My Rave Infiltration
by: McClain

Never before has anyone of my stature attempted anything so witless. But I, of sound mind and body, sacrificing my soul (and a couple 'er three bucks) went on a diatribe of documentation. I went to a rave with the sole purpose of gathering information.

After being told many times that ravers and their mindless drone attendees are nothing but flashy glowstick-toting fecal matter (which is only one side of the coin), I had to find out for myself. I had seen them from the outside looking in when I lived in D.C., roaming the back alleys, but the lure of psychedelic lighting and eardrum-rattling beats lacked to entice me. 

I've listened to the censure that accompanies anyone who attends these debacles of socialism, but concluded that I would have to figure out the appeal of these raves on my own. 

I stopped by the local Goodwill to buy some extravagant clothing for my venture. I sure as hell don't have the clothes to fit in at one of these raves, and I sure as hell wasn't going to spend a gang of money on a shiny new outfit, either. But because I wanted to establish some credibility and not stick out like a Bearded Butt Pirate in Sunday School, I dropped four dollars on an outfit from the vintage store, which was an adventure all its own. 

I purchased pants that were three times my size. I could literally fit my entire torso into one leg. The shirt I bought was a transparent mesh button-up shirt. Why the Goodwill had this shirt, I have no clue? I guess there's a market in the homeless genre for fruity clothing. I even bought one of those gaudy Dr. Seuss hats that popped up a few years ago and died off as the worst fads do. I was beginning to feel like a raver - and I felt tainted. I felt like a White Persian after rolling around in marmoset poo.

Don't sell me short! I temporarily conformed to this lifestyle (if you can call it that) so that I could all the more easily rag on it and all it stands for. I'm conforming so that you don't have to. It's a sacrifice like no other and I needed to go into the situation with the perpetual "clean slate" mindset in order to grasp the full understanding. Call me the Jesus Christ for rave mockers.

I arrive at the scene; some brokedick warehouse in anus of Waikiki. I could hear the music, feel the boom, and smell the staunch of e-tards and idiocy from a mile away. Evidently raves vary by location. The raves in D.C. vary from the ones in Vegas, as they differ from the raves located in Waikiki. My point being this: my conceptual visualization of raves budded from what I had seen in movies. Hackers and Kids were the only source of reference I had to go by. And what I saw inside was completely different. Once again Hollywood manages to perfume the pig. 

I’m getting ahead of myself.

There's a line that forms around the building and swells in to the alley. An eerie feeling of immaturity and embarrassment overrides my senses. I keep praying "God I hope nobody recognizes me!" Regardless of my sacrifice, I still have no desire to be acknowledged as anyone in particular, myself in particular. 

After about an hour of waiting in line, smoking about a dozen cigarettes and shooting the shit with a couple idiots, I found a diamond among the rough. Some dumb kid had glowsticks positioned between his fingers and was weaving his hands in and out in an attempt to look "cool." He even did this little dance thing with his feet that reminded me of that old step done by Kid' n Play. 

He was wearing one of those candy necklaces; the kind that leave sticky-icky jiz all over your neck. He also had on a baseball cap with the brim completely removed. I guess it was more like a beanie without the prop. He had on extra-baggy black JNCO jeans and some old school Doc Martins. His shirt was an annoying yellow and had a picture of Bert and Ernie humping each other. I swear to God that this is true. Let’s call him Dicknose, because that’s what he looked like. 

"Hey there man! What's going on?" I asked Dicknose. "Holy shit Batman, this kid has saliva dripping down his chin!" I thought to myself. "What have I got myself in to?"

"Look at this, dude. It's trippy if you look at it cross-eyed. Then you see like, four glowers!" he said while twirling the glowsticks in front of my face. 

Dicknose’s verbal asininity are what quotes are made of. I broke out a pen and my little pad of paper and started to shorthand his statements. I didn't want to get any info wrong and like I said before, this is all being done for the sake of legibility. 

"What's up? Why are you writing me down? Are you a writer or something?"

I had to think of a good lie. If he knew I wasn't versed on raving he might not accept me. So I told him I was a writer for an underground rave publication called "Plurfect."

"Oooh yeah! I've heard of that." Lying sack of shit. "I've always wanted to say some things about raves. I've got a good mouth." I think I know what he intended to say, but I'm glad he phrased it the way he did.

"I'm doing an article on what drives people to keep coming back to raves after the initial introduction to the scene," I said. I think I'm speaking a little too fast for him.

"I first started coming for the babes. The first time I ever came to a rave I had some girl give me a hand job over in the corner."

"Did you love her?" I asked. I wanted to make sure his intentions were pure.

"I've learned to love everyone. I don't even know you and I love you. It's a brothership thing man. I respect you because you've made it this far," he said. What does he mean by "made it this far?" Was I supposed to get raped and killed in the alley?

"So everyone in your clan has a genuine respect for each other simply because they are here?"

"That's right. I found myself, you know, my ‘spiritual’ self through the beats, man." he said while nodding.

"So what you’re saying is that ravers are the pubes stuck in the drain of the gene pool?"

He looked at me as if I was growing a mushroom out of my head. Then there was an awkward silence. The music disappeared and all I had in front of me was Dicknose, the e-tard, gazing at me with glazed eyes. I had to think fast. Again. 

"So what does this girl look like that gave you a handjob?" 

"I don't remember. She was hot though."

"Well aren't all women beautiful? I mean, as long as they show up to a rave that should automatically make them beautiful. So that would make ugly girls hot." 

"Yeah, but this girl had some big titties." Perhaps this guy belonged on "The Man Show". Either way, I'd still kill him if there were a war between the human species and ravers, but his head wasn't screwed on completely backwards. 

But I still had a billion questions to ask and it was evident by the way he turned his back on me and walked away that my interview with him was through. 

After a few more minutes of waiting, it was my time to go inside. There was a giant sign on the door that read "PLUR ON TAP." I had no clue what it meant, but I was happy because I saw something familiar. The word "PLUR" receives much reproach from anti-ravists. It stands for "Peace, Love, Unity and Rape"... I think.

One thing I noticed is that I did receive a lot of looks from people, mostly females, while I was waiting in line. At first I thought it was because I looked too normal and wasn't flashy enough, but then I realized it's because they all thought I was hot. Can't say I blame them. I'm the best and worst thing to ever happen to this rave and I’m the only one who sees this. 

I finally elbowed my way inside and saw a room for coats directly to my right. Who the fuck wears a coat in Hawaii? And there wasn't even an attendant to attend the coats and guard them. 

"Excuse me," I said to a passerby. "How come there's nobody to watch the coats?"

"Nobody ever watches the coats. Don't worry, nobody will steal your shit," the girl said. She was actually quite attractive, but outdid herself with pipe cleaners strung upward in her hair.

Nobody will steal it?! That's a load of crap. Just looking at this group of mongrels makes me check my pockets every two seconds to make sure my stuff is still there.

While I contemplated gaffing some coats, I found a stage in the back of the rave to stand on because I needed to get a better view of what was going on. From my perch I noticed that there were three different rooms. The first and largest room was one giant dance floor. It had the largest crowd, too. There were televisions on the walls and they were playing Degrassi Jr. High. I shit you not. It was scary. I covered my butthole.

The second and mid-sized room had spray paint on the walls. It was a shoddy attempt at tagging. In this room there was a DJ elevated above a small floor where people were breakdancing to the turntables. These kids were all sporting the 80's Adidas jumpsuits complete with the fuzzy Kangol and triple-fat shoelaces. These kids probably get their ass kicked in high school. Scratch that, they do get their asses kicked. And I assume that these kids are still in high school. The sad thing is I know I’m wrong.

The third and smallest room was outfitted with couches and beanbag chairs everywhere. I couldn't see inside too well so I went closer. When I approached the room there was an ambience of "mojo." Everyone was moving slow and it was silent. 

"What's up everybody!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. I figured I'd get yelled at or told to shut the hell up, but no one even looked up. As my eyes adjusted to the light I saw kids fondling each other, boys doing the "nasty" to girls, girls doing the nasty to girls and all the sort. 

It wasn't really like an orgy because there were some kids that were standing completely still. It's like they were waiting their turn. Or maybe they were just tripping balls. I don't know. I don't care. 

I felt someone tug on my pant leg. I looked down to see some girl looking up at me. She also had her hand down some guy’s pants. 

"It's the hand-job girl! Hey!" I said excitedly. I didn't really want a hand job from her, I was just excited to see someone I've heard about. What a slut. Why is she tugging on my pants?

"Want to come down here and join us? Wanna' Roll?" the strumpet asked me. 

Where I'm from, "wanna' roll" translates in to "want to go somewhere?" 
So, "No. Thanks. I'm fine right here," was my answer. I didn't know any better. 

"Hey, you haven’t seen Dicknose, have you?" I asked. He was my only true associate and the number of giggling primates bobbing their collective head to the "music" intimidated me. I was feeling claustrophobic. I didn’t stick around long enough to hear whether or not The Slut had seen Dicknose. 

As I headed for the door I stopped cold in my tracks. My brow lowered and my ears stiffened. Through the speakers came one of the most horrific sounds I have ever heard in my life. It sounded like a Banshee gargling with baby shit. It was deafening, and it was sucking the life out of me for every second I was within its range. It was the music! 

I managed to open my eyes from a deadlock wince only to see that it was remedial to their utter obliviousness! They were feeding from the noise and they grew stronger. Like Pokemon! Holy god I’m trapped in a room with a bunch of High-as-a-Kite Retarded Pokemon! 

I ran as fast as I could, but it was hard because all the little candy-kids were clinging to my pant legs. "Wanna’ roll, Mister?" Fuck off! I have to get the hell out of here! "Hey dude, Dicknose is looking for you!" the pre-pubescent voices would sound in my ears. "You’re becoming one of us!" Oh God no! Noooo! "The beats will fill your heart!" I felt like Ash from Army of Darkness where he’s walking through the graveyard and all the skeletons grab at his body. "Peace, love, unity and RAPE! RAPE! RAPE! RAPE!" the shrieks echoed in my ears.

But I couldn’t leave; I wanted more substance - I needed more quotes. The risk weighed heavy in my mind. "Stay and chance morphing in to one of them, or leave now with a half-assed story and maintain my sanity?"

I compromised. 

As I stumbled outside I saw a parking lot attendant reading a book in the dim light of his tollbooth. Maybe this man could give me a quote. 

"Pardon me sir, but can I ask you a couple questions? For the record?" Please old man, help a young fool in need of journalistic substance! I’m craving for a coherent quote (and what’s pathetic is that I’m asking tollbooth Willy to assist in my plight). 

"I just work here," he said quite gracefully.

"That’s probably the smartest thing I’ve heard all night," I whispered to myself. "Thank you kind sir," I said aloud. 

"Don’t mention it."

And that satisfied. I’m content. I’ll be going home now. I’ll say a quick prayer for my salvation and then I’ll burn this clothing. On my walk back to the car I took a quick glance at the night sky. It felt good to be out of that place. That foreign place where horny, naïve and impressionable girls cling to me like parasites. That foreign place where men are turned in to flighty boys.