May 15, 2002


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Electric Habitat

Post-tired
By Amanda Nowinski

I KNEW I was at an aging-raver barbecue when I finally realized that the coals had been going for more than four hours – without anything on the grill except stray cigarette ashes. As the coals silently turned to dust, with no meat in sight, we discussed the sorts of paranoid things the postparty set might, which led me to believe that perhaps it's true that years of E and acid really do permanently fuck up your brain.

As we passed around the joint, we argued about who was more likely to have an FBI profile and about whose phone has been tapped the longest. We decided we had all been photographed by the feds at last month's 4-20 protest, because of course, we are dangerous enough to warrant a lot of unnecessary attention.

We wondered if we should lower our voices, because you never know who's listening, or which one of us might be a narc. "So why are you wearing white tennis shoes?" I suspiciously asked a friend who had on Reeboks and a long ponytail, typical narc getup. "Hey, do you mind turning off that video camera?" someone else asked. We were so stoned it was difficult to tell who was joking and who was not – but that's the price one pays for being a post-scene sketcher.

"Never ask for green T-shirts over the phone," someone blurted. "It's not fucking cool. Ask for plain T-shirts – that's a lot less shady."

We puffed and thought long and hard about this last comment, which, at the time, sounded deep.

"I'd say it's better not to ask for anything over the phone," the Reeboks guy said. "Call your man and just meet up with him in person. It's a complete disrespect to the anarchist underground to imply anything over the phone. I'm serious."

Again, we thought long and hard, but we were running out of dope. So we called up our guy and begged him to deliver some "plain T-shirts," which totally confused him. We got scared and hung up the phone. He star-69'd us, demanding, "What the fuck?!" This freaked us out even more. "Great," someone said. "Now that he's star-69'd us, we're definitely being tapped. Oh my god."

Lots of little kids ran around the garden at this post-scene paranoid get-together, and a few of them had multicolored hair – products of frightening postrave genetics. They weren't eating candy, because, noted one of the puffers, the hormones in granulated sugar – or is it in chicken, maybe? – make them get their periods, boobs, and pubic hair by the time they're five. We decided not to eat any chicken, should it ever appear on the grill, because we certainly didn't want any more pubic hair – although bigger boobs might be nice. This naturally led to a discussion about trimming, but of course, we got paranoid that the kids might hear.

Next we turned our sharp debating skills to the always fascinating politics surrounding the scene, and complained about how over it we all were. Even post-over it, if you will. Despite our over-it-ness, we decided we owed it to the world to create the greatest dance party on earth, which would be called Ass Bomb: Dance Music Terrorism. We would inspire the post-scene scene to dance again, and would hire a bunch of Endup trannies to prance around in Ass Bomb half-shirts. We got very excited about the idea and even wrote out a press release on a scrap of paper towel: "Fuck your club scene. You're all a bunch of pretentious fucks who can't dance and we are fucking sick of you. Regardless, we offer the best in Tasteful Hip-Hop and Sincere Lap Top Explorations. Buy a $10 ticket to Ass Bomb, because we're the shit." But then we got paranoid about the whole dance music terrorism bit, and wondered if the FBI would get us. "For what?" someone asked. We're still wondering, but we refuse to discuss it over the phone.

Send comments or tips to amanda@sfbg.com.