I’ve never been to a rave. One time, when I was but a young, doe-eyed college student, this dude from Seattle sat next to me on an Amtrak train. He was huge into raves. He asked if I’d ever been. When I said no, he said that he was positive I would love them and that I had to promise to go to one at my absolute earliest convenience. He was very adament about the whole thing. He went as far as to say that I seemed like a “rave type”. Which sort of threw me, but I smiled and nodded as I always do with strangers with whom I ill-advisedly engage.
Long story short, I’m almost positive the guy had killed multiple people in his lifetime. He totally had the look of the kind of guy you expect to see on a “Dateline” or “20/20” special: crazy white guy full of sexual rage and misogyny. He initially introduced himself as Peter. As the train ride and our conversation progressed, though, he revealed that he actually went by a different name. He said he had a pair of progressive parents who encouraged him and his siblings to rename themselves. Peter was very excited to reveal his self-given name to me. He let the anticipation build (though I wasn’t actually anxious to learn it). And after an extensive, extensive explanation of his love of Japanese swordsmanship, Peter told me. His other name was…
Cutts. “With two t’s!”
Had it not just so happened that I ended up transferring to a different train than Peter/Cutts, I have no doubt that I would’ve ended up drugged and cut. Slashed, even.
So, yeah…who feels like raving?
(It pans out at the end to show two words above the stage that tell exactly where you are in case you weren’t sure.)