An American in Ibiza 2008

Luciano Vs Thing 1...both equally blah.

At some point, Luciano took the DJ booth, but for the life of me, I can't seem to remember any part of the set. It just came and went like a big blur. Nothing memorable (bad or good) seemed to happen. I remember drinking and talking to more semi-VIPs as well as giving out all but a couple of the flashy things we had left; but no more than that as far as the music of Luciano is concerned. I wouldn't' t go out of my way to see a Luciano set if it was the only entertainer on the bill and that should say it all. Still, the set was saved by the incredible energy that was already in motion so no harm done.

G was in the middle of refilling a JD and Coke when the vibrator on his phone told him that Phil was calling and must be nearby as planned. We had met Phil serving drinks at one of the bars in the marina area a few days earlier and invited him to party with us at Cocoon. He could never afford VIP on his own so it was my good deed for a Tuesday.

Imagine an English speaking, Italian twenty-something working his way through the summer in Ibiza and the picture in your head will most likely match the stereo type: chick-magnet looks and “chow” attitude.

G let me know he was going downstairs to get Phil and I figure this is great news. If Phil brings his “A” game, I'm sure he'll be dragging beautiful birds back to VIP in no time. I'd take Phil's cast offs without a second of guilt. When G gets to the door, he lets the staff on the inside know he's going to get a friend and they let him pass. The Q is now ridiculous and stretches around the building and out of site. G finds Phil somewhere near the end. Just to make this the most fun an evening can be, Phil has shown up barely able to stand without help. He is literally blitzed beyond being allowed to enter the club. So of course G grabs him out of the line and drags him to the front door. As though right on queue, Thing 1 has appeared out of no where with a smile on his face from ear to ear, “You have to go to the back of the line.”

G's response is a classic, “Mother F'er, we just paid 700 Euro for a table and you won't let me get back to it?”

Thing 1 looks at him with arms folded blocking the entrance, ready to spring at any second. Somehow before the Spacely Sprockets in his simple head began to turn the Cogswell Cogs of violence, a manager from inside appears and taps Thing 1 on the shoulder. He gives the motion for a completely pissed Thing 1 to back off and let G and Phil pass. No, none of this is terribly exciting but this is all a premise for things to come so patience please.

G shows back up with Phil who is carrying the three foot long glowing tube that we gave him the day before. It's completely broken on one end and is jagged like a broken bottle. At this point, I still don't know Phil's so messed up since he's wearing sunglasses G gave him to get in the door. Of course when Phil hits the rope and knocks it over, Thing 2 is immediately alerted and gives me the come-here finger. “Are you sure you know how much this cost?” I just stare at him and turn around and go back to my worst table.

At this point, I am ready to throw my wallet at Thing 2. Phil is not helping anything by falling over our table and knocking the rest of the bottle of JD into tiny pieces on the floor. The Phil-chick-magnet factor has kicked in even with him blitzed. A blond haired beauty is at the rail and I am trying to hold any conversation with her after ordering a second bottle of JD with our character-less waitress. Phil is completely oblivious to the girl on the rail and is waving his glow tube/weapon in the air and barely misses the girls face. She grabs the tube and hits him with the other end, drops the tube on the ground and smashes it with her heal. She storms away and I realize I need to get out of this situation. I nod to G that he going to have to baby-sit Phil and I'm off to the dance floor for another adventure.


Active Member
I never know what to expect when getting email notifications of a new addition to "An American in Ibiza 2008":lol::lol:

Rarely disappointed with the weird twists and turns:lol::lol::lol:

Without doubt, this is the longest running review in Spotlight history.
No groping on the dance floor please

Texans remember the Alamo. Hawaiian's remember Sunday mornings sometimes bring sneaky Japanese. Michael Jackson remembers the time (but not the dosage). Serbia remembers the whole “Duke” thing. Lincoln remembered the first act of a lousy play. .

I remember nitrogen cannons and a giant equalizer on a faux boom box. Finally, a DJ has an act that involves something other than holding one hand in the air while masturbating plastic in the other. Richie Hawtin has an act. The cannons were a big surprise and I don't even now if they were specifically his or if they belonged to the club.
When in Rome…yada. I figure I might as well join the crowd and struggle through the masses to get about 40 feet away from the DJ booth, being crushed from all sides. The entire floor in front of the DJ Booth is a swaying mass of humanity with one or both hands in the air. It looks like the legs of dozens of intertwined Technicolor centipedes on their backs.

I haven't felt a crowd with this much energy since being on a Bourbon Street and seeing a girl 20 feet away getting groped by everyone within reach of her as she exposed her tits for some beads. It was a frightening experience watching her try to put her shirt back on and ten hands ripping her shirt away from her and it disappearing as she starts to scream and cry rape. Being in a crowd and being unable to move can either be fun or make you feel trapped by anxiety. I was getting tired of it when the nitrogen cannons went off with a boom and a blast of cold air chilled out the dance floor. The crowd went nuts and the giant boom box led's lit up to the beat. Cool effect literally.

I'm being pushed on all sides and my only alternative is to raise my hands like everyone else. There is a break in the pounding beats for everyone to scream and yell and the crowd surges forward. I'm being crushed and the person behind me is pressing flat up against my back in a manner not welcome. There's nothing I can do about it since I can't move at all without violence. Worse, it feels like the dude behind me is grinding on me with a hard on. I've had enough of this quickly and use my elbows on the guy's rib cage to push him far enough backwards to get turned around to get out of the crowd. I exit stage left realizing that the sausage fest on the floor is not for me. I don't need to be dry humped to enjoy my vacation so it's back to VIP where older people belong.
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... Phil is completely oblivious to the girl on the rail
and is waving his glow tube/weapon in the air and barely misses the girls face.
She grabs the tube and hits him with the other end,
drops the tube on the ground and smashes it with her heal ...
Main Entry: frot·tage
Pronunciation: \frȯ-ˈtäzh\
Function: noun
Etymology: French, from frotter to rub
Date: 1935
1 : the technique of creating a design by rubbing (as with a pencil) over an object placed underneath the paper; also : a composition so made
2 : the act of obtaining sexual stimulation by rubbing against a person or object

I think it was #2 but more like:

Main Entry: 2rape
Function: transitive verb
Inflected Form(s): raped; rap·ing
Etymology: Middle English, from Latin rapere
Date: 14th century
1 a archaic : to seize and take away by force

Five, Six, Sven; ready or not, here I…go?

Making it back to the rope was a task in itself. Even once I made it out of the main room, getting along the wall to the stairs in the second room was a chore. I felt like being in a psychedelic washing machine but leave out the smell of soap with no hope of a rinse cycle. Everyone was pushing and shoving to walk in a circle around the steadfast in the middle. I had to pause for a moment and wonder what it would be like to dump the equivalent of a cup of bleach on the crowd. It was around 4AM and the place was, in a world, ridiculous.

The VIP rope guard on the bottom of the stairs was off talking to someone so it looked like the entire club was trying to get upstairs. This turned out to be the line to the VIP bathroom and I can't imagine the smells and delightful sights in the crap-hole downstairs.

An eternity later, I made it back to the velvet rope to find that Thing 2 is gone and some gangster looking thin guy is guarding VIP with his life. Checking and rechecking the stamp on my hand to make sure I'm OK and finally letting me in to my table 10 feet from the entrance. G is there grooving in place like he never left and Phil is no where to be found. I pantomime “Where's Phil” and G looks back and shrugs. (We hear the next day that Phil missed work and had no idea how he got home).

The party is now at full strength and Sven has taken over the DJ booth. This is does not go unnoticed by the crowd and is worth the wait. Sven plays a set that gets in your soul and won't leave. Hell, I'm writing this two years later and it's still haunts me like a cum stain on my favorite white T-Shirt.

The few hours till sunlight rush by despite the waves of dark digital mastery Sven keeps trying to push back with. The battle is eventually lost and an unwelcome morning is there. Of course this means nothing to the crowd as the club readies to close and it's now more crowded than the entire night.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and the fun now begins.
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Screw Amnesia with a Crushed Glass Coated Pineapple Forever

The waitress from earlier has appeared. I've seen her only a few times this evening. At least she never asked me if I was sure I could afford this so I'm thinking of adding 150 to the bill for her 5 minutes of labor. She hands me the bill for 1200 Euro…for two bottles of JD. I knew it coming in so it didn't hurt as much. This was the party of a lifetime, regardless of the crappy attitude and problems the bouncers tried to create with every interaction. I reach into my wallet and hand her my BOA Visa. She pushes the card into the slot and hands me the machine.

I look at her like she's crazy. She motions over the music that I have to input my PIN. I look at her like she's crazy again. “This is a credit card. It doesn't need a pin.”

Now she looks at me like I'm crazy. “No, you have to input your pin.”

We go through this argument for about two or three minutes until she gives the come-with-me-motion. I look over at G who is oblivious to what is going on and shout at him, “I'll be back. I have no idea what they are tying to pull here.” He shrugs and goes back to grooving to the end of Sven's set. I can see the skinny gangster at the entrance to VIP gripping the rope extra heavy like I'm going to run away and I try not to laugh at the irony of the situation. What's worse…him thinking he could stop me if I wanted to go or even being put in this situation in the first place. I thinking through my fuming anger that I really need to carry more cash.

She leads me on a walk down the front of the VIP section and I feel like a perp being booked. It's incredibly embarrassing and my face is turning beet red with anger. The waitress is walking a few feet in front of me with a bouncer behind. It's like they firmly believe I'm going to try to pull a James Bond escape through 5000 people and their door security. The beautiful dancing statues of VIP stop gyrating long enough to stare at me while we pass by, making my embarrassment complete. She leads me to the under-belly of the club to some kitchen in the back where she brings me to a machine and again requests a PIN number for my credit card.

I'm fuming and yelling at the waitress that it's a credit card with no limit. Some guy appears that only knows how to say PIN in English like that is going to make a difference. There is no manager to talk to me.

MYTH NUMBER MOST IMPORTANT: Amnesia Accepts Credit Cards: As it turns out, Amnesia does not accept Credit Cards. They will charge your debit card but not charge a card as an actual credit card. This was not something I would assume running a club that you might want to inform your customers of before they run a significant bill.

I break out my BOA debit card but I have used it within 24 hours to withdraw a thou so it's useless since that is my daily (in the US time zone) maximum. I call the number on the back of the card to see if there is anything they can do and I get the message, “Bank of America Security Department is now closed. Please call during our normal business hours.” I'm pissed, the waitress is exhausted, and the guy who doesn't speak English says something to the skinny security guy in Spanish. He is apparently the translator and talks to someone on his headset.

One of the ultra-rich party hosts with black slacks and long sleeved pressed shirt comes in with a waitress and they move me to the side as he punches up his PIN for a $5K Euro bill. I'm pissed as hell and he ignores the scene. What a friend he could have earned if he would have just intervened but I'm no damsel regardless of the distress. If I had seen someone in trouble with a hundred Euro bill, I would have helped and told him to get it back to me. This guy, like the typical rich snobs, didn't even bother to look at me. I'm thinking at this point I really would have been better off in life with tits.

I'm still trying not to laugh in Skinny-tough's face at this fiasco. If this is the guy that is supposed to be intimidating, it's not working. I'm doing my best to keep my cool and he “suggests” that we go back to my hotel to get more money. I can't see any other way out of this so I reluctantly agree. It's a charisma free negotiation as I'm too dead to argue and he has none.

We surface from the under-club labyrinth to a dimly lit cattle call. The lights are on in a setting I was never meant to see. It reminds me of the Ft. Worth Stock Yards around cattle harvest time. The only thing missing is the “Moooos.” I can't resist so I start mooing at the crowd at the top of my voice. G catches the hint and moo's along. We head to the edge of the VIP followed by our escorts, cupping out hands and broadcasting moos to the throngs below. Pretty soon the thousand or so people left in the club are all mooing as they are filtered out of the door/chute. Another eclectically gathered moment of irony is experienced in Ibiza to haunt me into submission that despite all the trepidation, this is still the place to be right now. Moo, moo, & moo!

G and I can now talk freely without having to shout above the music. I explain what is going on and he asks to see a manager, like I did, but there is none available. Thing 2 has, however made it to the scene and is now close-stalking us. This is going to end badly as there is no way either of us can take any more of his smirks and aggression. A scene is happening and I'm a part of it. He's shouting things in Spanish and G is doing is best non-aggressive “just come over here and pet me” look any pit bull will give before they latch on to your neck and rip your throat out. The skinny security guy steps up and puts his hand to Thing 2's and whispers something that makes his expression change and cripples his violent demeanor. He turns, says nothing, and disappears.

The scene is over just like that? Weird but welcome, thing 2 walks away in silence, never to be seen again.

We walk to a back entrance though the labyrinth with skinny-tough, who I have a new respect for, and the adrenalin is sapped from my body as sunlight touches my skin. He puts us in a van, taking us past thousands trying to exit the blacktop in any fashion but the one their in. Its morning and the party's over. The sunlight doesn't let anyone forget what time it is. I'm missing my Serengetis since I showed up without them. A mistake I will never make again after partying past darkness.

The marked van we're in gets priority exiting from the parking lot attendants and they usher us through and we're off to Playa Den Bossa. I do my best to be friendly with Skinny-Tough and attempt a conversation. I ask him what he said to Thing 2 to that made him back off so quickly. He doesn't smile and through an expressionless deadpan looking through the rear view mirror at me says, “I told him to leave or I would shoot him.”

He turns his head completely around and looks at G, removing his earpiece, and says,” I knew you were serious when you Mother F'd that guy outside the club.” He puts his ear piece back in and not another word is said to him the entire way to the hotel. We get there just in time for the Jett safety boxes, in a safe room locked between midnight and 7 am, to be open. I rescue some cash and G gets his bank debit card and we are forced to go back to the club. This is as welcome after a full night of partying and two bottles of JD as a sober after-party.

The buzz is completely gone by the time we get back to Amnesia. The only thing left is the pop back to reality and the hissing of my brain soon to come.

G goes to the back to use his debit card and I'm pulling a couple of gold coins out of my wallet in case I need to drop collateral. Of course all of my lights around my table have been stipped clean as well as the hundred dollar Electric Effects wands and no one seems to know what could have possibly happend to them.

Seeing the inside of Amnesia in the light after a closing party is stuff of a video documentary. No music, just dozens of guys with push brooms pushing desk size piles of broken glass mixed with God-knows-what. I did see the remains of Phil's broken glow tube in one pile and at that made me smile though the pain of just wanting to be somewhere else. The sound of all those brooms hitting broken glass at different times is another thing of legend that won't go away. At least my memories of Ibiza are better for the crazy irony experience, regardless of the pain.

There are 5 waitresses waiting around looking like they just got the news they have aids. It's not a fun scene. The one guy there is cleaning behind the bar can't hold his tongue any longer and actually has the nerve to say, “You must leave a big tip since you caused all this trouble.” Skinny-tough guy yells at him something in Spanish before I can pick up something to beat the smart-ass with and that calms me down enough to prevent violence.

G comes back from his experience of seeing the Minotaur Debit Machine and points toward the exit. Thinking I should make some kind of statement, I take a 50 Euro note I've had in my pocket and carry it with me over my head as we leave the club. At the time, it could have been the world cup trophy but it was an empty, vindictive gesture that burned all my bridges. As soon as we get to the door and the sunshine of the day, I ask Skinny-tough if he can give us a ride back to Playa and flash the 50 Euro at him. He actually smiles for the first time since meeting him and leads us to the parking lot. There are still hundreds of people in line to catch a cab. It's starting to get uncomfortably after-the-party hot and they yell obscenities at us as we're lead to the head of the taxi line. I give the 50 to Skinny-tough and he takes off his headset and turns around, returning to the club.

I feel a little bad about not leaving the tip, since it wasn't the waitress fault. Putting me through incredible embarrassment was enough to influence me into making a rash decision and I would drop a hundred on her now if I ever saw her again.
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Active Member
Next time you go, just buy a normal ticket - you're cheating yourself sitting in a v.i.p on a night like that! Much more happening on the floors!
Great Advice... I allready bought VIP for 4 for Wonderland, Tiesto, FMIF, and Hed Kandi on the week of 12th through 22nd of September.

...i dont even have 2 extra friends so I will need to meet some instant pals (preferably female) at Ibiza Rocks.

Wonder how hard that will be.

All of them charge about 100 euro per two people for a deposit.

There are minimum spends:

Tiesto is 250 a person...proud of their balcony are they? it's further away too?
FMIF is 200 a person...I recieved no responce from their manager about where the table will be. Even droped a refernece to this site... guess I'll be on a wall somewhere in the back.
Wonderland is 200 a person
Hed Kandy is 200 a person

A bottle of something is around 400 to 600. If your drinking champagne the game changes. (There better be a damn good reason to justify a bill for thousands.)

Not bothering with VIP at the closing at Ibiza Rocks since Umek is at space the same night and I should have an overlooking balcony any way.

Really these are just month away plans. If it's anything like last time, at least one party will be canceled. Something will happen to drag me somewhere else...etc.

At least I have these as my back up plans or a guide to get somewhere if I'm too blitzed to do more than read the tickets in my wallet (hopefully, hopefully, hopefully).

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Ibiza in my Rear View Mirror

The next morning, I get up and G is gone. His flight leaves pretty early so I've got some “Me” time to get my mind ready for dealing with war. I'm packed in an hour and sitting on the balcony. Arriving at the last second on the balcony next door are four incredible 6 foot, C-Cupped, Twenty something Ausies'. They are all sniffles and sad faces. “What troubles you” I ask and of course they are in distress as they have been robbed and now have no money and are stuck in their room for a week.

I'm sure God is telling me just to quit my job and stay and party. Be the hero and get laid. In stead, I give them the rest of the four bottles of whiskey and all of the electronic stage lights I brought for the party that never occurred. Timing is everything with beautiful women. Mine is just off this vacation.

I'm literally to the point of tears as I have to drag myself to the taxi stand thinking about the missed opportunity. So many scenarios I should have been living over the past two weeks and now when I have to leave am I presented with an incredible opportunity that will not be exploited to fruition. The melancholy strongly tasked my will to leave to the breaking point. In the end, only calling my bank and listening to the last 5 deposits from my employer settles my heart enough to go through the airplane door.

In my memory of the final moments in Ibiza, time keeps speeding up and slowing down. The door of the airplane closing was one of the slow motion moments, accentuated by the sound of the locking mechanism's note of finality. My memories speed up again until the plane takes off and circles over Ibiza. In slow motion again, I get to see a few coves and city streets as Ibiza fades away, obscured by clouds. The melancholy of missed opportunity is replaced by hope.

Hope that I will be back to Ibiza soon…and that the only thing that will change is there will be more sex, better drugs, and space you can dance in without being hit by an elbow.
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