RAVE STORIES #1

Whoever Has the Biggest Pants, Eats the Most Drugs & Doesn’t Die Wins

The Turn Back the Clock take me home incident

The first real rave I attended was Turn Back the Clock. The name of the party was in reference to the 1996–1997 New Year’s Eve party in Los Angeles that became known as the New Year's Rave Riot.

The Turn Back the Clock party was supposed to rewind our tear gas tainted rubber bullet bad memories and record over them with happy, PLUR, good vibe memories.

This is what ravers looked like in 1997. I was there, man.

Rave flyers used geometric shapes with textures rendered with 3D Studio Max to entice us on a journey to a magical land with beautiful people and good vibes.

The raves were all thrown at one of a half dozen dilapidated warehouses, small town fairgrounds, and art spaces on the outskirts of LA county. The beautiful people and good vibes were there, so we went.

Turn Back the Clock was no exception. Held at the notorious San Bernadino Sports Arena, aka The Masterdome. It was the big party of the weekend. Meaning admission was 15 dollars vs the usual 5.

I went to Turn Back the Clock with my best friend Jon. We met our mutual friend Jason-Jason at the party. Jason-Jason had a head start and had been raving a few months. He knew who had the real drugs.

We paid 20 bucks for 6 hits of acid. I ate 2 squares of scissor cut blotter; Jon ate 3.

This wasn’t our first-time taking acid, but it may as well have been.

We were sitting in the bleachers enjoying acid house when acid drug kicked in. I got so high so quick I didn’t experience ego death till the rebound.

The drug blindsided us. It was the first time we had the real thing. It hit hard and strong. The stuff I had in high school was shwag, this was the pure kush.

Later I’d learn the blotter was Deadhead family stuff. This was the real deal LSD-25. It knocked our dicks in the dirt.

It had only been 15 minutes since taking the tabs and I was frying balls. I turned to Jon and managed to say, “Wow.”

“Take me home.” Jon said with dire seriousness and urgency.

“Heh.”

“I want to go home.”

We weren’t going anywhere. We couldn’t.

“Chill.” I vocalized, I think.

“Aaaaaaaaaargh…” Jon groaned gutturally.

Jon did take 33% more than I did, and I was tripping chunks in 5 other dimensions. We sat on the bleachers feeling the doof-doof-doof from the phalanx of refrigerator sized speaker cabinets in our balls.

I had discovered what my idea of a good time was. These were my people.

It was amazing. I’m having the time of my life whipping my head around to the beat.

All of a sudden, I lost my bearings and projectile vomited a one-shot that landed on the stuffed Elmo backpack being worn by the raver sitting in front of me.

I wanted to tap him on the shoulder and let him know that I threw up on him and express my remorse. My arm wasn’t responding to my brain’s commands. All I could do was hallucinate while watching my vomit drip off Elmo’s fur.

He didn’t seem to notice.

“Let’s go dance, it smells like somebody puked.” He told his girlfriend after a few minutes as they got up.

I sat and tried to process what just happened and the 18 years of my life before that.

After what felt like a lifetime but probably a couple of minutes, I turned to Jon to tell him of the latest developments.

“I barfed on this guy.”

“Take me home.” He said rolling around like a Weeble Wobble.

No fucking way we were leaving. We drove 90 minutes and paid 35 bucks for this goddammit. Besides, I drove.

Jon kept trying to get up. He was frying too hard to walk down the bleachers without falling down them. I’d put my hand on his shoulder and push him back down.

Maybe he did need a change of scenery. I let him get up and got him off the bleachers without injury and walked around the rave with him.

A raver had a balloon tied to his backpack. Jon saw it with his barely open eyes and hugged it against his chest until it popped.

The raver turned around to see a very confused looking Jon holding a broken balloon.

“Hey man, what the fuck!” Said the raver. The balloon was likely filled with nitrous oxide so he was pissed.

Jon was on a different planet and had no idea what was going on.

“Dude, I’m so sorry. He’s really fucked up.” I explained.

He gave us a dirty look and walked away.

I asked if he felt like dancing but the only thing that came out of his mouth all night was one phrase.

“Take me home.”

Every two minutes he’d try to get up. I didn’t want to babysit him but after the balloon I couldn’t let him fuck up anyone else’s night.

After the 40th time I just let him go. The party is basically one room. Let him wander, he’ll be back.

Only he never came back. There was maybe two thousand people at that party. The Masterdome was maybe 30,000 square feet. I combed every inch of it.

I told Jason-Jason I lost Jon.

“I don’t give a fuck. Fuck him,” and he went back to making out with some candy raver.

I asked security at the door if there was a big guy with glasses wandering the parking lot asking people to take him home.

“Fuck if I know.” Said event security.

I asked if I could just stick my head out the door to look and see if he was outside.

“You open that door you’re gone for the night. No re-entry no acceptations.”

After spending 2 hours looking at every face in every cuddle puddle, I was positive he wasn’t inside the rave. If he was I’d just buy another ticket or sit in the car.

I just hoped he was okay.

I open the door to leave the Masterdome. There’s about 100 meters of pavement between the Masterdome entrance and the street. Sitting in a lone chair by himself smack bang in the middle is a very tore-back looking Jon.

“Hogan! Take me home.”

“Okay, sorry about that. Let’s go home.”

We were both still frying our tits off. That night I discovered that I drive great on acid. I became one with my 1989 Acura Integra.

When I let Jon get up by himself, he got confused and walked outside. He didn’t have enough to get back in. He told me about the dead raver hallucinations he had while waiting. He also went to hell which is weird because we’re Jewish.

I dropped him off at his car.

“Wanna try it again next week?” I asked.

“Hell yeah! I want to try Exstacy. Next time I’ll try starting with one.”