It was IT.

It, where Philly brought it, at one of the last great raves of my raver career, brough to you by Special K Productions.

Unlike most teenagers who, on the cusp of adulthood, celebrate that monumental event of high school graduation by attending the prom to either lose there virginity, get drunk, or dance to bad music, I instead, drove 8 hours squished in the back of a 15 person van to go to a rave, get really fucked up on ecstasy, and dance to good music. Virginity being long gone, the awe, wonder, and mystery of a high school prom had no more attraction for me then shoveling the dog shit I did every weekend at my mother’s kennel.

It started on a Saturday morning on a corner in Allston, Massachusetts, where fifteen of us crazy ravers met at the street corner. Some of us took the bus, others the subway, some drove, and some walked. Wide legged pants, rainbow-colored vinyl vests, xxx polo shirts all gathered together, ready to ride.

I remember the night before's rest, or lack there of, vividly. How could I forget, sleeping on a hard wooden floor with nothing between me and the wood but a thin feather bed that should have been on top of me rather then underneath. The pain of the wood in my side, mixed with the excitement of the next day, the satisfaction of the night to come, of arriving after a van ride I was sure to be at least somewhat better then a dentists visit was just too much for me to sleep.

Sitting in the 4-person back seat of the van with 3 men that were the combined size of almost 5 got my trip of to a bit of a rough start. A shy teen, I still thought it rude to openly express my desires and concerns, but I preferred rather to passively aggressively show my displeasure by making grunting noises and sour faces until a switch-o-roo of seats ensued.

We arrive after somewhere between 8 and 10 hours of driving, 3 pee stops, and one bbq. I follow my friend Holly, who proceeds to cut several hundred girls in line, dragging me along with her past the either vacant and lost “I’m already fucked up looks”, or the red hot poker stares of girls who didn’t notice there was one more pat-down line open with no one in it. We approach the pat-down line, pat-down one, two, three, and away we go, out of the night and into the rave.

It is here, I think, where we mutually converge upon that place, where pictures say more then words.