User talk:Xristo69

In the early 90’s, Discos would indicate their encouragement for patrons to indulge in Ecstasy while in their clubs by printing the iconic yellow circular happy face on invitations. Everybody in the club was more or less high on Ecstasy at this time. It was a happy time. From the moment you entered the dance floor, you felt like you knew everybody’s' vibe. You were on the same frequency as the man or woman next to you. While you danced, you could hug the neighboring dancer even though you did not know him or her, and everyone was alright. I met too many one night stands while rolling on Ecstasy in the World, an old abandoned structure that judging from its architecture inside and out, could have been a church, a banquet hall, a theater; nobody’s sure. It turned into a half-ass disco (the place was a crumbing dump with good dance music) with smiling Ecstasy fueled patrons too happy to complain about the terrible conditions of the club, and dance to the East Village sounds of Liz Torre's heavy Latino drum beat in "I can't get enough": I can feel the music Taking control All over my Body Listen to the Music Listen to the Planet It’s just like Magic Set me on Fire Come with your desire I can’t get enough. The World was on Avenue C and 2nd Street. It was representative of the club industry’s push away from mainstream addresses to the nether regions of alphabet city with squatters, homeless people, street drugs, graffiti and Madonna's debut in "A Certain Sacrifice" filmed in and around Thompson Square Park adding ambiance. I was no longer wearing designer clothes, but unique military, sportswear and surplus costumes from Patricia Fields, the new daytime lounge/boutique for the club set to shop at, be seen at, hangout out at, meet friends at, and possibly work at. Wigs, Catherine Hamnett t-shirts and platform Doctor Martin's boots were standard for boys and girls dancing on 'e' on the Lower East Side. Pat Field’s was the new Fiorucci. I got hooked to dancing on Ecstasy in the World and other garbage clubs of that of ilk. I would become dope sick on Sunday's after three consecutive nights of dancing and partying. I would lay in the brass bed of my Fort Greene parlor floor apartment all day with the covers over my head, unable to get up to drink, eat, or go to the bathroom. I was a pathetic Camille Drama Queen, complaining to my boyfriend that I was going to die when all I needed to do was get over my hangover that I was responsible for and enjoy the day on planet Earth without the warm and fuzzy feeling of Ecstasy medicating me. I was a drug addict.