One of my youngster relatives is a DJ in some kind of raver collective in British Columbia (or EMF or some shit; whatever they’re calling it these days). They often post photo albums of their events to facebook, and I have to admit to perusing them. What can I say? Pictures of stoned youngsters in various stages of fornication will usually draw my attention.
However, I usually regret this. Just looking at those pictures makes me feel like I’ve picked up the scabies, herpes, or HPV.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but these people seem to have issues with hygiene. They got the funk. The kind that itches in a way demanding prescription medication.
I suppose this all means that I’m firmly in the grips of middle age now. That seeing pictures like this no longer gives me even the faintest tinge of envy or worry of missing out. I just worry that they’re not taking care of themselves properly.
Let’s just say I aint imagining anyone’s panties in an enjoyable way.
Being honest, though, I should really admit to a certain amount of indulgent fantasy in regards to this scene. Sometimes I imagine beating some of these people half to death with a golf club or blunt hand tool. Out there in the bush, with the stupid half-assed sets and blinky lights, I take the time to stalk and corner him right. Then toon him the fuck up with the kind of assault that’s a life altering experience. Maybe make him eat some of his furry clothing. But this is all just about some some other baggage I have; it has nothing to do with hygiene, I assure you.
(As a finishing note: 100 internet points to anyone who picked up the John Prine reference in the title!)