Go Out Dancing

Is my new favorite acronym for God.

Others I like are:

Grace Over Drama.

Group Of Drunks.

Great Out Doors.

Good Orderly Direction.

But for the moment, go out dancing is my current fave.

I have made a new friend and she has gotten me out twice now in the past week.

We went out to the Polyglamorous party “Left Overs” last week, Thanksgiving weekend, with Dee Diggs from Brooklyn at The Great Northern, and to date myself, I hadn’t been there since it was Mighty, so, like, um, fifteen or sixteen years?

A very good friend and I used to go there in early recovery.

The sound system there was out of this world.

I don’t even remember who I saw.

Once I went there with a room mate to see a famous rapper, who, I really didn’t know, I had never heard of the guy before, but my room mate had a hard on for him and an extra ticket and so I went.

Much to her chagrin, I got pulled up on the stage at the club to dance with him.

I don’t remember the artist’s name, but I do remember my room mates look of incredulity as I was on stage.

Heh.

Sometimes when I went with my good friend and the acts weren’t that great and we’d just go hang out by his car.

He had a ridiculous sound system in his car, a convertible Mercedes Benz that I don’t even want to know how much it cost, and he’d pop the trunk and we’d just dance around the car.

I can remember more than a few times when the best party was not what was going on in the club, but what was going on out in the street.

We weren’t alone dancing around the car.

Last night I went with my new friend to Public Works and saw John Digweed and his opening set DJ Kora with Set Underground.

Kora was beautiful.

It felt like a glorious sound bath.

There was this gorgeous alter with disco ball lights and lanterns and incense that the DJ was playing behind.

Now.

Normally.

I’m not into this kind of spiritual hoo ha.

But.

His music was lovely, deep, soft trancelike house with some Middle Eastern Influence.

The crowd was diverse, older, dreamy, community.

I saw people I knew from years and years ago.

In fact, I told my new friend last night that I recognized the way that she danced, she has a unique style, that I know I must have seen her on various dance floors and clubs in San Francisco back in the early 2000s.

And later when Digweed came on and the floor got too crowded for her, she bounced out to the Mezzanine, and I found her dancing with an old acquaintance, that I knew from back in the day.

In fact, I used to be in awe of this man.

He was the best club dancer I have ever seen, and twenty (fuck my life, really?) years later, he is still a marvel on the floor.

I remember being in the back room at 1015 for Tiesto? Donald Glaude? Scumfrog? Jonathan Ojeda?

God, only knows, I wasn’t sober then, but I had danced like a crazed person and was taking a break with a drink and my friend who had come up from San Jose to dance that night with me, also a very accomplished dancer, and I saw this gorgeous African American man and a white guy with dreads dancing across the club room.

They were dancing so hard.

Enthralled I watched for a while and then got up the nerve to join.

It was magic.

And I was blown away by their beauty and prowess and grace.

I think I held my own for twenty minutes, they were going so, so, so hard, before I had to bow out.

Literally.

I bowed out.

And they both smiled, and bowed back.

Every time I have seen said gentleman since, his dark eyes always smile at me, and he bows.

And sometimes, still, we dance, before my knees give out.

He is tall and slim, almost slight, well dressed, in his own glorious interpretation of club clothes, and last night he had an afro mohawk.

Seeing him and my new friend dancing behind the sound booth in the mezzanine, I knew, I knew I had seen her before.

She was surprised when she realized that I knew him.

Ah, the club world.

So big and sometimes so, so small.

And I don’t know how it’s twenty years later and I’m suddenly back in the scene and dancing.

Granted, I go much earlier than I used to.

I gobble Ibuprofen.

I only drink water.

I’m completely sober, spiritually centered, and drowned in the ecstasy of dance.

I get lost.

It’s exquisite.

It doesn’t always happen, but more often than not, it does.

I love music.

I listen to music all day long.

When my ex in my twenties and I broke up we discovered something interesting–he owned the tv, stereo, VCR, and most of the cds (mostly because for five years when I didn’t know what to gift him, I gave him stacks of cds for birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays, which bit me in the ass when I realized he owned most of the music).

I owned the furniture, bed, and all the kitchen ware.

He moved out.

And I had no audio visual.

I was a broke student working at a brewing company getting by on student loans and suddenly faced with paying double the rent I had the previous month.

I had enough to either buy a tv or a stereo.

There was no debate.

I bought the stereo.

I have not owned a television since.

(“I just realized something!” A friend said to me recently as we were hanging out and drinking tea in my living room. “You don’t own a tv, your living room is arranged so that people can see each other when they talk, not a tv!”)

23 years now.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, I have HBO Max (pandemic buy) and Netflix–I do watch videos on my laptop, but music, music is where it is at for me.

I dance every day.

Not always for very long, but every day, mostly in my kitchen.

I was dancing before writing this.

And I will go out dancing again this upcoming Friday.

Dimitri from Paris at the Great Northern.

I could even go out Saturday night too, a friend offered to gift me a ticket to a show at the MidWay.

I’m not sure I can do that, but I am tempted.

Go out dancing more, I tell myself.

Between six and a half years of graduate school (three years in my Master’s program and three and a half in my PhD–yeah, I got that faster than the average bear) and the pandemic, it’s been a long while.

I am happy to be back.

My knees are sore.

And I’m a lot older.

But that’s ok.

I plan on dancing until I die.

Music is one of the many ways I connect to God.

And thus, it is paramount to keep listening, keep dancing, keep drowning in the love.

“I love you,” he shouted in my ear, “I saw you up there, you kept it moving, you didn’t stop, you are beautiful.”

He hugged me.

Some stranger in a sweaty t-shirt with a happy glow on his face last night at the club who grabbed me before I left the dance floor.

Grateful to be seen.

Grateful for music.

Grateful for dancing.

Grateful for this rich, full life.

Even when my knees hurt and I rue the nights I danced for hours in platform heels for six, seven, eight hours, when I was young and anesthetized on cocaine, even when I can’t drop it like it’s hot, or even like it’s lukewarm, even when I can’t stay out late or all night long like I used to, or that I have all sorts of laugh wrinkles around my eyes, even when my hips hurt (gah), and I can’t believe I’m weeks away from turning 50, even then.

I am so grateful

So, I’ll continue to go out dancing.

And if you want.

You should come.

I’d love to see you on the dance floor.

Although I might not see you right away as I will be standing in front of the DJ with my hands raised to the heavens and my eyes closed shut in my own private ecstatic moment communing with God as I understand God.

Go out dancing.

It’s good for you.

Seriously.

It’s a Small World

And I only have so much time to write about it.

I just got back from a 14 hour plus day.

It went just a bit over the original estimate of time.

I was ok with it until the last-minute.

Then there was a fucking bomb threat in the Mission and mom and dad had to hoof it home.

Who the fuck bomb threats the Mission?

Isn’t it bad enough with the rents?

Anyway.

In the end, it was fine.

I am home now and I had the most exhilarating ride home.

I don’t usually care for late night rides home, but then I consider where I have done late night riding and the difference between doing a late night bicycle ride through crack infested waters in East Oakland and the delicious perfumed air through the Pan Handle is so starkly different that I can scarce believe it.

The weather too, nigh to perfect.

The air was still warm on the ride, not a usual night in San Francisco.

I believe that tomorrow and Sunday are also going to be as nice, if not nicer.

Quite lovely for the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival.

The Hardly-I-Won’t-Be-Going-Festival, I should call it.

As despite many a debate in my head over the last three days, I don’t believe I am going to venture in.

It is just too much.

Too many people.

I like my people.

I like my concerts in the park.

I just don’t want to do it with over 50,000 people.

I mean, maybe at Burning Man, but the area of the city is quite a bit larger than the Golden Gate Park area that the festival encompasses.

Maybe if I knew a posse of folks that were going and camped out a stage, but just the thought of trying to go claim some territory with a blanket and some coolers.

No.

I can’t.

I will sleep in instead.

I have a coffee date with a lady at 1:30 p.m.

Which means that I will further unwind from my day with another cup of tea and a download of a video.

I may not watch the entire thing, but I will sit in my bed and I will eat an apple and or a persimmon and have some tea and maybe just ooze into the pillows.

I watched a movie tonight at work while the baby was sleeping, the baby that did not take his late afternoon nap and was cray cray.

Cute.

But crazy.

I took some photos of him and he looked drunk.

It was fun and those photos along with the movie I watched reminded me of some of my early times in San Francisco.

Add to that the movie, “Ecstasy,” was based on the novel by Irvine Welsh (Trainspotting, Skag Boys, Porno, etc) and it was definitely a flashback sort of night.

I remember some of the shows that I went to, the places I danced at, the people I met.

Turns out my employer worked with a lot of the musicians that I was going to see.

I knew that she was in the music industry, as is her husband, you only have to take a quick peak in his office to know that there is a serious sound system and recording studio in there, but I guess I just did not put two and two together.

Turns out she did vocals for loads of shows at 1015 with Spundae between 2002 and 2009.

I am sure I saw her sing.

And I have absolutely no recollection.

Of course I was a bit of a whore for the dj booth, I always wanted to be right up front, pressed as closed to the class as possible, eyes closed in my own little dance world of bliss.

“Someone’s in love with the dj,” my friend said to me one night at 1015 as I danced myself crazy in front of the booth on the main floor in the big room.

“No, I mean, he’s cute, yeah, but no,” I said, shaking off the accusation, wild-eyed and wide-eyed and yes, oh yes, quite dilated eyes too, “I saw God.”

Period.

The dj was Jonathan Ojeda with Spundae.

I met Ojeda a few weeks later at Spundae in the Haight and he and I talked turntables and he showed me what I should get.

I made notes, thanked him and made plans as to how I was going to afford Technics.

A month later I was back, money in hand, ready to buy, but Ojeda was not at the store.

Instead, there was a young woman who helped me out.

The shop was quiet, we started talking djs, dancing, clubs, guys, SF, etc.

Before you know it, she says, “you don’t actually want to buy here, you don’t have that kind of money to spare.”

“But I want them and I am willing to pay,” I stopped as she waved me off.

“Listen, the tables are too expensive here, go to House of Stereos on Market Street and flirt with the old guy behind the counter, tell him exactly what you want and don’t deviate from it, don’t buy anything extra.  Here, I will write down what to get.”  She bent over the counter top at Spundae and jotted down a concise list.

“See you at the club,” she said, “good luck!”

“Thanks!” I grinned ear to ear and hopped on the Haight 71 headed downtown.

I found House of Stereos and it was sleazy but stocked, man was it stocked.

I walked in, went straight to the counter and read my list to the younger man behind it.

He looked at me, went back behind a door in the store and a few minutes late an older gentelman walked out.

He flirted with me.

I flirted back.

He offered me some extra stuff.

I said no, nicely, firmly, with a smile, I said no thank you, just what I have on my list.

He shook his head, ok, and waved to the young man who took my list and got all the items on it.

Two Technic turntables.

A mixer.

A really nice set of head phones.

Some needles.

The total bill was $1400.

I asked to split the cost between two credit cards.

I signed the first for $700.

I signed the second for $7.00.

I did a double take.

I looked up, “you didn’t charge me the correct amount,” I said swallowing my tongue, damn it, why did I say anything?

The old man squinted at it, “nope, is right.”

I did a double take, “are you sure?”

“Yes, now sign and go enjoy.” He smiled.

“Where your car?  My boy, he load it up for you.”

“No car, bus,” I said.

“No, no bus, taxi, go flag her taxi, load it up, where you go?”  He asked me.

“20th and York,” I said, barely able to contain myself.

I don’t remember the first vinyl I played on the tables.

But I do know where they are.

In a friend’s house in Diamond Heights.

I sold them to him when I was in the process of moving.

He took them to New York, Chicago, and now they have come home, here to SF.

It’s a small world.

It really is.

And I did see God.

I still do.