Justin Achilli

Off to Iceland, with an iPod full of weirdness. I’ll see about pasting some stuff up here if and when I’m able.

Freaky creepies! Things are happening here, and by here, I mean here and not there, though there is where I used to be and here is where I am now. I’m sleeping in the “Fight Club room,” drifting to my desk as a tumbleweed blows across the desert, and winking knowingly at co-conspirators whose confidences I’ve revived.

What will come of it? Who can say? I like it, though, and I believe in it. What I went to do is finished, so it’s time for a new chapter to begin.

This couple, you see, they’re throwing a little brunch party for two other couples. It’s all very nice and cute, with witty banter, strawberry-infused mimosas before the meal, and some great Scandinavian downtempo playing on the stereo (which is what we called them before they were iPods). The women wore hats. The men were in linen trousers.

The couples sit down to brunch and the hosts decide to up the ante on the cuteness. The husband, in a treacly voice, says to his wife, “Would you pass the honey, honey?”

They all giggle, a-titter with the cleverness of the repetition, and wife bats her eyelashes adoringly at husband.

The second couple, not wishing to leave their hosts alone at the apex of urbane wit, make their own foray into eloquent wordplay. Morcheeba plays as the second husband seeks to sweeten his coffee: “Would you please pass the sugar, sugar?”

Much laughing and gaiety! The curtains billow in the lush morning air. A heady scent of cut grass and poplar blooms fills the room. The second wife blushes with admiration and pleasure.

Which brings us to our third couple. Husband is on his fifth Bellini and it’s only a quarter to ten. He must keep up, lest he be seen as a dull sluggard-of-wits. No, that undesirable regard is not for him. The music lulls and the mood is one of fretful anticipation. Can the third husband meet the challenge that has been subtly, unspokenly levied? He coos to his breathless, beaming wife–

“Pass me the goddamn bacon, you fucking pig.”

Back from the GDC.

Holy smokes, did that party explode. Six hours worth of open bar for 800 people. A dozen go-go dancers. Two dominatrices. Free tattoos. A massage chair.

At one point, I was pounding the floor at something ridiculous, like 140 bpm and I could not knock down the crowd. They were dancing relentlessly at that point. “Walking Away” to “Dangerous Power” to “Little Computer People” to “Trans-Europe Express” to Rex’s remix of “Photographic,” just vicious with the break and thunderous with the bass and motherfuckers are down there shaking their asses, begging for more. A dude with a robot head was down there all night, and a guy who looked like a combination of Flavor Flav and the firebombing of Dresden was tearing things up on one of the columns. Peaches lit up the crowd and the impromptu trash-rock set I closed with went on almost an hour after we were supposed to have been shut down. You know who likes AC/DC? Everyone, that’s who.

Best party I’ve ever worked.

Photos forthcoming.