FTVS attempted, as usual, something that has eluded the entire music press for decades: a review of a major Los Angeles hotel accompanied by groundbreaking interviews of a presumably theologically correct palette of individuals on New Year’s Eve 2010.
Bob Albatross and I, Jack Colt, decided to inflate the already gargantuan challenge by leaving the proceedings of the evening entirely in Fortuna’s tender hands. Dialectically, we of course trusted whatever the vicious trollop of fate would put in ours. A feat which, without a doubt, would have catapulted us to the very summit of the electronic music press if we had not already conquered it. The view is nice from the top, and Fortuna’s ovaries are kind.
What happened? It ended like this: I woke up on January 1st at 8:56:27am to the sound of a very groggy Mr. C, with no interviews, a tremendous difficulty to walk or see, no recollection of the night, and no sign of the FTVS editorial team. A careful analysis of the meta-data from the digital photographs in the FTVS camera allowed me to aggregate a foggy picture of fragmented and nonexistent memories.
What I, Jack Colt, remember is that by 11:30:00pm the old Eezer was running strong on the Rooftop, too strong maybe.
11:39:43pm — I had lost sight of the FTVS team and began taking pictures of strangers in the lobby of the hotel. I remember vaguely taking a picture of a group of perhaps negro people, possiblly led by FTVS adversary Sean Combs, who subsequently forced me to delete the precious photographs. I complied promptly, resistance was futile.
11:47:10pm — After wrestling my way into the elevator I ascended once more to the top of the building. Lee Foss was playing casually yet precisely, dogging the constant sexual assaults of a floc of female individuals who just so happened to correspond quite perfectly to my target demographic. I acted as if an old friend of Lee Foss, to maximize the chances of seizing a nasty that would surely be left in Lee’s wake. Certainly, I would jubiliantly settle for his sloppy seconds, if not fifths or sixths.
11:49:18pm — Perhaps I had found refuge in one water-bedded red capsule near the pool with a female matching my own level of intoxication. I might have accidentally roofied my own drink at this moment. This explained the simultaneous disappearance of the woman and my own ontology. The pleasure, was quite literally, mine alone.
11:55:36pm — A set of perfectly shaped and adequately unwrapped female buttocks attracted my photographic attention. No sign of the aforementioned red-capsule.
12:04:22am — The magnificent Richard West arrives and relieves Mr. Foss of his disque jockeying duty. He is refined, sublime, and is wearing some very fashionable boots. Mr. C is calm, sporting a grin that suggests he has DJed before, and perhaps been harassed by self-roofied French expats heavily intoxicated on rice wine (me, Jack Colt).
12:42:32am — In less than forty minutes, I had shot ninety six (96) pictures of Mr. C at close range and decided to accomplish yet another photographic first by diving under the decks with him and taking his portrait. The smile remains on the extraordinary fellow. It is, quite simply, impossible to perturb this gentle giant.
01:23:01am — Smile down. Trouble is lurking. The atmosphere becomes heinous.
01:24:00am — The Standard Security squadron attempts to shut down the party. A very valorous and fierce Andrei Osyka faces the oppressor alone, explaining The Shamen cannot be disturbed once the party starts rocking. Lee Foss arrives in an effort to rescue him using his charm to appeased the explosive situation. The Security is strong.
01:24:11am — The battle that seemed to last an eternity was now irrevocably lost. The Chelsea Boy refuses to leave the sinking decks and plays until the end. We are now escorted to the elevator. I am caught in the flow. I decide to follow the group to Room 1048. I remember asking something to Lee Foss to which he responded: “It was a rough year.” Why? I wondered. Perhaps the FTVS interview had put on to much weight on the young man’s shoulders.
03:26:10am — The Shamen is touching the very tactile screen of an iPhone connected to the room’s iPod dock (a feat former FTVS Editor Kip Penn would not have succeeded with). Someone offers me a small amount of white powder on the tip of a key which I failed to refuse and later assessed to be horse tranquilizer. The music must be playing in the room, but my basic motor skills deteriorate fast. Only my left hand is able to keep up with the far sounding beat.
09:33:47am — I am at the Westin Bonaventure, Red Tower, waiting for the very same elevator that carried our good governor and his horse in James Cameron’s pre-Avatar masterpiece. But why? How did I manage to cross Flower street? I look for Bob by the poolside, but he is likely resting his phallus in a wet hole in the dark. The last six (6) hours are absurd, if not completely professional. I must rest. Three (3) hours hopefully. It must commence again on New Year’s Day. 2010 demands it of me.
