A letter to my hard-working husband

Dear Matt,

I know you had to go to the Big Apple (or whatever you code monkeys call the manufacturer of that iPhone gadget) on Wednesday and earn money to support my unemployed butt, but you must come to the next Morning Gloryville with me. Here’s why:

Megan & Brice

My first rave began at 6:30 a.m. and ended at 10:30 a.m. Alcohol and drugs (which, I hear, is a rave “thing”) were noticeably absent. Instead, baristas served up kale smoothies and quinoa bowls. Our friends, 7-foot tall Brice and his adorable wife, Kelsey, wore multi-colored tights and skin-tight gold pants – though not necessarily in that order. I wore fishnet stockings and that $3 combat helmet I scored at Goodwill.

You may not believe it, but this Morning Gloryville movement, in which techies, hipsters and freaks alike pulsate before work at an early morning extravaganza, is actually quite fun. It’s a raveolution – or so I’m told.

You know full well that San Franciscans are accustomed to the unusual. Yet even in the Mission District, “morning unusual” is borderline unique; Our little trio turned some heads as we strutted past the coffee-guzzling suits ensconced in Starbucks on our way to 2050 Bryant Street.

“Where you going?!” one puzzled sidewalk denizen shouted after us.

“To a dance party!” (Obviously. We were much too peppy for the Walk of Shame.)

Brice & Kelsey

Of course my clubbing experience is limitless, but even I must admit I’ve only seen venues like this Inner Mission place in the movies -- and on “Sex and the City” (as you know, those girls know how to party!). Let me describe the scene for you: A former factory in a row of former factories, the space was 10,000 square feet of dance floor with surprisingly clean – Aunt Audrey would say “edible” – restrooms. A second-story, saloon-style interior balcony supported a set of false-front buildings used for some kind of bawdy and, unfortunately, recently concluded circus performance known as “The Soiled Dove.” There was even a coat check (because that’s the kind of high-class place this was). 

If there’s a rave “dress code,” my experience at Inner Mission indicates it’s something like this: skin-tight pants for men and skin-tight leggings or metallic unitards for women. Bras, underwear and shoes are superfluous. Glitter, piercings, neon hair and blue eye shadow are musts. I know that by saying this I risk securing your attendance to a future rave, but remember the neon green wig, stuffed Hooters shirt and wings get-up you wore to Guavaween 2005? Wear that, and you’ll fit right in. The hunky specimen who checked our names off the invite list – and by “invite list” I mean a printout of customers like me who purchased a $20 ticket – wore skin-tight pants and wings. I tell you, if there was a line of male Victoria’s Secret Angels, this dude would surely make the cut. (Note to self: must bring sister next time).

If there’s a rave “dance style,” my experience at Inner Mission indicates it involves flowy arms and shifting one’s weight from foot to foot. That’s good, because even I could do that, and I am pretty confident you could too. Or there's always scrambling atop one of those wobbly circus pedestals and shaking your booty. Between shakes of my own, I tossed in a few “Sailor Steps,” my go-to move at those 60+ line dancing classes I’m always telling you about.

A male Victoria's Secret Angel?!

Brice and Kelsey immediately succumbed to a rhythmic trance in perfect beat with the DJ’s electronic tuneage. Not wishing to disturb them, I weaved in and out of the dancers on a quest to compile as many snapshots for you as possible. You’re going to love the pics of the male biker in the shredded pleather pants and the gyrating Elisabeth Shue-meets-Smurfette sprite who latched onto Brice’s tutu-wearing co-worker. When I encountered Toulouse-Lautrec in a pink faux fur vest and his friend, cod piece bulging in a pair of white boxer briefs, I insisted on a group photo. (You may notice the framed image adorning our mantle.)

Let me tell you, raving is hard work. Hard, sweaty work. You’re going to want to wear plenty of deodorant – and not that wimpy Tom’s of Maine crap. I know the scent of patchouli makes you gag, but you’ll undoubtedly prefer inhaling some of that sweet hippie tang to the Eau de Stank most everyone else (yours truly included) oozes after two hours on the dance floor. Close your eyes and embrace the whiff.

Now for breakfast, you must try the chia pudding. I know. I too thought those seeds were just for ceramic pets, but their puddified version has a nice, nutty texture. The baristas from Thistle serve it up with almond milk, cashews and cocao nibs – whatever the heck those are! 

With "Toulouse" & "Cod Piece"

When you grow tired of dancing, head over to the acrobatic yoga room, hula hoop your heart out or face plant for a massage (all three activities are included in the ticket price). I noticed it’s not unusual for five or six masseuses to simultaneously knead a single body, so don’t be alarmed to feel a dozen or so groping hands upon your posterior. Just listen to the thumping bass and drift peacefully off to sleep. 

“Going to that event makes me really want to dye my hair blue and get a cartilage piercing,” Kelsey said on our way back to Silicon Valley.

You must join us next time and experience that brand of post-rave clarity for yourself. But, if not, I’m pretty sure my sister's ready and willing.

Your loving wife,

Megan

Note to my readers: Despite any (attempt at) sarcasm you may have detected in the this “letter,” I truly enjoyed my Morning Gloryville experience, and I would happily go again. Thanks to Brice and Kelsey for allowing me to tag along! We’ll get Matt to show up eventually – even if we have to hogtie him.