1115.org

San Jose, California. Never had much use for it, but the terror warning level was sufficiently high, and Jason got booked to play a history of drum+bass set on New Year’s Eve, so I loaded up on caffeine and headed south.

In the parking garage we passed a woman in some sweet 85 boots. She mentioned that she was ready to shake her (ample) ass to some “techno beats”. She didn’t fit the profile of your normal everyday jungle raver, but her milkshake was definitely better than yours. San Jose hootchie mamas in the house.

When we made it into the the spot, I was puzzled by the starting line on the dancefloor. Usually I don’t need any help figuring out where to start, that’s what the DJ is for.

As Jason was getting ready to start, the MCs (all three of them) got on the mics and called out for volunteers for a drunken tricycle race. Wait, haven’t I seen this movie before?

Want to kill the vibe at any party? Stop the music at midnight and have three “MCs” try to find 4 people to get hammered and ride a tricycle around the dancefloor. I’m guessing that works every time.

So after finding four contestants and having them slam 4 shots each of tequila, the race began. I’m not exactly sure who won because I was busy watching two of the promoters argue about whether it was a good idea to stop the music for 30 minutes in the middle of the night.

When this was finally over, Jason had an hour and fifteen minutes to play 12 years worth of records. Always the soldier, he made the best of it (even if he didn’t play my request, PFM’s - One and Only).

The comic relief was provided by an engaged couple. I was in full head-nod mode checking out a girl across the floor who was in turn checking me out. She was hot despite rocking the SF drum+bass uniform circa 2000 (a skirt over jeans). A few minutes later, a guy came over to me and pointed to the girl. “See that girl over there?”, he asked. I was getting ready for him to tell me to stop looking at her, but he told me that she was his fiancé and that he wanted me to go talk to her so no one would hit on her while he was outside having a smoke. Fox, welcome to the henhouse. Why he picked me remains a mystery, though maybe he thought I was gay. After I said no, the conversation went like this:

him: Why not?
me: Why would you want me to do that?
him: So no guys will try to pick her up.
me: How do you know I won’t try to pick her up?
him: What do you mean?
me: Look man, you can’t trust me.
him: Why can’t I trust you?
me: Because I’ve killed before, and I’ll kill again.
him: What?!?!
me: Nothing.
him: Are you going to help me out or not?
me: That depends on what you mean by help. If you mean taking her upstairs while you are outside, then yes.
him: You’re not like that.
me: How would you know?
him: Because if you were going to hit on her, you wouldn’t tell me that’s what you would do.
me: Oh, how little you know.
him: You’re that much of a bastard?
me: That, plus she’s hot.
him: OK then, thanks for being honest.
me: Anytime chief.

I love holidays.