Monday, 26 May 2003 | Day four

On day one, I found myself on the second floor of an old warehouse with newly polished floors. The main room was 3,000 square feet, in the center of which was a cage where the indie-rock girl bands were playing. They wore short shorts, not unlike a pair I had in 1980, and delicate high heels. They thrashed their shaggy hair around while strumming and banging and putting their mouths too close to the microphones. On either end of the cage were two entrances that were actually revolving darkroom doors, which made the entire unit resemble a wrapped piece of candy.

The rest of us (minus the ones sitting along the wall, the ones inhaling and exhaling in the cloudy smoking room, and the ones standing in clusters by the lockers) had four wheels strapped to each foot and were circling the band. Almost everyone was shaky, not because it's difficult to skate in a circle, but because it's difficult to skate in a circle with a pack of people (some of whom are drunk) who don't know how to stop or slow down, who unpredictably weave left and right and go fast and slow, and who crumple in front of you in a pile of arms and legs. There was one guy among us who was completely graceful and solid; even when people grabbed onto his arm to save themselves from falling, he stood sturdy on his wheels like some sort of rolling mountain.

On day two, I found myself on the second floor and roof of an old warehouse that had been painstakingly decorated with a tongue-in-cheek country/western/Dukes of Hazard theme. It was called a "truck stop roof top" party, and it was being thrown by the same people who organized the bike rodeo. I was surprised at how endlessly big it was; there was a room with a tent and (I think) karaoke, a room with a band, a room with a bar, a room with an old-school miniature car race track (what's the proper name for those?), and the roof of the whole building, where there was a DJ, a movie being screened on a wall, another tent and bar, a grill full of sausages and veggie burgers, and views to all sides of the chilly, overcast lighted sky.

On day three, I found myself dancing next to a wall filled with computer-generated graphics that pulsed and swam to the music at the command of the DJ. Most of it was 80s music, or current bands mocking 80s music, which got me and my friend Sean talking about the current decade. What will it be known for, outside of an appreciation for retro? And what's it called, anyway? He told me he's already heard of someone throwing a 90s party. Which made us wonder what that was all about. Grunge, maybe? Techno?

On day four, I found myself creeping into a KFC, in my second fast-food dining experience in one-and-a-half years. I didn't want to go there, but I couldn't think of anywhere else to get mashed potatoes and a biscuit at that hour, which I had been inexplicably craving all day. When I walked in, I felt like the other people knew I had become something of a fast food virgin, and I thought I stood out a little—not necessarily in an unwelcome way—perhaps something like as if I'd walked in a black church as the only white person. I stood timidly at the counter, trying to recall the custom of ordering from the busy, bright, neck-bending screen, trying to look confident about it. The girl behind the counter was very friendly but confused that I wasn't getting any chicken. I think I pulled it off, though; I don't think she suspected I was a traitor.

But this weekend wasn't all skates, fake rednecks, and KFC. I got some work done, too.