Scrawl on the Wall 027

Repetitive grinding noise, the throbbing "Wonka-wonka-grumph-wonka-grump-wonka" of it all.

The flashing red, blue, green lights. The endless masses of posers in Prodigy t-shirts.

Somewhere inside, my inner child begs to play Donkey Kong.

The loud, bleeping synth melting aural assault. Somewhere in the distance a very fat man in a black-light Frogger t-shirt throws his hands into the air, jumps in enthusiasm, and then clutches his back in pain.

Elsewhere, young, lost, desperate women are so pale that their skin itself takes on an eerie glow in the black-light.

The throbbing assault of DJ Vogel and his pal, DJ Super Firefly, continues until all the fresh natural spring water has mysteriously been drunk dry from the bar.

And so I sit nursing a heavily caffeinated energy drink, and think to myself that I am enhanced by natural chemicals of goodness. Just caffeine, and booze, and my own good feelings about the world.

Other people are wacked out on this shit made by some Dutch Robot Man in Holland, chemically manufactured out of speed, laundry detergent, rat poison, and some weird ass substance with a name like metylendioksymetamfetamina.

If you spelled that shit in Scrabble, you'd be the dude.

But here you are just a lonely island in the sea of sound and color.

Somewhere, close by, a man in a particularly dirty Prodigy t-shirt tries to look cool and takes a massive hit off a cheap Russian cigarette.
He coughs non-stop for 3 minutes.

The girl he was talking to leaves him and walks to the bar.

I watch her, still dancing, bouncing in time to the music.

And then I remember -

"Oh yeah. Wait. I'm just some fat dude."

And so I sit there and sip my energy drink some more, until DJ Vogel and DJ Super Firefly tell us that they love us, and that we are all beautiful, and that we can buy their CD and 15 different styles of the same damn t-shirt all for a low low price of a hell of a lot more than I would ever pay.

Welcome to the light fantastic.