July 17, 2002
Arts and Entertainment
By Amanda Nowinski
LAST WEEKEND I was sitting by the fireplace at the Endup with two of my loveliest friends, Cicely and Billee, watching some San Jose bitch in a furry rave bra work her stuff around the pool table. Her Z. Cavaricci jeans were about to fall off, her nasty old thong was desperately clinging to her pale hips, and her bra was hardly covering a pair of unused, ungroped tits. I had no choice but to say, "Bitch, you need to pack it up." You know, shove it back in. Move it on fast. And when you're almost out the door, make sure you didn't leave none of it behind.
Naturally, Pack it up became the theme of the day. But even severe shade-tossing has its limits, and after fusing our asses to the innermost psycho-spiritual-embryonic-love-pussy of house music, Pack it up was put to rest. I mean, how can you be cruel when gospel house has penetrated you deep and hard and taken over your itty-bitty soul? House music made us run all across the dance floor, doing things that would make a jealous lover turn hot pink in shame tripped-up vogueing, disconnected twirling, incorrect pop locking, wooden-doll robot marching, Broadway show-tune leaping, crack ballet head-spinning, and samba whore hip-rolling. Hours of profound, emancipating stupidity led us to a stunning revelation, a revelation born of the ancient, universal dance music message, emanating from the smoke, blood, bass, and whiskey of the for-real, science-dropping, headz-only underground Endlessly Ruling, an outergalactic boogie-down way of life that will remain my raison d'être until the day I die. And I'm serious.
So what exactly is Endlessly Ruling, you ask? Is it what happens when you just don't give a fuck? Yes. Is it what happens when you stick your big fat ass on a dance-floor and purposely work it out completely wrong, in the form of Crazy Dancing? Of course isn't that what I was just talking about? In case you live in a cave somewhere off the coast of Pleasanton, Crazy Dancing is a highly evolved, crucial act of resistance that we must all join in right now, in this bomb-dropped-Bush-cracked moment in time. Crazy Dancing is an immeasurably subversive, peaceful, political, spiritual move that has the power to transform the way all plants and animals feel, think, and love. Try it at home when you're all greased up and naked, try it out at night when you're decked out in red. If you can be a foolish, sweaty freak in public, you will be completely free. Surely your ass will follow but only if you show it where to go.
I know you're also wondering, Is Endlessly Ruling for everyone? No. Timid, frightened people should not try it. People who only mingle with their own kind must leave it alone. Only those who love and respect their inner freakfaggotoutsider can Endlessly Rule, working it up and down like the glittered disco armageddon is near (don't worry, it's not). Only those who communicate through rhythm will get it, because you cannot Endlessly Rule in a static, pseudo-intellectual environment where people sit around staring at the floor. Believers of Endlessly Ruling rejoice in the final Death of the Scene. Endlessly Ruling requires that you feel ... completely ... alive.
But enough of that crap.
So this morning my mother warned me not to write a bitchy final column. "How can you be sarcastic and mean when this is your very last one?" she asked. Poor mom. She's just tired of coworkers at the Kabuki Spa asking, "So is your daughter really a crack-headed freak?" She's tired of defending me by saying, "Oh, she makes the whole thing up." Hey mom, whatever it takes.
My mom is right about the send-off, but I despise contrived endings. Endings are always corny, self-congratulatory, self-pitying, fake, entirely lame. Endings remind me of the last person at a party, the one everybody wants to avoid. So I'm not going to say good-bye. I'm just gonna pack it up.
Help me hijack the Endup for the very last time, Sun/21, at the Outergalactic Endup Appreciation Day at the T-Dance. The T-Dance starts at 6 a.m., but me and the drunks will be there at 3 p.m. Noon until I pass out. 401 Sixth St., S.F. (415) 357-0827. No angry exes please.
The Bored Collective presents ASS BOMB, with Carl Craig, Jonah Sharp, and Chris Orr, Aug. 10., 10 p.m.-4 a.m., Club Six, 60 Sixth St., $15. (415) 863-1221.
From now on contact me at my home e-mail, firstname.lastname@example.org.