Attending raves is a bit like russian roulette: never dull and every now and then it blows your brains out. My consciousness exploded and I was transmitted to a time when raves were bad-ass, underground, dirty warehouse affairs. We all joined together in a place that must have previously housed artillery shells, large stacks of tires, or paperclips. Now, I tend to crawl around on the walls regularly at these parties, so I can tell you that I met veritable dust waterfalls--a rave grime necessity--every time I clamped on a light. I was shooting with two broken lenses and by the end of the night one had whithered dramatically; the front element was dancing precariously and springs were shooting out of it. I guess the party was that intense. Anyhow, I really don't know what thrills me so much about a warehouse (in this case, a art installation of a crashed UFO helped enhance the mood). I think I like the idea that people are dancing in a bombed out post-apocalyptic country, invisible to political elements, police squadrons, and mormons (now now - the mormons are cute and adorable, but, they say it's chic to plunge in a good-natured knife every now and then). So, I've got to summarize my thoughts into a sentence: It was a combination-ak47-uzi-laser-radar-triple-barreled-heat-seeking shotgun of a party (that aliens had crashed into).

I don't even care if it's an illusion and we didn't REALLY zoom to another country, I just like to be able to make believe. It's proof of extraterrestials regardless! If you don't believe me, look at what the camera captured (and bear in mind that I had two broken lenses that could not change their focus):

Labels: Photos, Raves

I've just returned from a wonderful Portland visit in the honor of seeing my mother-dearest celebrate surviving for a fourth of a fifth of a millenium. It was boppin', tumultuous, and zesty. Four brands of foaming, mouth-tingling homebrew were served. My lens broke on the airport. Everyone was dancing! I found out that my mother actually had friends. But my camera lens had suffered more years than it wished in age and refused to focus. I had one distance which was focused that I could not change no matter how I tried. But everyone was tipsy. My mother, aka one beer Betsy, said the night before that she was going to be drinking the entire night. The next day she mentioned rejoicefully that she hadn't had a drop. If all these explanations feel like they are leaving you swirling, you might want to hold onto something more corporeal like the images below. Tug that mouse and pounce on that image of the page hidden beneath this one.

Labels: Family, Houses, Photos