This is how I described myself in my bio. Of course this is merely an example of my overuse of sarcasm that never really flows properly into the 'net. This is also how I would describe most ravers I know (myself included). You know the type!

But if not, I'll run through those points for you

  • Card Carrying - well, this is merely a saying meaning to be a member of, but in this case it also has another meaning. Ever be to those hideously popular clubs that have 3 hours long lines? No? Well, for those who have, being a member of them make the whole evening/morning a lot more enjoyable as you now don't have to stand around in the long, incredibly slowly moving line. See that much shorter members queue over to the side? Go there! Mmmm... membership

  • Glow-stick waving - anyone who's been in any kinda nightclub (by that I mean, not just one of those pubs that happens to have a dance floor and plays some commerical dance crap(sorry) music after 10pm - but a real, 3 story, 5 rooms of different music, multi-thousand capacity, blow your mind lighting, and bust your ear-drums sound system type club) will know what a glow-stick is. Single handed responsible for some terrible day after arm cramps on my behalf. Basically turns your everyday raver into a one man walking lightshow.

  • Use too much gel - or porcupine syndrome. Common phenomenon among ravers that has spread to the main stream. Involves putting so much gel in you hair then spiking it up that passer-bys have to be careful not to lose an eye.

  • Funny pant wearing - another phenomenon that has spilled over into the main stream. The kind of pants that have seven pockets, 12 zippers, and appear to be made from something that distorts light. Of course as a raver these attributes actually have a use. Pockets - do you have any idea how much crap you have to carry around as a raver? Lemme run through it - wallet, phone, chewing gum(x3), chubba-chups(x5), chap-stick, tickets, fliers, assorted drugs(of legal and non-legal flavours), keys, smokes. I think thats it - basically you need all those pockets. Plus those zip off legs are great when you're going from sub-zero tempuratures outside, to stinky hot and sweaty inside the club. Runs hand in hand with the cloakroom. As for the light distortion stuff, well, you've got to look cool when you go out don't you? :)

  • Weirdo - Well, I've been called it walking down the street, and you tend to look like one to a lot people. Proud to be one however!
  • The queue was hideously slow, but none of us minded. We had beer, a flask, and some chemicals Yael had hidden in the many pockets of her American army jacket. You have to have lots of pockets in our rebellious little subculture, 'cos there's so much shit you have to carry around. Markers in red and green for your hair and black for everything else, Zippo lighters to set shit on fire and light your cigarettes, keys for opening doors and scraping things up, mascara for those Clockwork Orange moments, liquid paper for writing on stuff and sniffing, guitar strings and picks just because you never know, and of course cigarettes, drink and drugs. Lotsa pockets. Of course, since most of us wore skin-tight spiderweb-ripped jeans, or shiny vinyl, or camouflage tights, we hardly had room in our pockets to carry our mandatory ID cards. So it was, like, a good thing Yael always wore that jacket. (We wouldn't have carried the cards anyway - we hated the government, hated numbers, hated anything that labelled us, hated everything that required membership. We liked to be able to make up our own names as the situation demanded. I think Peter used to have a business card with his name and the profession, "Assassin", on it, but he was the only card carrier in the group.)

    We were in line for an hour or so, because this was a real club, not one of those dinky kibbutz discos or any wankers' club with lots of coloured lights and fucking mirrorballs, or laser shows even. No, this was a real club for real punks. It could hold hundreds of people, had industrial strength smoke machines and a couple of flicker lights, and it was built strong for mass moshing. It was the shit, or rather, the dog's bollocks as we liked to say and thought we sounded cool saying. We waited, and compared hair, and my fucked-up Mohawk was nowhere near as cool as the dangerously spiked porcupine quills some of the guys had on their heads, but it still felt like we were all part of the same movement, like we could have taken out the government then and there. (When you think about it, it's probably true. There's only a hundred and twenty of them, after all, and they were old and fat, and we were young and hungry. I figure we could have taken them down easily. Besides, we all had work boots and leather jackets and some of us had spray painted our shirts with Day-Glo shit so we looked like a bunch of walking lightsticks, and they wore Italian moccasins and suits. No contest.) And there was scattered fighting in line, mostly guys jumping their mates from behind and people blowing off steam, because this was Israel's biggest and coolest fucking export band and the only ones who still admitted that they were Israeli, and every punk, Goth, and New Waver in the fucking country was excited to see them in their first local concert in years.

    Eventually we did get in, and watched the nation's premier counterculture music historian play uncensored versions of rock videos on a huge projection screen for about an hour - I remember "Girls on Film" with nudity, and "Nice and Sleazy" with artistic scratched-up black and white nudity, and some naff Adam Ant video. Not much else.

    And the lights went all the way down, and smoke came out like dragon's breath, and tiny, weak lights limned the bass player, who was not traditionally sexy but was every punk's wet dream nonetheless, wearing some kind of white dress with a train about five miles long, and everybody's favourite toadlike little guitarist following behind her, holding up the train and leering, and all of us vocally reminding him that Israel welcomes her rebellious idols by calling them faggots and throwing beer cans at them. The smoke billowed and the white cloth flowed and the guitars began to screech like mechanical saws and the rest of the evening - most of the decade, in fact - was a total blur.

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