The smell of a fog machine would be nice right now

I am in a stinky, horrible little mood.

Friends are getting laid off right and left. Those of us who haven't yet gotten the axe are living in a constant state of fear that we'll be next. Print media is dying.

So I hate that I wasted all my angst being young. But the market for angst was better in the late 80s and early 90s when we could dress in black and be rivets.

To be sure, I personally had no pretty hate machine to rage against back then. I had a (low-paying) job in publishing, a supplemental part-time job as a cocktail waitress at a concert venue and had yet to experience tragedy. But at night, I was a darkwaver.

It started when I was a sophomore at the University College of London. I had only recently segued out of Duran Duran into the Cure. The Camden Ballroom changed my life. Like an aspiring drag queen dressing for the first time, my first pair of Doc Marten's and the music of Bauhaus, Neubauten and Ministry opened my eyes and made everything feel better.

Lacing up my boots, squeezing into corseted jackets and putting on my fright makeup after a day of working for or waiting on mean people was pure joy. Being in the club, amongst the beautiful weirdos, the smell of fog machines and clove cigarettes was bliss. Stomping around the dance floor, pushing and shoving and sweating within the chain-link enclosures, was ecstasy.

It's been so long, and I'm so old now, that I don't think about it much. But when I miss it, like right now when I wish I could just dress up and thrash, I miss it hard. Here's to Club Zero back home, the Fallout Shelter here in Raleigh, Bar Sinister in West Hollywood, the Batcave in NYC and my beloved Camden Palace. I had a great time.



Footnote: Four suburban teenagers, described in the N&O as "goths" (meaning they shopped at Hot Topic at Cary Town Center) brutally killed another kid. That adds to my icky hurt tonight.