Now playing: Butthole Surfers, “Sweat Loaf”
Oh my fucking god, that song kicks ass!! So why haven’t I listened to it in ten years?
Deep, deep, down, in a long-buried part of myself, you will find the sticky residue of a scrappy punk rock chick. Yes, children, back in the eighties I would get myself all dolled up in my best black miniskirt and torn fishnets and set off for the clubs, whereupon I would get really, really fucked up and dance with wild abandon to the Butthole Surfers. Yes, they used to play the Butthole Surfers at nightclubs back then. And yes, I used to dance with wild abandon.
They also played Grandmaster Flash and Parliament-Funkadelic and the Buzzcocks and P.I.L and Prince, music that wrenched you out of your seat and flung you onto the dancefloor whether you felt like dancing or not, and kept you there until you were covered in a thick film of sweat and that strange grit that hangs in the air at after-hours clubs just waiting to make contact with your damp, exposed skin.
When you couldn’t dance anymore, you’d retire to the co-ed bathroom to towel off, edging past the cokeheads and the lisping, eyelined boys giving each other blow jobs to try to get a fix on yourself in the clouded, lipstick-inscribed mirror as you splashed cold water on your face and tried not to actually look at the sinkbasin and the matter floating therein.
Then N. would come in and perch his skinny, rock-star ass on the edge of the counter like it was a smooth, wet throne, and the bathroom would fill to bursting with everyone at the club who was looking to buy good acid, and you’d debate the merits of taking some more but decide against it because, as it was, you were going to be awake for another eight hours at least.
Then you’d make your way back to the dancefloor where the dj was playing the Sisters of Mercy, who were a crap band but for some reason, Temple of Love always sounded really good coming through the speakers, and you’d start dancing again and the guy in front of you with the leather pants and the pointy buckle boots would do his best goth dance, which consisted of a slight back and forth shuffle punctuated by slow-motion air kicks, and you’d see that guy every single week and he always danced the same way and this made you laugh every time but you were still glad that he was always there.
Then all of a sudden they were playing Hope so you knew that it was morning, and you’d stagger down the stairs into the stark light of day and you and a bunch of other squinting punk rockers would go for breakfast even though nobody felt much like eating, and you’d giggle as you skipped past the businessmen on their way to work, feeling delightfully freaky and never imagining that someday you’d be the ones going to work and a bunch of kids fucked up on drugs you’ve never done would look at you the same way you looked at the businessmen, except that you know exactly what they’ve been up to all night and how good it can be and that it won’t last forever.
And by the way, if you see your mom this weekend, will you be sure and tell her...