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[whitespace] Channel Your Inner City

By C. Silo

On new year's eve 1971, a skinny disco dancer with long, black hair downed some painkillers in a hospital on Divisadero Street and gave birth to an obese, drooling 10-pound beast. After the mess, the purple-leotard-clad disco dancer snapped up her crotch, placed the critter under her arm and hailed a cab back home to a storefront on Columbus.

Eighteen years later, the critter metamorphosed into a belligerent, filthy-tongued monster. Although since birth it had learned to comb its hair and look both ways before crossing the street, the monster had not yet learned the meaning of "it goes up your nose," "stick it under our tongue," and "it takes 45 minutes to hit."

Despite it all, the monster blossomed into an actual creature and quickly learned this: There is no freer place on earth than a living, breathing dance floor. "Love is shining, life is thriving in the good life, good life! Good life, good life, good life, good life, in the good life. Good life!" Some people find Jesus--this creature found facial glitter, sweaty nightclubs, chaotic raves and the loudest, fucking finest music on earth. Here's where the madness begins.

Cut to 4am, beach at Santa Cruz, 1991: I walk alone up a cliff, talking to myself. "I am climbing a mountain ... Whoa, I am very, very high ..." Below me, the bass is pulsating as a mass of ravers squirm around. The moon is full, and by the time sunrise comes, we will still be dancing. "Let me take you to a place I know you'll want to go, it's a good life."

Cut to 2pm, outside at the EndUp, 1993: I am talking gibberish with three people I don't know. I have scored a ride from them back from a warehouse party in Hunters Point. We chain smoke and try to keep dancing without appearing totally fucked up. "No more bad times, only glad times in the good life, good life!"

Cut to Monday 8am, MUNI, 1995: My throat aches, I feel wrinkly and I basically just want to die. I swear to god this is the last comedown of my life, and if I never see another fucking DJ lugging his crates into a goddamned club again, it'll be too soon. Over it.

WAKE THE FUCK UP! Three years later the music pulls me back in. My soul has grown weak from lack of house music and my inner Miss Thing has slightly wilted. Slowly, I ease myself back into the elements. But this time I don't give a shit about being the cutest e-fiend or the grooviest dancer--it's all about feelin' it from the inside out, and it's the music that will take you there, not that tiny white pill.

Alas, my disco-dancing mother has begged me to settle down, quit smoking and bust out with some babies. Naturally, I refuse all three requests, but will be taking a brief repose from this here column. I am off to pursue a challenging career as an unpaid intern somewhere--I need a goal, a résumé and a working man's structured way of life. Fuck that. I'll catch you on the down low sometime soon ... .
Love, C.

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From the July 19, 1999 issue of the Metropolitan.

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