Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Secret Club & Bi-curious Open Mouth Night

A couple days over-due. And with reason.

1. Saturday - 2 AM arrival @ Zementgarten located just foot steps away from the middle of f---ing nowhere / Lichtenberg. After wandering around dark streets lined in dilapidating apartment buildings for 10 min. am lucky enough to find boy on Ecstasy aimlessly searching for the sbahn. Wir fragen re: secret entrance to warehouse club. He points to an almost person-sized break in a sheet metal gate. Across huge former parking lot in dead warehouse city lit only by single street lamp we pull a security door. Enter moist, red dungeon of a squat party dotted in hippies dancing with drugs. Despite aversion to fusion music, manage to move feet significantly to the sounds of computers, vocoder, kazoos, and plastic bottles. Dragged butt home just shy of daylight.

2. Sunday - The Berlin poetry release of Paula Varjack aka: my friend sara from London / New York / & Washington DC- featuring: others. Others consist of: Germany's first "Mid-western mid-eastern blue grass band," a drunk girl who was supposed to MC but showed up halfway through the event to slur some words into a microphone, a British comedian whose jokes consisted mainly of using the words "cunt" and "crisps" in succession, and a band of Romanian minstrels dressed in druidic-looking robes. This madness (survived by no less than 2 gin and tonics) was followed by a trip to nearby 8 mm where the very bad man of a DJ encouraged sara's unruly throng to dance on chairs, have a make-out huddle, and sing along to "Roxanne." There was much making out between the girls and f*ing in the bathrooms, especially after my group converged with a gaggle of blond Danish 20-somethings who were impressed with our belligerence. I alone abstained and was subsequently told by the bartender that I didn't look like I was having a good time. 3 bottles of beer later I had made friends with everyone, but holding strong to my promise not to catch mono refrained from the all-girl tongue lashing. None-the-less, an Olympicly persistent Swedish girl insisted upon giving me her phone number and myspace "just in case I come to Stockholm for sexy orgy." Did not beat daylight on the long, cold bike ride home. And am still haunted by the memories.

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