The Oracle of Apollo
Snippets from the life of Apollo Lee

Emmett and I decided we should check out Space 550 since a few guys from work said they were going to be there. We were late into the city and the traffic was uncooperative, so we opted to go to StopSpot, rather than pay the fifteen bucks to get into 550.

Sally showed up, with her friend David. The music was good, the crowd was rather small, but I managed to get my groove on somewhat, although I felt quite unbalanced (I was not wearing my usual boots). At one point, I looked around and spotted Emmett at the bar. I saw the bar owner move his arm, Emmett rear back, and started to think they were arguing or something.

I went up to check on Emmett and he was drinking with the bar owner and talking to this delightful thing named Gwen, or something. I danced a bit more, but eventually, I decided I’d better save my energy.

Today was payday and, since my six month mark passed on the first, I got my bonus. Woo-hoo. One of these first days, I’m going to have to go get myself a futon, now that I have a little extra money. And get the Linux box more RAM and a bigger hard drive.

I did put new insurance on my car. I think tomorrow I’m gonna get it tuned up for the first time since May 1999 (so much for that 3000 miles) and cleaned (because, like, damn).

Staple again. Great music. Ran into Sally and, eventually, Ian, whom I never expected to show up at any of my regular spots. There he was, in a cowboy hat and Terminator shades, hidden away in the corner. Heh.

One thing I can’t understand yet about San Francisco is why people consistently bitch that there’s no parking available anywhere near a club, but they always want to show up at midnight. I never have any problem finding a place to park, because I show up at nine, or shortly thereafter. Usually, I’m parked right in front of the club, or within a block, at least.

There was still nobody on the dancefloor at ten thirty. There must be an ordinance in the city of San Francisco that makes it a misdemeanor to show up at any club before eleven, unless you’re part of the staff. Yet, everyone bitches about long lines and parking two miles away. Note: show up early, avoid the line. Duh.

Another Friday night at StopSpot. Good music. By 1:30, the crowd consisted of less than twenty people. I danced pretty hard all night, ending in a half-hour dance contest with a guy who had half of my moves (if that), but three times as much energy as me (if not, more). I will almost certainly feel this one tomorrow.

Happy Birthday, Brenda

What a day. Went to the dentist, got a checkup. Somewhere in the vicinity of three thousand dollars worth of repairs that my insurance won’t cover. Ouch. Too much Dr. Pepper. Way too much. Carbonated sodas corrode your teeth at the gumline.

“The good news is that most of the damage is in the back, where noone can see it,” the dentist told me. “The bad news is that we might have to do root canals on a couple of molars.” Oh, shit. I better stop with the sodas.

And hope that a filling will hold.

Oops.

If you never went to UCSC or lived in Santa Cruz, don’t go to Santa Cruz geekhouse parties. The geekhouse scene, while almost mythically cool for most of the time I’ve read about their activities from across a thousand miles of fiber-optic line and dialup modems (I heard about the geekhouse thing in 1994), seems to have deteriorated into an elite club, hostile or apathetic to outsiders, annoyed that the coolest scene ever created is, for all intents and purposes, dead in a world where most internet users are AOL customers and one in fifty computer users (if that) can cope with anything remotely resembling a command-line.

I can’t diss the Marshmallow Peanut Circus party I went to in October, though. That was pretty fun, full of very interesting and weird people. Perhaps, the reality of the ICB people who were lucky enough never to have to live in Idaho, Wisconsin, Georgia, Kansas, or anywhere but California doesn’t live up to the fantasy of a group of really nifty bunch of incredibly cool geeks—something we all yearn to be part of.

Jason and Jeanne insisted over and over again that I should check out Nikita at 1015. I checked my source and noticed DJ Dan billed. I decided to check it out.

I had expected to be at the club around 9:30, so I could slip in free, but that wasn’t in the cards. I overslept my nap alarm and ended up at 1015 at 15 until 11 (after driving around for 30 minutes looking for a parking spot).

I spent a good deal of the night in the house room, but I watched DJ Dan tear shit up on the decks for an hour and a half. No wonder the guy is one of the world’s top DJs. He really left no room to doubt his authority.

There were way too many beautiful people in the place, many of whom decided I was funny and cute, or something. Especially this girl (Sophie, or something) from Sweden or Denmark, or somewhere (I’m not forgetful — she was elusive). Between her and this other crazy dancer girl (who was as sweaty as me), I had to be supremely vigilant against allowing myself to slip into temptation.

Nikita was very cool, but it got crowded very quickly. I stayed, however, until 4:30 or 5:00 in the morning. By about 3:00, the dancefloors were thinning out enough that I wasn’t pinned against a wall of dorks standing around gaping at women they could never dream of being with. I don’t think I could stand all the candyravers every weekend, but Nikita certainly has the talent behind the 1200s to understand its renown. It’s something I’ll check out again, every once in a while.

Another Saturday, another Staple, another mindblower.

I arrived on the scene at Rawhide at 9:30, wandering shortly upstairs. I hung out with some guy from Weiser, Idaho, of all places, and went back down the stairs at 10:15 to begin systematic destruction of the dancefloor.

It wasn’t long before I was tackled by a beautiful black woman in a red miniskirt. Jeanne had arrived. And she brought, like, a dozen of her friends, including Jason, who is the most insanely energetic dancer. Then, Annie showed up, and this other girl I keep seeing there, but whose name I can never remember. Everybody was showing up.

It wouldn’t have surprised me one bit if Isabella, Natasha, and Potrzebie had waltzed in. Not one bit. It would have surprised me a little if they dragged Bleach with. Heh. Sorry if this paragraph is cheesy, but how else to shout out my Milwaukee homeys? If Eblank had walked in, I’d have shat myself though.

Back to the party. Damon Wild took the decks some time around 11:30ish and laid down a set of minimal acid house that took my breath away. I doubt that the ringing in my head will go away for at least three days. Limping out of Rawhide, drenched in sweat, I hugged everyone and headed back toward Mountain View. Jeanne, you better let me know next time you’re in SF. We’ll blow the roof off the dump.

I considered going out to Nikita at 1015, on recommendation of Jason and Jeanne. Free before 10:30 and all. I’m still a little bit suspicious of 1015, but one of these weekends I’m going to have to try it out. I ended up hanging with Emmett and watching a couple of movies, though. I have a cold. Better to save my strength for Jeanne’s going-away party at Staple tomorrow night.

Watched Snake Eyes and The Mask. Emmett’s DVD player is cool. Maybe I should get one. I still can’t believe he hadn’t watched The Mask before. Weird.

Find me an event I like and I will go every weekend. Guess where I went tonight. You got it. Staple again. This crew has a marked tendency to throw parties that rock. Period. J.T. Donaldson & Lance DeSardi were playing some seriously vocal house. I danced my ass off, as much as my old, fat body would permit. The reason I like this place is because everyone is beautiful, energetic, intelligent, and into the music. So, I’m gonna try to get into an exercise routine of some kind so I can be one of them. I’ve already got two of the descriptors taken care of—intelligent and into the music.

Now, all I gotta do is reduce my gut. Wish me luck.

Based on a flier I picked up at Rawhide, I thought I’d go check out Le Freak at Space 550. The flier’s notification that the venue was under the spotlights should have been an indication. I found a parking space around 9:30. I stood in line, got searched, and entered the club without paying (as per the advertising on the flier). I went into the main room and hung out until some people started to show up, opting to break onto the dancefloor with only about five or six others on the floor.

First of all, the whole attitude of the place was basically that of a top 40 establishment—the processed cheese whiz of a club that views its patrons as members of one of two groups (punks and hoochies). Another 1015 wannabe commercialized schlockfest.

Lest I leave the impression that I came in and left after fifteen minutes, I want to convey that the club, while filled to the brim with plastic people, was actually not a total loss. The DJs in the main room (the house room) were really good. Gavin Hardkiss and DJ Disciple were billed on the flier. I have no idea which ones they were.

I danced until 3:45. The music was good, but the club was a little on the small side and the dancing surface was either sticky or slick. When I got to my car, I found some shocking fliers on my car. One of them read: “A San Francisco taste of Ibiza flavor. Room one: the choicest cuts of R&B, Top 40, Hip-Hop, and House. Room two: Salsa, Merengue, and Latin House.” Yay. Let’s disguise bullshit commercial radio music under the trenchcoat of the whole electronica bandwagon. Another advertised CoolWorld’s next sell-out velveeta festival to follow up the highly annoying Planet New Year 2000.

Somehow, I doubt that I’ll attend Le Freak again. It just strikes me as The Edge with an age limit. No thanks.