Healing Rave Power

There is nothing like walking through a crowded Denver pedestrian mall in lingerée, fishnets, and gogo boots while on the way to a show. It's hilariously fun to keep a mental tally of the judgmental looks from post-menopausal women, the lingering gazes from their husbands, and the fascinated stares from their children.

Better still is the separate tally for the car honks, wolf whistles, sleazy greetings, and feasting eyes of desperately sex-obsessed single men. Though any feminist would be disgusted, I find it flattering and entertaining when passing men show their appreciation of my scantily-clad self in their crude,  generally loud manner.

One man, after his friend pointed my friend and I out, yelled "OH SHIT!" as we passed by. My partner in sexy crime and I broke out laughing at the unbridled response to our slutty gallavant through downtown. Night = made.

After the ridiculousness and stress of the preceeding week, all that I could do on Saturday night was rave. My driving need for familiarity in the face of adversity has finally been quenched by the pumping bass and general sleaziness of my weekend lifestyle. In short, I am whole again.

Also, in case anyone doubts my legitimacy as a raver, I give you a picture of me from the last small show I went to, in which I am wearing about a third of all the kandi that I own:

And just so you have an idea of what I was walking through the pedestrian mall looking like, this is a typical rave outfit:

Yep.
Anyway.

Life's officially back to normal for the next week before I leave again.


Julia