A few days ago I had a dream. I was back at my Mum's house, talking to my sister about a recent trip to Glastonbury. With an intense sense of self-inflicted loss, I gradually realised that I had been so drunk and stoned that I couldn't remember anything that had happened there at all. I ended up begging my sister to tell me what I had done, in the hope of sparking any kind of memories.
Of course, the very next day I went to the party of waistcoatmark's and got drunk and stoned. Despite this taunting of fate, my memory of this party remains fairly clear. The costume theme was 'dress as a film extra', ingenious in that it allows guests to employ as much effort and creativity as desired. I wore a generic black top and combat trousers, with a matched pair of pistols. A quick application of bone-white nail-varnish and blood-red lipstick to the forehead, and I was 'Shot In Head', a bit part in many an action film. I remember seeing a whole bunch of people who look blurrily familiar (or familiarly blurry, I forget), and hanging out with various mates from Oxford, including the lovely (if Livejournal-deficient(?)) Frances who I seem to only ever meet at such gatherings. She was fetchingly dressed as an extra from the Worst Witch, which, unfortunately for her, precipitated a rush of shoddily-suppressed childhood memories from when this was my sister's favourite film, and hence one to which I was exposed with such brutal thoroughness that I can still sing the songs and quote bits of the dialogue despite never having actually chosen to see it. I can only hope that she had had enough mulled wine and brownies to cushion her system...
Another old friend (well, acquaintence) resurfaced as well, in the form of Chinese Three Snakes wine. This is a small bottle of an unhealthy-green-coloured liquid tasting like bad sake, which was generously donated to me by my father during a drinks cabinet clean-out some years back. It sat on the alcohol shelf of our old house, unnerving guests and bullying the alcho-pops, until we moved and it was consigned to the 'party box' of unloved liquor. Items from this box have made their way into various parties amongst the peer-group since (as was the intention) though some seem to pass right through each party unscathed. My first thought on seeing it at waistcoatmark's was "Bloody hell! Someone else has a bottle of that stuff!", but it wasn't long before Occam's razor cut through my befuddlement and suggested that it was the same bottle, generously donated by the people who'd thrown the last party (names excluded to protect the guilty). I'd feel guilty myself, but I figure that it's like spam: If only 1% of people encountering the bottle take a sip out of curiosity, it will empty in the end. Well, at least it should evaporate eventually. Perhaps we'll meet again...
mr_snips and I got a lift there and back from cloudhigh, or rather from his car, which has tech that makes KITT look like a go-kart and is apparently automated to the point at which cloudhigh is a purely symbolic figurehead. As we left the party at a bit past midnight, I remember saying, "You know, I don't think those brownies have kicked in at all". This occasioned looks from my traveling companions that I can only describe as 'blurry', though a variety of sophisticated enhancement techniques that I have since employed allows me to tentatively identify them as 'deeply dubious'. Regardless, I think we can all agree the effects strengthened on my way home. All I remember is talking briefly (I hope) about a thong with a beach-ball playing dinosaur on it (which do exist), then kicking back in the car and listening to the Ipod all the way home. Later investigation reveals the playlist that I put together in my happily altered state:
Dirty Epic - underworld
Tomorrow Comes Today - Gorillaz
Reach Out - Midfield General
La Femme D'Argent - Air
Dry The Rain - Beta Band
At The River - Groove Armada
Rebel Without A Pause - The Evolution Control Committee (the vocals of the Public Enemy track of the same name with a brass band backing.)
Apparently I can DJ even when I'm completely zonked. More-or-less. Speaking of which...
Why not enjoy my less zonked DJing this very night, at Panic, from 12:30 to 1? Perhaps you're in Americaland, or only reading this on Wednesday, or hate the very idea, or are doing something else. In which case, fair enough.
Current site: Scary-Go-Round. If you like the idea of rambling comic stories featuring pretty indie-kids being sassy and occasionally killed, you'll love it.