When Carlos woke up this morning, he wasn't sure how he ended up at my house, given the fact that we had met up at King King for this month's Compression party last night, where he rolled in with the Usual Suspects.
"Well, remember that conversation we were having last night about drunks?"
"Yeah," he answered.
"It's actually quite ironic if you think about it."
Somewhere at around 11:00 p.m. last night, as Robtronik played Cybotron and other early-techno and electro sounds, Carlos and I engaged in a quite lengthy discussion regarding drunken nuisances, y'know, those friends who become so out of control after a eight Adios Motherfuckers that anal retentive party people like Carlos and myself end up becoming designated babysitters. We were on our first round at that point, a vodka tonic for me and a Long Island Iced Tea for Carlos, and waiting with much anticipation for the 2x4 set from Egyptian Lover and Arabian Prince later that evening.
Carlos eventually got a second Long Island and put the straw in front of my mouth until I finally relented and took a sip as Edit and Ooah the Turntable Junkie took the laptop and turntable set up. I hate Long Islands and this one was particularly stiff and Nyquil-tasting. Carlos was a little buzzed, running more words together in a minute than he usually does in an entire day. I got up to use the ladies room, came back and decided to go out for a smoke. Carlos insisted on coming with me and, once we were outside, started macking on me, breaking his cardinal rule prohibiting most public displays of affection.
By the time I finished my cigarette, Son of the Electric Ghost was onstage and Carlos could hardly stand. I grabbed him by the hand and dragged him in with me. The security guard stopped us.
"I can't let him back in like that," he said.
"Oh, but, he's with me. I've got his back," I answered.
"Sorry, he's going to have to sober up first. Then we'll let him inside."
Hmmm, what an unusually decent security guard.
"Well, can I bring some water out here for him."
"Sure. Don't worry, you have twenty minutes before Egyptian Lover and Arabian Prince."
I ran inside, plopped down three dollars and a tip for a bottle of water that probably came from a Costco pack that cost three dollars altogether and ran back outside, stopping only to tell Juan and Omar what was going on. Juan seemed pretty wasted himself (although he said later that he was fine) and was flanked by a bevy of dark-haired ladies. I don't think anything I said registered with him. Omar, who seemed a bit irritated by the newfound knowledge that he was the only sober one left in their party of five and would inevitably be stuck with designated sucker duties later on that night, followed me outside.
"I didn't know he was such a lightweight," Omar said.
"Dude, he's not. This is weird."
Carlos was sitting in a tattered plastic chair with his head cocked to the side and chunks of puke splattered on the asphalt. He got up, took a step towards us and fell into the chair, which then collapsed. His head narrowly avoided the puke pool.
Omar and I tried to think of what to do. He didn't want to stick Carlos in their ride's SUV on account of the puking. Even if I didn't fear puke stains in my car, he wouldn't be able to lie down in it as it's too small.
"Why didn't you just stick me on a bus stop and leave me there?" He asked this morning.
"Trust me, I thought about it."
The security guard and random party dudes came over to offer their best wishes.
"Dude, it happens to the best of us. Just ride it out," they all seemed to say.
Meanwhile, I was running back and forth between the patio and the bar, grabbing napkins to help wipe up the spew.
"Yeah, that's why I started calling you Baby Spew last night," I said. "Like in AbFab. 'Lacroix. Baby spew. Lacroix. Baby spew."
"Babyshambles is more like it," Carlos responded. "I'm feeling like Pete Doherty."
Out on the patio, Carlos apologized profusely.
"Eh, don't worry about it," I shrugged, secretly fuming that I could hear Egyptian Lover and Arabian Prince bust out Kraftwerk's "Numbers," but could not dance to it.
"Let's go home. Take me back to your place."
"You can't stand up."
"Yes, I can."
He stood up and fell back into his seat.
I ran back inside to get more napkins. The tall guy and the short guy behind the turntables were working some mid-1980s dance number that I still can't recall by name and hadn't heard since back when Power 106 was the Hi NRG station in LA. I told Omar to meet me outside because I might have to take Carlos home. There was no way he was getting any better. Then I heard the familiar tinkle of keyboards.
"Debbie Deb!"
Fuck, man, I could be dancing my ass off to "When I Hear Music" right now, but I have to go back outside and take care of my boyfriend who got plastered off of two drinks!
"You should have just stayed in there."
"I couldn't. You kept whining for me to take you home and every time I tried to walk away, you grabbed on to my leg."
Back outside, Omar helped Carlos over to my car and pushed him into the front seat. I took care of the seatbelt and then drove us back to the Valley. We exited the 405 at Nordhoff and eventually stopped at the Hayvenhurst light. I saw Carlos cup his hand around his mouth.
"Shit!" I screamed, rolling down the window as quickly as possible. "Stick your head out the window!"
The couple in the car next to us doubled over with laughter. I quickly turned into a parking lot.
Carlos leaned his head out of the window.
"Go do it in the bush. It's getting all over the car."
Carlos got out and I grabbed the extra napkins and tried to wipe up the excess saliva now lining the car door. I guess this was his revenge for the night that my brother puked in his car.
Eventually, we made it back to my place, where Carlos passed out on the sofa as we watched the Clash on VH1 Classic.
What we still don't understand is how the fuck does one get that drunk off of two Long Islands? Carlos developed a theory that some guy fancied him and slipped him a roofie.
"Yeah, Carlos, that one really makes sense," I laughed. "When was the last time you had a Long Island?"
"I don't know. Few years."
I'm just guessing here, but maybe, if it is indeed true that one's tolerance of alcohol goes down with age (as seems to be my case), perhaps if one drinks two drinks that would have done nothing but provide a good buzz at 25, one might end up ill from the same combination a few years later. (Although, I have to say that when we cancelled New Year's Eve plans because Carlos still wasn't doing any better, I changed my mind and realized he was probably right and, most likely, someone did spike his drink.)
After writing this, I walked over to the sofa where Carlos was still attempting to sleep.
"Ugh, this hasn't happened in a long time," he said. "But, I've had a few laughs at the expense of others, so I guess this is my turn."
"Yeah, maybe this is fate's cruel way of getting back at us for making fun of _____ passing out in the DJ booth."

Last night, while hanging out at Spy Club with soon-to-be-celebrated animator Jeaux, we ended up chatting with folks like Sean Patrick Morrissey (who earned his nickname because of his "November Spawned a Monster" dance moves and multiple requests for "Boyracer"), Dia, Scarlett and others. During the course of conversation, it was agreed that the pinnacle of post-2000 clubbing occurred during the era of the Go Go Box Whore.
The Go Go Box Whore (GGBW) is a friend of mine who, way back when Bang and Beat It were brand new clubs, used to come with me to my gigs to help load in the records. Back then, GGBW loved to dance. One night, after he spent four straight hours on the go go box, I said, "Dude, you're a total go go box whore." The next week, he arrived at the club with a white Stanley with "Go Go Box Whore" scrawled on one-side and "GGBW" written on the front. Henceforth, for nearly two years, he wore a different Stanley every club night, always with GGBW on the front and some odd slogan on the back. ( "More energy than Edison" during the brownouts, "Never Slept with an Intern" during the Gary Kondit scandal, "Get Well Liz," from when I had my car accident.) In his Stanley, GGBW would outdance even the professional go go girls, pantomiming Tom Jones' cover of "Mama Told Me Not to Come" and Erasure's "Love to Hate You" while random clubgoers brought him water and he wrung sweat from his shirt.
Much to our surprise, our little inside joke became popular. The Yahoo Group we started in his honor, basically just as a means of chatting with our friends from the former AOL Britpop Room, swelled with members. One night, Melissa arrived in a Stanley that read "Go Go Box Groupie." Soon, another girl began to regularly sport one proclaiming her love for both the GGBW and her regular spot on the stage with the slogan "Right Stage Whore." After 9/11, one girl made GGBW an iron on (which I think I still have because he went into retirement shortly thereafter) of an American flag and the words "United We Go Go Box."
Oh, I could tell you the whereabouts of the GGBW, but will refrain so as to preserve the integrity of the myth. (He was doing quite well when I last spoke to him a month or so ago.) I am almost certain that there is no way we could cajole him out of retirement, but the GGBW will always live in our hearts as a symbol of the days when ordinary people could become legends just by dancing to Blur as if the good times would never end.

The only way I will ever bring my own gear to a gig is if the people involved are really good friends and there is no other option. Otherwise, I am convinced, I will get stuck lugging my turntables and mixer everywhere and something bad will happen. Anyhow, since the Year in Review party was put together by not just good friends, but people I have known my entire adult life, I dragged two turntables, a mixer, a monitor, a crate of records and a bag of assorted cables to Chinatown last night. Outside of my accidentally locking the kill switches on my mixer during soundcheck, everything ran smoothly. Sure, the records skipped whenever people walked too close to the tables, but that happens whenever a makeshift DJ booth is in use. Years ago, that would have driven me crazy but, at my old age, I've learned to ride out the jumps, follow the beat and have a good time.
Here's the setlist, for those who are curious:

Flunk-- Blue Monday (Jori Hulkonnen Mix #2)
Ladytron-- Sugar (Archigram Mix)
!!!-- Take Ecstasy with Me
Goldfrapp-- Ooh La La (Tiefschwarz Dub)
DK7-- Slipstream
Depeche Mode-- Behind the Wheel (Lexicon Ave. Mix)
New Order-- Jet Stream (Richard X Mix)
The Bravery-- Fearless (Richard X Dub)
Fischerspooner-- Never Win (Black Strobe Mix)
Cutting Crew-- I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight (Full Embrace Mix)
Pet Shop Boys-- Flamboyant (Hell Mix)
Tiefschwarz-- Warning Siren
Franz Ferdinand-- Do You Want To? (Erol Alkan's Glam Racket)/This Fire (Playgroup Mix)
Soulwax-- Another Excuse (DFA Mix)
Le Tigre-- After Dark (A Touch of Class Mix)
White Label-- Daft Michael
The Clash-- Train in Vein (DNS Retouch)
:::Break for Hoseh's Set:::
Mysterymen-- Electromode
Marc Almond-- Tears Run Rings (Justin Strauss Mix)
Ultravox-- Reap the Wild Wind
Tears for Fears-- Head Over Heels

Some people like to know what they will hear at a party beforehand. Other people really don't like to tell people what they might hear if they show up to said party. As for myself, I like surprises and maybe tonight's set will surprise even yours truly. Chances are, though, it won't.
That said, I have been carefully crafting a set in my room today that has just been dubbed the "Real Goths Can Dance" set. This may or may not include Marc Almond, Ultravox and Sisters of Mercy. It may or may not include new Depeche Mode, just as it may or may not include White Stripes and Franz Ferdinand remixes and the Tiefschwarz album I bought on Monday. Seriously, it may or may not include these things. I like to change my mind at the last minute and I usually bring way too many records to my gigs. The only way you will know is if you show up tonight.

If you read the Times today, you might be aware that indie record stores are in the midst of hard times. Well, if you are a record shopper, you probably knew that before. Regardless, the Times article focuses on a store in New York with brief mention of Aron's in Los Angeles, which is odd considering that a) it's an LA newspaper and b) I can name ten record shops off the top of my head that have closed in the past few years.
When record stores close, I feel a twinge of pain in my heart for the folks that have so kindly assisted in providing the music I love and the music you might hear me play at clubs. There was Gideon at Roundhouse, who sold me my first Bikini Kill album when I was 15, Tim at Scooter's, who knew more about vintage rock and soul that anyone I have ever met, Fred at This is Music, who kept me up on the latest dance sounds and everyone at Vinyl Fetish for providing almost everything that marked my earliest DJ sets. I cannot say that about Aron's.
My animosity towards Aron's stems from an incident in late-1998. I had just returned from a trip to New York with three friends, where we purchased the last copy of a Wiija-released 7" for Bis' then-new single "Eurodisco" at Kim's Underground for the main stacks at KXLU. The song became the big hit of the station that year and would remain a staple of our shows until we graduated. I had to have a copy for myself, but no one in LA had it. I went to Aron's, where a clerk told me that I could order it if I put three dollars down. I did so and waited for my copy. Six months passed and despite my constant inquiries as to the wherabouts of the 7" that I had already partially paid for, the single never arrived. I imagine that my three dollars probably went towards someone's Del Taco lunch and my 7" found its way into a much less deserving record collection. Eventually, Grand Royal released Bis' album and Eurodisco ended up on a 12" with a Les Rythmes Digitales remix, both of which I purchased from other stores. After that incident, I returned to Aron's only rarely, basically as a last resort for some sought-after item that they probably didn't have anyhow. Once Amoeba opened, I stopped going to Aron's completely.
Today, Carlos and I returned to Aron's for the first time in years, not as patrons paying tribute to the store, but as vultures swooping in a carcass. Apparently, we were far from the first carrion-gnawing beasts to pass through its doors. I didn't check out the cds, but the vinyl section is nearly bare. There seemed to be very little of interest in the used section (although Carlos found a few obscure dance 12" releases) and the best bargains right now are in the new vinyl section, where everything is 30% off. I picked up some 12" singles and a Tiefschwarz album (if you want the details of today's picks, you'll have to come to Wednesday's gig). If you don't yet have New Order's Waiting for the Siren's Call or the corresponding singles, check out this sale because they still have quite a few copies. I also found a copy of Munk's Aperitivo, which I kindly left in the bin because I have a copy and one of you really should acquire it.

(Taken from Hoseh's email)

For 2 years running, weekinreview.org has met at a bar and documented the news with a hand-drawn recap of the week - sports to entertainment, politics to world events.
On Wednesday, December 28th, we will host the 2nd Annual "Year in Review," an interactive, live event where we rehash 2005. Submit your favorite headlines. We'll draw the whole year "live" with magic markers on a giant sheet of paper. It's good fun, and a great way to close out the year.
Wednesday, December 28th, 9pm-2am
The Mountain Bar
473 Gin Ling Way, Chinatown
DJs:>Hoseh & Liz O.
directions
http://www.weekinreview.org
The news is what happens. What happens is the news.