sawtooth

Mission accomplished. The tweaker hillbillies and their mobile meth labs have been returned to the Volunteer state.

Speakin’ of tweakin’………………..har har.

For some strange reason, I have been looping The Crystal Method tonight. Odd, I know, especially for a clean living American like myself.

[audio:cherry.mp3]

Play the file. Let it get spooled up real good and then read the rest of my story……

What was that joint’s name?….Blue Crystal….blue something; seems like every dance club/two man Big Beat oufit in the early 90s had a mineral-mimicking drug reference in the name.

Oh I can hear you, slave to the rhythm that you are. I’ll pause as you extract what memories are still transportable across your fragged synapses….”remember Club Piles O’ White Powder and the night Ice Quarry Hypodermics spun the tables and mashed up their hit, Myocardial Infarction Due To Massive Amounts Of Speed right in front of us?”

No. Neither do you for that matter. Complete deletion of mega-skank maneuvers is a Top 5 reason club drugs are popular in the first place. And neither can I remember much about Blue Crystal other than the 49 times someone came to class and said it was raided the night before and dozens of glow stick eating, numb skull goth kids went to jail.

Happened to be in the storied French Quarter in 1996 and found yourself in need of a massive one hundred twenty beat per minute overload? Looking for an analog filter-driven, four-on-the-floor fix and a pitifully damp, painfully skinny, semi-pleasing-to-the-eye female with a 6 to 8 hour long window for voracious physical contact? Then Blue Crystal was all you, man.

Murderous sound system, as I recall; the rig was flown and totally capable of ‘taking yo haid cleeeeen off’. The dance floor alternated from sticky to slippery on an hourly basis. Neon tressed, pasty goth (for you newbreeds, think emo with capes) godesses frequented the joint. And where their is sugar, there are bound to be flies. Perhaps I exchanged breast energy with your daughter? If so, I humbly beseech your forgiveness and offer up my basic, insincere four seasons apology, with extra meaningless remorse, of course.

New Orleans was a lot of fun. I miss that place everyday. But it’s probably a good thing I left. Hedonism and unmitigated debauchery can only take a fellow so far, you know. Or, at least, so I have been told -being an clean living American and all…..

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