.

I'm angry this week. The rest of this blog is bitching.

Something weird happened the other day. I wasn't able to get into a show. This isn't because I have any clout or anything, it's just I don't go to many shows other people want to see, let alone shows at venues I can't sneak into somehow (this building was airtight), or that care about capacity violation issues. I thought getting into a Gays in the Military/Billy Carter Band/Functional Blackouts/ Mudqueens show all the way over at 5600 W. Belmont would be a piece of cake. Somehow, I underestimated the power of titties.

The Mudqueens are a group of women who hold charitable mudwrestling events to benefit various women's issues (empowerment, self defense, shelters for victims of abuse), all with a live trashpunk soundtrack. So with clean shoes and an ill temper I went to a genderfuck glamarchist party. The boys (bois?) were all hairless and naked and the whole first floor was dancing. This is where I learned something about myself: I can't dance to Modonna. It wasn't for lack of trying either. The theme was Madonna. It wasn't danceclub Madonna, Madonna with Mirwais, Madonna with William Orbit or anything, this was Madonna singles from the 80s and 90s and I tried for a good half hour to dance to them, only to find that I could not appreciate her music on a sincere or ironic level. No matter what I tried, I couldn't find a groove, so I left and hit up the EE loft.

We got there just as EE was playing their last song. We danced to the best of our ability (which was very good as my roommate and I can jive to EE much better than we can jive to Madonna). Then they stopped. Then the hula hoops came out. Dozens of them. It was, I was told, a hooping party. Even so, I was lacking in hh skills and I wasn't alone. There were not enough hoops to go around and people were getting hurt. Apparently hula hoopers do not care about what is around them and have no qualms about walking right into you with a giant spinning disc. These same assholes also seem to need hula hoops that have a diameter of at least five feet. Now I have no problem with hula hoopers. Some of my best friends are hula hoopers. I don't know why I seem to lose hip control whenever I am ringed, but I do and I'll never be one myself. Still, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that anyone who thinks they're too good for a regular size hula hoop in a crowded room is an arrogant cocksucker who should be shot in the face. My roommate, herself a hooper, did not seem to mind, I said it was time to go.

The last stop before burrito heaven was a black light party at Transamoeba, which carried a hefty ten dollar suggested donation even at 3 in the morning. Suggested that is. Except for the size, which was not-spectacular but well-utilized, it had all the makings of a rave: ample water, trance music, backrubs, skeezy white guys, a chill nook, a dance floor that was half prop-exhibition, et cetera. But something was off. These people were the biggest assholes of the night. It was like the entire party consisted of only-childs who refused to share their toys.

Tania, lacking a hula hoop, asked the guy holding the only pair of glowsticks in the room if she could twirl for a minute or to. The guy sent her to the girl who lent them to him, who proceeded to give us the crossest stare I've ever seen at a place where people were rolling. Tania did her tricks for a minute before she has the tubes of toxic gel snatched from her hands. We exchanged glances, stole some beer, and moved on to the next toy. Some men and women were showing off for the circle they forced around them by twirling weighted squares of fabric. Tania begged. More cross stares, and a few warnings not to "fuck up our fabric." Tania got to do this for a whole minute-and-a-half before one of the pieces of fabric touched the ground and she was scolded.

"Do you even know what the fuck you're doing?"

Apparently, there was some skill involved. I could notice a slight difference in what they were doing and what she was doing but not enough to brag about. It was some wack bush-league rhythmic gymnastic bullshit anyway. Tania and I exchanged glances, stole some wine, and moved onto the last toy: a huge bouncy ball covered in rubber nubs like a sea urchin. Tania and I began a game of catch that required us to dance whenever we weren't holding the ball and incorporate every toss and catch into a dance. A few other people joined in. The first was an overrly-aggressive breakdancer. He was harshening flows and invading personal space, but who were we to remove him? It wasn't even our ball. Next to join was a little guy who showed obvious concern about what the breakdancer was doing. He pretended to play happily alongside us until , out of nowhere, he looked around snatched the ball and, faking passes to us the whole time, backed off into lord knows where. We'd had it. These were the least friendly ravers we'd ever encountered. It was time to go.

I've never had so much fun and gotten so pissed off consistently over the course of an evening.

p.s. I missed Eleanor Balson's shows Saturday and today and that blows. I missed her (as Soft Serve at Heaven) on Saturday because of the aforementioned gobbledygook and I missed her today (opening for Bobby Conn and the Detholz as the drummer for Lovely Little Girls) because it just plain sold out. That sucks. Eleanor is a great person who I only kinda know (so I guess I can only call her kinda-great for sure). She's leaving town indefinitely for a new life on the left coast and I wish her the best.

p.p.s. Leslie from E.E. is exempt from whatever I said about hula hoopers because she doesn't abuse her privelage. Plus, when she does that thing where she plays an upside-down saxophone and hoops at the same time, it's damn sexy.

That is all.