I think I've mentioned before in this blog my teenage affinity for embarrassingly wide leg pants, scissor-kick dance moves, and happy hardcore house music.

I'm almost certain I have.

It was an awkward, yet loving, time of my life.

I looked completely insane and it took a few months of clean living to get my neurochemistry back to the normal range—but, hell, never have I told so many complete strangers that they have a "beautiful soul, man."

Anyway, last night I stumbled upon, and yes, I mean literally stumbled upon (reeking of Montezuma tequila—CLASSY!), a rather frantic DJ Dara set at Southpaw.

The show, with Ed Rush and Optical, was originally slated to take place at Studio B, but surprisingly (or shockingly) Studio B doesn't have a cabaret license.

How very Footloose of them—NO DANCING ALLOWED!

Anyway, DJ Dara was one of the resident DJ's in my college dorm room. He was the background din, to one-upping-each-other stories of snorting too much K at that party were "Dieselboy played the most amazing set," and you know "Technics are the best tables. You should trash those dingy Geminis." And etc. etc. etc.

Whatever.

So, it totally felt like 2001 watching the scrubby little bass heads having seizures on the floor.

That, and I still can't dance to jungle worth a shit.