I don’t go to raves. I actually turn my nose up to the whole rave culture because it glorifies three things that have no relevance to me whatsoever: furry boots, fairy wings, and STS9.
Wait, I actually went to a rave a few days ago in Queens. I rode a merry-go-round and sat inside a throbbing tent-bubble thing where I tried to make sense of my whereabouts as a man in a full-body fishnet stocking passed a joint to a panda bear.
But this was a rich-kid Queens rave, and the ever-so-industrious event coordinator was charging, like, $18 just to get in. (As with all events, I’m on the list or someone's adorable plus one. Psh.) PBR’s were $6. Liquor drinks were $10. Acid was the going rate, I’m assuming, but I wasn’t buying that either. The merry-go-round was free. See?
I have to hand it to them -- it was a much nicer experience than the last rave I went to on a rooftop in Bushwick. (Welp, forget that first line. Revised: I don’t plan on ever going to raves but sometimes end up there because I hang out with questionable people with even questionabler friends.)
One of those questionable people was my friend Cisco, who dragged me to that Bushwick rave, whereupon the roof started to noticeably rise and lower as the sweaty, raging King Rat on the dance floor jumped up and down to the weird-ass repetitive electro soft pop blasting into my head holes.
“We need to leave. We need to go,” I said, staring up at Cisco. I don’t excel at raves. They are not for short people. Also, we were going to die.
“There’s the exit!” he replied, pointing across the rooftop, past yet another amorphous blow-up blob thing, to the teeny doorway packed with fairies whose wings kept getting caught in the frame, clogging my one method of avoiding my fate as body #127 pulled from the warehouse wreckage.
“THE ROOF IS GOING TO FALL IN. LET’S GO.”
Cisco just laughed and put his huge hand on my shoulder, “We’re all gonna die at some point, little Annie!” And then he elegantly placed his grape lollipop back in his face.
I immediately entered my F-this mode and violently elbowed my way through the slippery neon body muck, bee-lining toward and through the exit. I wasn’t going to die. Not there, not then. Alexander Wang was having an employees-only sample sale that week.
Point: Raves are dumb and dangerous, or boring and expensive.
BUT! There’s no denying the power of some tacky faux fur and Crayola makeup if you wanna get some love on Tumblr or Lookbook.nu. And who goes to raves? Club kids! Who wears pigtails? Kids! Who wears Club Kid pigtails? Me. But just for this article, because I hate raves. (Also this furry sweater isn’t tacky, it’s Armani.)
You guys, I invented these pigtails! RED ALERT: EXCLUSIVE CONTENT. They're easy as hell, too. Grab six or so bobby pins and then set them down on, because you'll need your hands real quick first.
Okay, so maybe add a few more bobby pins than I did in the video. Got a little crazy at the end there and the guy on the left was having trouble holding on.
Lemme know if you try these out! Send some pics my way on Instagram. Also, tell me about the lamest rave you've ever died at in the comments. If nobody references Summer Heights High, I quit.