Staple
A week’s absence from Staple is like a year. I was so ready to hit the dancefloor at the old Rawhide tonight, particularly after last night’s washcloth-sized dancefloor over at Liquid. I was all ready to hit it and make it up there around 10, but my roommate put in Reds (1981) shortly before 7:30, so I ended up getting a late start, arriving just before 11.
Found Patrick and his girl, and talked to Inhuman and Peter and Tony and Fil eventually, relating tales of Idaho. Kit Clayton took over at midnight, starting his set with a noisy beat set that eventually morphed itself (after a few impatient fucks went up to him. “Shut up,” I heard him yell. “I’m not gonna do what you say!”) into a nice tech-house groove that kept giving. Every once in a while, he’d switch back into the avant garde techno feel. It kicked ass. Toward the end of the evening, he played some old school funk and soul tracks—Graham Central Station (I think), and a few other old gems.
Another Staple and yet another week of pining for next weekend. Sweet. Now: time to hit Denny’s for some bellyfiller. Cheers!