I love a good warehouse party, and a good warehouse party is what Droid Behavior threw last night.
We were simultaneously in the middle of nowhere and everywhere, a desolate street somewhere between USC and Staples Center, identifiable only by the bass that vibrated through our feet as we crossed the street. It was an Acid House party and there were enough 303 sounds to induce Go Ask Alice-style flashbacks.
Okay, so maybe I didn't imagine myself slowly devoured by bugs, but I did claw at myself while dancing. These things just happen in cramped quarters on summer nights that really aren't much cooler than our 105 degree days. My knee socks were stuck to pasty calves and the back of my neck started to look like Victoria Falls. It was bad, but unavoidable throughout the hypnotic series of thumps provide by Acid Circus and others. It was impossible not to dance. One DJ, whose name I can't recall, played for a half-hour or so before working in "Blue Monday." It's the track we will never escape, the one track that sounds perfect in any set of any genre of music. This DJ mixed it with a number that sounded like bubbles blowing in a tub all sped up like the jet stream was on the verge of crashing. It was a nice touch.
Two or three hours after that, we were still on the floor, having moved from the outskirts towards the center dancing like we wanted to lose ourselves but could not on account that it would probably involve yours truly accidentally slugging one of the fifty people crammed around me. (As it was, I managed to spill half a bottle of water on Carlos.) Did I mention that this party was packed? I felt sweat fly into my face from every direction and inadvertent freaking sessions anytime someone tried to move from one side of the dancefloor to the other. In situations like these, I feel so fortunate to live in a country where people are obsessive about things like showers and deodorant. Damn, I proud to be an overly-hygienic American.