Tag Archives: techno

Tony Barrera

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I’ve been thinking recently about the aura of my home. Sometimes it feels warm and cozy, and other times as if a hurricane of Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons and running shoes has ravaged it.  There are days when clutter or not, it is just very quiet. I love the stillness when the television is off, the kettle has piped down, sports radio is muted, and we are all settled in our respective spots for the afternoon. The sun streams in through the windowpanes onto the back of the sofa, its rays gently caressing pudgy cat asleep on the radiator. A few feet away, light snoring rises from the ground as the redhead basset dreams of juicy steaks and wide grassy fields.

Así me gusta a mí. That was the name of a fantastic dance song from my youth (also featured in Penélope Cruz’s breakout film “Jamón, Jamón”). And well, that is how I like it – peaceful, low murmurs, gentle gradual movements. Now when the house and its members are actively engaged in the business of living, I am easily ruffled: treadmill spinning, doors opening, hurried footsteps up and down wooden stairs, greedy lapping of water from bowls, shower jets roaring, and so much more.

But the rare occasions when the house and I can carve out our time to just be, are when I am at my best. I like to slip into a satin kimono robe to really get the ambience going. I sit in a grey armchair, taking the time to place its matching ottoman in front of me for my tired legs. A cup of warm cucumber white tea is waiting on one side of me, and a tall glass of lemony water on the other; that is how you erase the memory of the chocolate chocolate chip muffin and three coffees from the morning. I hear the floorboards creak every so often. And not much else.

Now that dance song from my youth was truthfully about drugs. And big electronic dance music parties (before they were called that) in rundown warehouses, or on neglected expanses of beaches, or in open fields at the edges of towns around the world. And all of that me gusta. Mucho. I often feel my truest self when I am surrounded by that loud bass thumping. Minus the drugs of course, heaven forbid.

And so it is the house and I agree that some afternoons are for silent rejoicing, where we remain observant, gleefully setting aside most external stimulants, and just keeping our mouths shut for a few hours.   And other afternoons, heading into early evenings, should throb with a little drum and bass, the pitter patter of animal children demanding dinner, and the clinking sounds of someone fixing a cocktail. Así me gusta a mí. Also.

All Ages Show

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Hypnotic trance beats, neon lights at the DJ booth, an unruly crowd at the bar, and me finally trying out some moves beyond child’s pose.  It’s 7am.  I may no longer be checking the “18-34” age box on the mail-in surveys, but who says the fun has to stop?

I hear the groans already.  A middle-aged person at a club sounds as pleasing as a tuna and chocolate sandwich.  Back when I could gleefully check the aforementioned age box, I swore I would know to stop clubbing well before my expiration date.  And what marks the expiration date?  Well, being concerned about the safety of your purse is probably a flag.  Are you standing around trying to guess people’s ages?  Hoping against the odds there is a nice white wine you can order, instead of a shot of Fireball?  And if you don’t know what Fireball is, then that is a very unhidden clue to stay home and keep enjoying “Modern Family.”

But before you get judgy on me, imagining Leona Helmsley squeezed into a bandage dress, trying to avoid getting elbowed in the left eye by a flailing whippersnapper, I give you two words: morning rave.  This is my new mantra.  Forget affirming every morning that I love myself, as well as that mean woman on the Metro who took two seats with her giant backpack.  That only worked when I followed it up with a cherry chocolate scone – then I loved everybody.

Admittedly, I was a little worried when I walked into the spartan club at 7:01 a.m. and couldn’t spot the bathrooms right away.  For a split second, I panicked that I had missed reading about the new trend on retro outhouses.  But once the DJ put his fingers to work, I settled into the beats, and let my anxiety trickle away little by little.  I spotted a group of moms in their yoga pants, dancing protectively in a circle, stopping for the occasional selfie, and then carefully tucking their phones into their bras.  And the slightly overweight youngster, wonderfully uninhibited in his rhythmic gymnastics, unaware he would eventually hurt somebody.  But it was all good.

Maybe it was because I watched the sun from the club’s rooftop, slowly strengthening its rays.  Perhaps the bartender roofied the outstanding iced coffees at the bar.  I don’t care.  Morning Rave.  Close your eyes, and say it with me.