this is a magical key, used to open doors, unlock mysteries and provide he who possesses it unspeakable good fortune. i found the key thing this morning on my nightstand. presumably i picked it up at some point last night in my travels across soho with mark, most likely at .discotec.

as i rub the key, an amyl-nitrate cloud of smoke appars before me, and in the cloud i see visions, visions of strange characters from another world.

i see stuart, a 60yo wrinkly scenester, even more dreadful than sir ian with his top off [oh eric, dear eric, why do you bring these things up?] he approaches me in an entirely too familiar way, offering a sip from his goblet bottled water. i know better than to drink anything from a stranger. he says he’s been seeing me around i reply, oh really? such as…? and he lists several of the strange clubs i’d been to in the past few days… .orange, .the cock, .element. i admit, ahh, yes, i do recognize you! we chat for a bit, and although he seems like a lovely older gentleman, i refuse his offer of free favors and bid him farewell.

the cloud shifts and i see two lads approach me on the sofa. at first they claim to be straight, then they admit to sorta being gay. one is a blokey kappa slappa, wearing a white hoodie, immaculate white trainers and of course a gold chain with shiny gold earring. rather than the usual opening lines, he cuts to the chase, where do you live? i motion to the back office behind the bar, and tell him i sleep back there after .discotec closes. he replies, oh really? you must be good mates with the owner? i nonchalantly nod. feeling challenged by my obviously fictional v-v-vip status at the club, he takes out his mobile, explaining to me that he works in the music industry. uh huh, i moan as i roll my eyes. he shows me phone numbers for george michael and boy george and destiny’s child and some deejays and so on and so on and so on… wow, that’s amazing. listen i’ll be right ba… i tell him as i walk away.

the amyl cloud has grown and is beginning to choke me. as my heart races and face flushes, the key begins to spin, and i see the cute but gaunt model-cum-ticket-taker from .heaven, posing and dancing with the freakish half-man half-drag-queen, poison ivy. i use the word freakish as a compliment, as ivy is obviously intending too frighten and freak, with her dramatic makeup and creepy contact lenses. the gaunt model boy comes over, once again entirely too knowingly, and leans against the speaker stack next to me. i half look over, half gaze past him, half nod to him, half nod to the music, half smile at him, half grimace to myself. are you dutch? he asks. i am a citizen of the world! i reply. really? huh, i thought you were dutch.

through the haze i also see jake, the friendly 35yo drug dealer who reminds me of several of my uncles. mind, i’ve never once bought drugs off him, but he’s always convinced that i have, and each time i see him he usually picks me off the ground with a bear hug or headlock or crotch-grab, spinning me around, giving me a drink ticket and telling me his specials. tonight he drags me earnestly to some leather sofa, sits me down and asks me how are you doing? he somehow remembers seeing me over the past few months with posh jack, and there, at 2am, i have a heart-to-heart with jake, about love, career, health, life. i haven’t seen my family in over a year now, so maybe he is fulfilling the role of concerned uncle.

the cloud has filled the room, and it’s becoming difficult to see clearly. across the club i see a lad, sipping a beer, wearing a grey hoodie. he’s surrounded by this eerie glow, sorta blue in hue, with a dim golden halo above his head—aha! innocence! there’s nothing so delicious, so appealing, so treasured at 3am in a loud crowded smoky club. in a very deliberate but roundabout way, we slowly walk towards one another before taking positions on the dancefloor. turning away from each other, we pretend that the other doesn’t even exist as we dance, independently. synchronized, we turn, lock eyes and smile. dancing, smiling, nodding. suddenly, a look of concern appears on his face and he looks down.

bending over to pick something up, his hood flops down over his head, covering his halo as well. standing back up, he holds out his hand to present me with something—a little silver key.

push the button, don’t push the button

on sunday, flatmate mitch and i did a top-to-bottom cleaning of the flat, because our other flatmate adam is moving out and we’re having roommate candidates stop by. as i was sweeping out the hallway, i flipped on the light switch and -pop- the lightbulb shorted out. no worries, i replaced the bulb and reset the circuit breaker.

the next morning, [monday 2pm], i groggily stumbled into the shower, switched on the light, and -pop- the bulb shorted out. it took me a few not-really-awake-yet minutes to figure out how to unscrew the antiquated light fixture and replace the bulb.

the following morning [tuesday 3pm] i was cooking a big fry-up breakfast in the kitchen. i’m a lousy cook, and barely know how to fry bacon, much less also cook eggs and beans and toast at the same time without setting off the smoke alarm. as everything was sizzling on the grill and splattering on the countertop, i switched on the overhead light, the little one in the hood of the stove, so that i could see what i was doing. you guessed it, -pop-, the little 40w appliance bulb shorted out too.

at this point i became paranoid and shared my curse [i'm electrified!] with my flatmates. they assured me it was just a coincidence.

yesterday morning [wednesday] i woke up feeling quite electrified. so electrified that i skipped my morning cup of coffee, instead opting for a nice tall glass of orange juice from the kitchen. stumbling back into my office to check emails and so on, i switched on the overhead light, the one above my desk.

this time the bulb didn’t just -pop-, it actually exploded. in a big flash of light, and with a big -kerbang-, the bulb exploded, sending shards of glass all over the room, and the lampshade crashing to the ground. this shocked me so much that i also dropped my nice tall glass of orange juice, creating a giant sticky shardy i-just-woke-up-and-just-wanted-to-check-my-email-oh-well mess all over the office.

but, inspired by the delicious tom welling from smallville, i decided to not ignore nor hide my superpowers, but instead unleash them on london. i grabbed my cape and trudged over to the ica, mainly to check out audiovisualize [a audiovisual/music video installation from addictive tv], but also to surround myself by the über-trendy, über-artsy, über-caffeinated crowds at ica’s café. i spent a few hours there, interfacing with the multimedia exhibits and building up an unhealthy static charge.

did some shopping, setting off the security alarms in each covent garden shop, before settling into the box and bar aquada with marky, .gregiño and greg’s colleague jerry. it was clear that although i hadn’t eaten all day, my batteries will still fully charged, as i short-circuited the fruit machines at retro bar before traipsing into .heaven.

sorta like when you shuffle your feet across a carpet, or rub a balloon through your hair, stroking my ego yesterday caused even more electricity to build up in my body. cruising across the dancefloors, i didn’t even drink or do any drugs and i was glowing this dim blue glow, from the wild brazilian boy throwing himself on me, the two naughty kappa slappers falling onto me, even millionaire daniel pinned me in a corner. i smelled a bit like the air after a lightning storm, very metallic and fresh.

walking up to the main bar, i patiently waited behind the rows and rows of punters waiting to be served by the 10 or so shirtless .heaven bartenders. i was in no hurry, but out of nowhere the cutest bartender, the only one [besides bar manager andrew] with a semblence of innocence or intelligence, the one with whom i’ve had 2-sentence flirtatious conversations with for the past few months, swims over, smiles and gives the universal push-through-the-crowd-i-want-to-serve-you bartender nod.

     have you been waiting long? he asks.
          nah, not too long, i reply.
     on the pull? he asks, as he looks over my shoulder for any potentials.
          me? never! just here to dance, of course!
     well, sorry to keep you waiting he says across the bar.
          waiting? it’s no problem, really!
     well, he deadpans, i’ve been waiting my whole life for you.

with that, he grabs my hand and kisses it, sending an electric shock through his glistening shirtless body, knocking him back a few feet. he looks up, gives me my virgin vodka-and-coke, leans across the bar and asks will you wait for me after work?

as i walk away, charge building, i smile, and say, we’ll see, we’ll see.

huh. ow. popcorn. hit me. ow. take it to the bridge. james brown appointed u.s. secretary of soul and foreign minister of funk