An American in Ibiza 2008

Boogie down with the Garbi!

It’s 1 AM on Saturday the 20th of September. I’m exiting the room and walking across the courtyard when I have to stop and check the bottom of my shoes. The Garbi has some weird tree growing between the beach wing and the lobby that smells like rotting aborted babies when it blooms. The surprising part is that it looks like any other tree so why they bothered to plant something so offensive eludes me. (I forgive you again Garbi.)

The bar has a couple of Fly-Tasties sitting there unescorted. I figure I should hit on them since I’m somewhere between clean/freshly washed and Debonair/Dapper. I order a Famous Grouse with ice and the bartender doesn’t seem to understand. “Cubas, Ice, Ice Cubes, Ice Cuba...” I’m motioning in the air with plink, plinks like I’m putting the cubes into the glass.

The two girls look at me like I’m a trouble maker and my chance to make a great first impression is over. I’m on damage control as the bartender looks dead at the hotter of the two girls and says in a Spanish accent, “So happy he no ask for neat.”

I tip him a single Euro so as not to let him know he got the best of me and the two girls kiss a little. To put an exclamation point on my failure and before I can get out a, “so where you from,” the hot one stands up on her stool and tongue’s the bartender. That’s my Q to exit as I believed the show is just to get rid of me. It’s a little after1 AM and I’m out the door and 20 steps to the left to the Garbi’s Disco. For some reason there is no cover charge on a Sunday morning and I figure that’s not a good sign.

I figured right since the multi colored exterior of the Garbi gives way to some plain looking marble stairs. Once again, the designers of a club in Ibiza don’t get it: A basement? The view from the Garbi is incredible but the view from the Disco is of concrete. It’s the equivalent in the size and shape of a subway tube. I’m expecting the 1:30 to San Antonio to pull up any second and from the boring hum-drum sounds of the squawking music, it just might be hitting the breaks on final approach.

Everything I had bad dreams about in the past has come to fruition. There are 30 people in the bar and it looks like the “Land of Lost Toys” has the morning off and is vacationing from the North Pole. If the crowd was a little more freakish, Barnum and Baily could have sold tickets. The only thing missing was a pair of Siamese twins.

So I feel right at home since I’m the only American and the only person over 40 in Ibiza. I am a freak compared to the perfect Italians obviously shunning this place. I figure there is a reason the freaks are here: It’s safe to be normal.

I buy the bearded fat lady a drink and am considering the purchase of a round for the bar. There is a couple that looks like they are about to penetrate each other at the back of the dance floor. Not that there is an actual dance floor but there at the rear of what could be considered the end of the train platform. A DJ booth looking more like a judges raised courtroom box is on the right side just past the non-descript bar. The whole place is bleak, dark, dingy, and confusing as to where people should congregate.

I’ve been there for 10 minutes and realize I’ve been standing with my mouth open the entire time. This is a cosmic moment for me as it’s the time to realize that I’m in Ibiza with the officially ugliest crowd of all. What’s worse is I realize I am the best looking person in the bar. That’s really scary as I’m never considered more than a 5.

I’m busy trying to decide if I’d rather be a king among fools or go down the street to Space and be a fool among kings. The Bearded lady (I can’t figure out what country she’s from) has grabbed the amazingly ugly contortionist and dragged me to the dance floor.

I’m trying to contemplate how much better this place would be with the two Nazi’s from Anfora and wish I would have got their number after all. I’m doing my best not to vomit or spill my Scotch as the Luarel and Hardy routine tries to make a sandwich out of me. I realize it’s my best way out of this mess. As they turn back-to-back, I slyly throw the remainder of my drink on the floor like I’m curing bad luck. I give them the “hey, I have to go to the bar cause my drinks empty” expression and gestures and rush to the bar. This leaves them to their own accord and I’m greatly thankful.

A couple more minutes at the bar and a shot of something Cinnamon-“ish” later, I am beginning to revel in the monster I have become. The strong man is trying to start a conversation with me in what I think is Swahili so I’m taking the least of two evils and look for relief with the stick-and-ball shapes still on the dance floor. I buy the strong man a drink since the only other objects that have paid attention to me are leaving as one has hurt her leg slipping on some carless persons spilled drink. I am my own worst enemy again.

The vista de’ nada is starting to grind on me but I choose to stay for another hour as more of the “out” crowd arrives. It’s a veritable who’s-not-who of painful bliss. I would say it’s like watching fat people kiss but since there were really fat people there kissing... There is one woman there that looks perfectly normal so I shimmy on up to her and say hello. My mistake as from the smell of her breath and the missing teeth she’s obviously the flame eater. At least she speaks English and that’s a break but she’s distracted by her friends that are coming down the stairs. It’s the nearly Siamese twins from the pool bar that were kissing earlier and the amazing Tattooed man I recognize as the bartender in a sleeveless T with a collar.

She runs off to pollute their air and I’m grateful there is a chance to get away. I keep hope alive the sword swallower is at least a halfway decent looking female but she no-shows and I figure enough is enough. I’ve slipped the bonds of insanity and am walking the distance from disco to hotel and could have sworn I heard a “Ho-ho-ho.” Seeing no sleigh, I suppose I’m safe and won’t be stuffed into a toy sack for re-deposit at the North Pole this day.

I think we can safely say of the Garbi's Disco that if you were on drugs you would have a great time...but isn't that any where? Otherwise, stay away unless you're a recent graduate of clown school.
 
Wow. What a review:lol: I can't wait for the rest... 'Getting Away With It" - haven't heard that song in years I loved that album.

I had the pleasure of spending a few days in your hometown this past August. I had been once before (early 90s) and really wanted to go back post-Katrina and support the city with my tourist $. I had a great time- the city looked pretty good, it is amazing how they've recovered - they still have ways to go, but I am impressed that in just a few years they have come this far. You are right about the cuisine- the food was outstanding- even the most 'touristy' places were great- I'm still dreaming of the broiled oysters at Acme.
 
SUNDAY in Ibiza!

There is no greater feeling when you’re in Ibiza than waking up alive on a Sunday morning (except of course waking up alive on a Monday in Ibiza).

I am pretty sure it’s the only town in the world where Monday night is bigger than Friday and Sundays are actually looked forward to. But I’m getting a little ahead of myself and with what I have on my Bose (from a life changing Monday night) while I am writing this, it’s hard not to get just a little teary.

Some idiot wrote that great men lead lives of quiet desperation. My great Forest Gump lifestyle has been all about feeling the ambiance of the big moments and sacredly cherishing the memories later. The lulls are only manageable when I can remember how high the highs really are. Kind of like sextacy… you can remember how good it was and that will drive you but you can’t feel it without being there.

But I digress as its Sunday the 21st of September of 2008 in Ibiza. It’s a little after 2 in the afternoon and I’ve not yet taken a shower. The stubble on my face reminds me of that but at least it’s something to rub on while I sit on the balcony and catch the last of the remaining sun. The memories of the night before are classic and I’m writing down the cast of characters for a short story that should star EVERYONE I met the night before. What a casting call that would be! I don’t think Hollywood has that many freaks but if you could remove Angelina Jolie’s boobs, give her a crooked nose and remove her teeth, she would have been a shoe in for the flame-eater. Just give her an Italian accent with hair-lip and a lisp…Disco!

I digress again. The Bose is cranking “Open Your Eyes,” one of my favorite Freestyle underground songs you wouldn’t know unless you were Mr. Magooing in the 80’s. My biggest dilemma of the afternoon is trying to decide on weather to crank “The Ballad of Chasey Lane” or “The Lap Dance is so much Better When the Stripper is Crying.” I choose “Um-Tiss” by the same group (Bloodhound Gang) and head off to the bathroom for a quick pit-stop. Again, the Evil-IPod knows when I’m not there, has a sense of humor more twisted than God, and has chosen out of 1900 songs to play Millie Vanilli. Yeah, it’s a guilty pleasure but I like “Blame it on the Rain.”

I’m finishing and running for the balcony to avoid getting things thrown at me and there’s three bikini clad girls next to the railing giving me the thumbs up and saying, “Ya! Ya! Millie Vanilli, Is good, Ya? Ya?” I had no idea their even were Germans at the hotel or that Millie Vanilli is the equivalent of musical Hasellhoff in the Fatherland.

We’re yucking it up and I discover I have at least one other MV song on the IPod (‘I’m in love with you, girl). The warm Yagermesiter doesn’t even seem to phase the Germs and we’re shots in when the boyfriends show up from the beach. I am convinced to play the MV again but at this point the disappointment on my face is obvious enough to make the guys laugh. I don’t have to imagine what “fag” sounds like in German as I am sure they’ve said it to each other several times as they laugh at me openly. I excuse myself to a chorus of girly “aw’s” as I take the remainder of the Jager inside with the Bose and lock the sliding glass door.

It’s 5 O’clock and I’m stubble free with bitter memories of a more full bottle of Jager that have nothing to do with taste in more ways than one. I’ve switched to JD and the charcoal is bringing me down. Thank God I’m in Ibiza or this trip would have been a disaster so far. My only game plan is to get my ass to Space for the proper Sunday celebration. I have selected blue/white tennis shoes, white linen pants, and a seriously offensive T-shirt that doesn’t just suggest I’m big and you’re small down there.

You just have to love the way the Thai’s can make the most offensive T-Shirts in the world and I’m wishing I would have purchased a dozen more while I was in Pattaya. The laughter is universal to anyone that’s a witness. My usual driver is no where to be found so I hop in a taxi through a whopping 20 blocks of afternoon partiers. This is what Ibiza is all about and the second reason I’m here, a “nearly day party” at We Love. This is my best chance to see a true Porno-Rave as the draw I have heard is legendary.

I am not disappointed as I get out of the cab to a short Q. I’m in such a good mood I tell the driver to keep the change from a 10 but he doesn’t understand and runs after me with coins instead of the paper 5 I left with him. I give him an extra 2, he still doesn’t understand, but we’re both happy as I make for the entrance.
 
BNYC: nothing left of my home town I'm afraid. The eye of Katrina passed over it as did 21 feet of water in both directions. Nothing left but cement foundations under a foot of water. They didn't even bother to build the road back to the 100 or so homes in the neighborhood. I've not been back since but miss the food tremendously. Nothing like it in the world I'm afraid. At least if i can stick it out her in Baghdad for a year or two more I'll have enough money to do whatever I want with the rest of my life.
 
letsgetdownanddirtybaby said:
BNYC: nothing left of my home town I'm afraid. The eye of Katrina passed over it as did 21 feet of water in both directions. Nothing left but cement foundations under a foot of water. They didn't even bother to build the road back to the 100 or so homes in the neighborhood. I've not been back since but miss the food tremendously. Nothing like it in the world I'm afraid. At least if i can stick it out her in Baghdad for a year or two more I'll have enough money to do whatever I want with the rest of my life.
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I'm sorry, I was simply thinking New Orleans, obv. as a tourist (French Quarter, etc.) and not of the outlying areas where the majority of the city's population probably live (or lived:cry:). I apologise. The whole time I was there I was thinking of Katrina's aftermath, and talked to a lot of people who had been through it- the common theme amongst people who returned was how people banded together as a community and really supported each other through the crisis and rebuilding, opposed to the news stories which generally depicted the opposite. I've been encouraging all my friends and family to go down and support what really is one of the best cities in the world. Thanks again for the review, it has me laughing out loud. Be safe over there in Iraq.
Peace. b
 
We Love We Love, Yes We DO!

There are two front entrances to Space set about 50 yards apart. The left side is open and I am having trouble identifying which side of the entrance should have me in line. I pick the right side and wind up having to walk around the silver crowd control banisters that are sectioning off the “pre-purchased” ticket holders. Since it looks like I am the only person that hasn’t paid in advance, I’m forced to walk all the way to end of the left side of the silver banisters that separate what could have easily have passed for the entrance to The Haunted Mansion at Disney.

There is NO ONE in line on the left side so about halfway down I spryly pop over the railing to cut off a walk all the way to the end and this is a big mistake. The bouncer with the monster IQ (idiot quotient) starts screaming at me to go wait at the end of the railing for 5 minutes. I’m carrying a large tube of glow sticks and dressed like an idiot so I figure if I start arguing with him I’m not getting in. I stand there at the end of the labyrinth entrance sulking but I’ve got the last laugh as I’ve decided to no-show the VIP I’ve set up for next Sunday because of this crap. I am not sure who is acting more like a kid but he proves he’s a bad parent anyway by waving me in after just a couple of minutes. I pay the full 60 Euros with a credit card and they skip the search, even though at that point I am the best candidate. Again, I’m dreaming of coming back with something in the tube other than glow sticks. I’m through the entrance, finally, and before I can turn around and scream FU at the bouncer, the scene at the outdoor venue that was deserted for Danny Tanaglia has changed the vibe.

It’s a madhouse or so I’m thinking. It’s 6PM and the DJ is spinning to a packed house. The music is NOT what I have heard so far in Ibiza. This is a cross between house, happy house, and trance. The only thing missing as I walk to the bar is actual lyrics in the music but the crowd screaming is enough to give it some character.

This is the party I had imagined and I’m finally home.

I’ve got Scotch in my hand and am enjoying the laughs and stares of the T-Shirt. I back it up with a shot of Jager for me and the closest woman at the bar. She pats me on the shoulder, puts her finger on my chin so I look down, and then flicks my nose and laughs as she walks away. This can’t be bad as at least the mood of the crowd is right. I’m in the crowd and doing the “Tag-and-Release” thing with the glow sticks again. It’s a little crowded but I manage to get rid of nearly half the tube. I am sure at some point someone is going to start wondering why all the good looking girls are glowing but since the crowd is over 18 and hasn’t figured out how to dance yet, I’m betting I’m safe.

I still don’t see it. It’s madness. I’ve been in Ibiza for 4 days now and not one single person is grinding. It’s making my heart heavy. Sulking, I’m back on the left side of the dance floor and do the drink-holding-dance. I haven’t spilled a drop and I’m keeping time pretty good but the crowd does seem to open a little around me. I know I’m not that good (but compared to the air punchers…). I am forced to tone it down as I realize the people around me must believe I am an aging “Solid Gold” dancer on vacation.

There’s more to be seen so I decide to take a tour of what’s open. Upstairs is an oversized chill spot but since I’m alone, there is no real comfortable spot just to hang. I wind up in the back corner looking at the last of the days light set behind the water park slides. I can’t be certain but from the looks of the shapes of the people in the park, the Garbi Disco may have had a Sunday morning after party reunion at the park that day. It’s not warm enough for me after 130 degrees Fahrenheit in the desert for 4 months to even consider getting wet. A light drizzle is starting but you can tell it’s nothing serious and only serves to enhance the mood of the chill. The DJ is playing some innocuous and forgettable tune that you would never hear again, miss, or even remember 5 minutes later (repeat for the next hour). The main show is downstairs anyway. I find myself in a melancholy mood as I am missing lyrics again.

Someone in the chill bar has noticed my shirt and with a proper heavy soccer hooligan English accent screams out at me, “How do you know how big I am mate? Are you trying to say I’m small?” I’m doing my best to remove the T-shirt in the corner as I realize this is NOT the place to be wearing it. I throw it into the parking lot and put on the Red crushed Valour button down short sleeve I’ve been tailing out of my back pocket. Having to take on punks over a stupid t-shirt is not what I came to Ibiza for.

I wander into the Jungle Room and glance down the stairs to a closed main room below. There’s no one milling about and the lights are dim behind the saw-horse that doesn’t allow passage. The Jungle room has some bouncy crap that wouldn’t pass for spastic Drum-and-Base and I decide it’s a no-go-for-launch after seeing the three people in there are just talking to each other while sitting on the drink holders that surround the bar. Again, I am seriously disappointed as I expected at least a dozen souls getting lost in some seriously dark beats. Am I the only person in the bar carrying a shaved down football bit? It’s been 10 years so maybe things have changed and as Snoopy would say to Woodstock, “You can’t go home.”

I have to break the cycle somehow so in a quick decision I duck the sawhorse and race down the stairs to do a ceremonial Tab-Dance in the middle of the darkness of the football field sized room. I’m a few steps in and begin raising my hands into the air. I’m about to scream “Why” at God when I hear a finger snap from a security guard who motions for me to go out the door he’s strongly suggesting. I feel the heat on the back of my head you can only feel when you’re first busted but the door goes to a hallway that leads to the outside dance floor and he doesn’t follow.

The DJ is kicking hard. I don’t know who it was at 8PM on Sunday outside but he’s got brown skin and swishes when he walks. There are several more in the booth with him but he’s obviously the main show. The music is simply incredible and the crowd obeys the beating suggestions to punch and shout. I add a step and do the “punch, shout, and sip.” I’m watching an argument between what is my first view of a “Chav” man and woman. She’s bitching about how much money they’ve spent on drinks and he’s simply ordering more. His friends are gathered around the bar and enjoying how well he’s ignoring her whining/bitching. It’s not likely she’ll be ignored long and she proves that by grabbing the drinks on the counter and pouring as many of them on him as she can before she’s stopped by his friends. It’s an obvious case of required counseling for alcohol abuse. What a waste of a couple hundred Euros. My drink is safely in hand but after I order another I’m a few steps into the crowd and safely away as they continue to argue.

I’m back to neon-tagging and ask the only thirty-something I’ve met to hold my drink as I put a glow stick around her frozen hand. She’s semi-impressed with my smoothness but has a boyfriend in tow. She’s wearing a black mini and has short sandy blond hair. If her boyfriend was better looking she could have passed for Posh Spice. I lean over and shout in her ear, “I can’t believe this place…I know what it smells like. I know what it taste like…It’s just not here.” She just smiles, grabs my hand, and gives me her heart.

At this point I am sure she’s got to be an angel and ask if I can buy her and her friends a bottle but she just laughs, pulls my ear to her mouth and says, “Stick around.”


I go to the bar and get a bucket full of bottled waters as I am confident from the taste that I’m finished drinking alcohol for the night. The DJ manages to keep building the evening into a frothy crescendo and I’ve never been happier in my life. More than anything, I’m pissed I haven’t been here in the previous years of summer. What a waste of other vacations!

Her almost-as-hot friend gives me half her heart around 3am and I can’t remember much of the middle. There are just blurbs and pieces of happiness that are impossible to describe without getting deleted from the board.

We’re in the Jungle room and looking for her friend and Posh (She never told me her name) says, “You said you were going to buy us a bottle earlier, find my friend.” I’m not sure the two are related but at this point she could have asked me to jump from the roof and I would at least try. Her friend is no where to be found and I think this must have taken the fun out of her.

At 4am with the party very much alive and kicking in my head and she leans over to me and shouts in my ear, “I’m leaving to have hours of raunchy sex.” I’ve been imagining doing just that for the past 6 hours and am very disappointed I didn’t get an invite.

I remove the custom ear plugs from both ears, take the plastic bit out of my mouth, look her square in the face (nearly with tears of joy and thankfulness) and can only muster the words, “I hate you.” This is a totally acceptable response and we hug.

She leaves.

What could have been the most appropriate person for my vacation has said 4 sentences to me and is gone like the wisp of wind she came in on. My life has been better for it and I am wondering how I can make someone else feel this way in the future.

It’s 6AM and I’m winding down. I decide to hoof it back along the store fronts since it’s light outside and I’m nowhere near sleep. I make it to the Garbi in time to see a sunrise through tinted glasses in comfortable pajamas. Of course, I’m alone watching the sun rise to the spic-a-spic of the sprinklers. The Jack Daniels is lulling me toward the bed and all the fight in me is leaving. I realize the day is finished and I’m still alone in the world. I’m sure the loner crap is not what was intended for me and I put eventually put my head on the pillow angry the next love of my life has left me alone for such a beautiful moment.

We love the cosmic moment that is Space…quite literally. Somewhere around 5 AM I forget about the war, trust in the world again, and cease looking for **** wherever I step.

Damn, that’s a lot of metaphors in such a small paragraph.
 
letsgetdownanddirtybaby said:
The vista de’ nada is starting to grind on me but I choose to stay for another hour as more of the “out” crowd arrives. It’s a veritable who’s-not-who of painful bliss. I would say it’s like watching fat people kiss but since there were really fat people there kissing... There is one woman there that looks perfectly normal so I shimmy on up to her and say hello. My mistake as from the smell of her breath and the missing teeth she’s obviously the flame eater. At least she speaks English and that’s a break but she’s distracted by her friends that are coming down the stairs. It’s the nearly Siamese twins from the pool bar that were kissing earlier and the amazing Tattooed man I recognize as the bartender in a sleeveless T with a collar.
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:lol::lol::lol: class!

you're far too generous with buying people drinks!!;)
 
Awake!

It’s Monday, September 22 of 2008. I look over at the bead of light coming through a slit in the curtain materials. There’s no mistaking that its late afternoon as the curtain beam sun-dial doesn't lie. I’m too hung over to focus on my watch so I find the remote and flick on the TV. CNN international is in the grips of a market crash but they haven’t seen the worst of what’s to come.

I am betting that I’ve seriously low levels of both Serotonin and Melatonin. I’ve somehow still managed to sleep for 6 hours and am feeling I’ve finally accomplished something great. My jaw is incredibly sore and somewhere in the previous evening I have bitten through my mouthpiece. My guess is that if you keep the thing in your mouth for 6 hours, you’ll heat it up enough to change its form. I kick on the computer and watch the last season of Markey-Mark’s hit HBO show Entourage. I’m through with the Jager by the final episode and moving on to what’s left of the JD.

I drag myself out of bed and am resigned to get ready in time to use the evening meal ticket at the Garbi’s cafeteria style buffet. It was included in the price tag of my room. I didn’t see a breakfast while I was there but I did get in a couple of quick dinners I haven’t mentioned. This is the first time I’m actually going to sit down and try and enjoy some food. In the past, after a memorable night of grinding it out, I’m usually on ice-cream only for a day or so. It has been 10 years but for some reason, I feel fine and I’m thanking the Gods of Ibiza for their mercy.

I get a bottle of Wine and sit next to a couple at the table nearest to the entrance. Sure, I’m back to trusting the world and all but old habits die hard and my training doesn’t let me relax too far away from the door. There is a couple sitting at the same table since its festival seating. He looks a little irritated since I could have taken another table as the place is half empty. I fill their glasses with the best red the Garbi has to offer (it’s not much at less than 50 Euros) and they forget to ask for an explanation of why I’ve invaded their table that seats 10.

The guy has an unusual color and hairstyle and I can’t place where I’ve seen him before. It’s sandy blonde but in the same cut as carrot top. He's unusually small but I am sure he’s a Hollywood B-movie star. I try to be cool and not stare at him so I look at my food and try not to concentrate to much on the girl.
Food.
Girl.
Food.
Girl.
She is pretty much smoking hot at 5’5” and all boobs. He’s not saying much, just kind of smirking, and enjoying his glass of wine. I figure what-the-hell so I fill it again. I didn’t realize at the time that he was trying to finish it so they could leave the table without being impolite. The female of the couple commented no less than a half dozen times on how much she loves my T-shirt. I’m not embarrassed easily but I’m getting a little embarrassed for the guy.

I’m wearing “crowded dance floor hot weather” gear which amounts to a t-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. I’ve brought one of the offensive Thai T-shirts that you either think is funny or you want to kill the person wearing it. The shirt says “I Love Midget Porn” in great big letters. The last time it was on someone’s body was in Pattaya at the Hard Rock’s big pool. My rent-a-girlfriend could read no English and wasn’t in on the joke till the end of the day when one of the bartenders couldn’t resist but tell her what she was wearing. She hit me pretty hard for a 22 year old that weighs 85 pounds.

The girl at the table again comments on how much she loves my T-shirt. I explain where I got it from and get another bottle of wine. I fill their glasses and on the way back from the self-service wine bar, I notice the guy is sitting on what looks like a booster chair. I look a little closer and he’s got the hands. I realize he’s a little person about a half hour later than I should have. Now that’s a hang over! I don’t know if it was my demeanor or some visible tell that did it but he could tell my happy-go-lucky attitude had changed to pure embarrassment. If he would have gotten up a few minutes earlier, I would have done a red wine spit-take.

So, you’re in a crowded hotel restaurant in Ibiza, sitting across from a midget you’ve seen in a B-movie, his normal sized girlfriend is hitting on you, and you’re wearing a shirt that says “I Love Midget Porn.”

What do you do?

Go for the Pettifour deserts of course! Little bite size pieces of cake goodness. I’m back sitting down at the table with a half dozen pieces to share. There are two empty seats with half finished glasses of wine and I’m really disappointed. I can see the couple continuously arguing with each other as they walk past the glass windows, skip the bar, and head to the back of the hotel. I can hear laughing behind me and turn around to a slow clap standing ovation from the table behind me. A couple of others join in the applause and I'm as red as the wine. I grab my glass of wine and spontaneously toast, “Here’s to midget porn!”

I get a combination of muted snickers, applause, and some return my outstretched red wine laden hand with a hearty, “Cheers.” The table next to mine explained that the guy was an ass and had turned down several trying to get autographs and photos with him. Pettifours and red wine (they had no port, in Spain?) never tasted so good. The Lollipop Guild was truly entertaining and the irony was not wasted.

Loving Ibiza has never felt so good!
 
a url is a website address. if you go to photobucket.com you can upload any pics quite simply (you may have to register). it will then store each photo and give you various codes for each one. all you have to do is copy the code into a reply to this thread and it should work tho i can never remember which of the codes is the right one.
Reading this is better than any midget porn Ive ever seen!
 
Puerto Ibiza, the last bastion of un-free will

Dinner being what it was, I’m full of food but need another slice of irony to top off desert. It’s nearly 9 PM and that’s the same as VERY early morning in Ibiza. I have the only other pre-paid ticket in my pocket for the big Monday night show. There’s time to kill so I’m in a Cab and headed toward the port for an evening drink.

The Port is an interesting place. The Taxi lets me out at a guarded booth next to a row of 150+ foot yachts. I can see from the lack of a crowd that I’m not getting any kind of boat tour. The other side of the street is littered with shops and bars. They look like any kind of normal tourist traps with names like Pasha or Sunglass Hut. I approach cautiously as the architecture seems to say beware-all-yee-who-enter-with-credit-cards-here. The buildings have been there for lifetimes many times longer than my own but it just adds to the kitsch value. I pop into the first shop and have a quick look around.

The first impression I have is that having a bar in a T-Shirt shop is pretty cool. This needs to be done in America. The rounded portico’s and wrought iron remind me a little of New Orleans so I’m feeling at home and begin to relax. “I’ll have a … I mean a…I…aahhhhh…..” There are a dozen liquor bottles and none of them have a name I can recognize. What’s worse is they are the flavored colors of a shaved ice stand. “…A Corona please. NO? Ok, I’ll take a can of San Miguel Light.” My tab for a can of beer in a T-shirt shop: Eight Euro’s.

WTF?

That’s not the real shocker but I am not aware of this yet. I have a look around the store and realize nothing in this place is made of what it seems. Sure it looks like it’s a cotton T-shirt with Space printed on the front of it, but it’s obviously made of gold since its 50 Euros. I’m not poor by any stretch but at these prices I decide just to investigate the CD’s. I’m not carrying anything around with me for the night with tight Levi 501’s on, but I do want to see if they have the music I heard at We Love. I ask, and am shown, what appears to be a plastic box with a dingy label. My mistake as it’s obviously made of diamonds and what an idiot I am for not knowing that already. One CD: 25 Euros?

Again, WTF?

Exiting the store with beer in hand, I feel I am lucky to have made it out alive without having to mortgage a house. The beer isn’t bad but I hate beer for the most part and I choose to throw it away in the first trash can I pass. What ever happened to good old Miller? I guess that’s an import over here that would have cost me 15 Euro’s so I am grateful I didn’t ask.

If you’ve ever seen a three ring circus, then you’ve seen the port area of Ibiza. The D’alt Villa rises in the background with its majestic cannons and thousand year old walls. It’s on top of a 100 yard hill with shear walls so the view up is as exciting as the view from the top. It makes a serene backdrop for mischief and I have some planned if I can find the right spot. There’s a little square with the typical Gypsy-type hawkers next to the road. The buildings side has a mixture of restaurants, shops, and as you go further into the port, the number or outdoor bars multiplies. It’s still pretty early at and around 10 PM. I’ve walked past the square, past the crystal and homemade jewelry misfit sellers, past the scarcity of restaurants and candy stores, and find the outdoor bars have taken over the area. Each one I pass has a tunnel like entrance with a bar down a half set of stairs that no one but the waitress actually goes to. On the outside, however, the chairs are starting to fill up as this must be the designated pre-party spot.

The port is half moon shaped with brackish dark green water on your left. The ambiance is only enhanced with the smell of ocean mixed with burning diesel. There are hundreds of various sized Yachts and ferries parked in the distance. A two foot concrete Jersey T-wall is topped by four foot of fencing that separates the 10 foot drop-off from the water. The road that is on the left is a two lane blacktop that separates the port from the bars. It continues a hundred yard until it veers to the left to allow cars to enter the ferries. Between the road and the zero lot line bars are an endless sea of tables, chairs, and in one case, couches. I find a bar that has the narrowest passage between the seating and the entrance. I’m betting its 4 or 5 people wide compared to the 10 foot gap for the rest of the bars.

I have to go to the bar and show the girl what “Jim Beam” is as she has no idea the first time and tried to bring me a glass of “not sure.” I just know Jim Beam isn’t banana yellow. She’s a little irritated so I insist on paying for both drinks and get her on my side with a tenner tip. She’s now happy and less than irritated so that’s a start.

I’ve got a tube of Glow Sticks jammed into my back pocket and know I’ll need to save them for later. But, being a high traffic area and me being the 12 year old I am at heart, I also have a tube of Super Glue that I picked up from the Spanish supermarket a couple of days earlier. I select a bright green and pop the crystal inside, mixing the chemicals and making a bright glow that contrasts the dark alley-like passage way.

The waitress goes inside for some reason and I’m out of my seat and gluing the glow stick to the cement. I’m back in my seat before she returns. She notices the glow stick immediately so I have to call her off and distract her until the glue sets a little more. The traffic is beginning to pick up so I get back up and stand over the glow-trap to give it 5 minutes to dry. The waitress is in on the joke as I’ve shown her the glue. She doesn’t understand but since she gets a commission on the 15 Euros the bar charges for a drink, the increased attention doesn’t seem to sit badly with her. She smiles as I walk back to the table and wait for the show to begin. I ask her to join me. The first couple that bends to pick it up is frustrated it won’t budge. The second, the third..etc…

I’m laughing my ass off and so is the waitress before a couple pushing a stroller with a 4 year old on a leash breaks the fun. I wind up putting a half dozen glow sticks on the kids arm as I’m feeling pretty guilty for making the kid cry. Really, who brings a 4 year old to the bars of Port Ibiza? The game is over a few minutes later when some teens kick the glow-ring till it breaks and laugh heartily as they walk away with glowing shoe-bottoms. I’ve managed to kill an hour but the game is not finished.

I pantomime 5 minutes on my watch with the waitress and toss a 2 Euro coin on the ground near the glowing material. She gets up to pick it up and I’m playing charades well enough to explain that the coin is hers in 5 minutes if no one else gets it. She’s at least mildly interested in the game and I lets-make-a-deal her by throwing down a second and third coin. The coins get picked up a couple of times and it’s enough fun to have a paper 20 on the ground folded in half that no one notices for the first two minutes. The waitress is growing irritated she hasn’t won anything yet and is stupid to go inside and tell a friend to go pick it up. That’s my Q to hit the Taxi Q as she’s ruined the game of “European Peasant Bingo.”

Really, I’m not that much of an ass, but I picked this up in the Philippines where you could get 25 bar girls sitting on stools screaming oo’s and aah’s every time someone passed and didn’t pick up the coin. Of course there the coin is a days pay but equivalent to a quarter for someone from the US. Not to worry, I took care of all of them and we had a great time. (But that’s another story for a more “liberal” group).

Of course I am going to the Philippines in February so if you want to meet up for a drink, PM me.

The show continues as the Taxi Q is right outside the guard booth for the port. Once again, haters, there is no line and 5 taxis waiting to go. The only confusion is which one to get in as I have to get out of the first one I pop into the back of. The cars are parked parallel to each other and I've chosen the wrong side.

Not a big deal and we're off to the club.
 
My technology is old and my Kung-Fu is weak. I've been in Iraq so long that Facebook wasn't around when I came over. I-net acces is limited and I'm cut off from any networking or dating sites by the controller of information.
 
The Edge of Sanity is Sunrise.

The taxi takes me through a couple of traffic circles and toward the center of the island. There’s not much to see except Spanish slum-type houses and the typical billboards proclaiming DJ dates, clubs, and tittie-bars. I can see Privilege in the distance as the taxi approaches the exit. From the main highway, it appears to be a large geodesic globe and isn’t this going to be fun. I am imagining a weightless environment where everyone in the club is flying around on bubbles as the taxi leaves the interstate.

We drive a short distance and come upon a white-washed cinder block portico that stretches over the road with an open arch. It’s cracked, faded, and the only thing missing on it is graffiti. Why it hasn’t been tagged is a mystery as this place is not well kept. The taxi pulls me out into a circle of overgrown nature in a cracked concrete and dirt parking lot. The lot itself holds maybe 50 cars and with 10,000 showing up, there must be parking somewhere nearby for the masses. I never actually get to see the other parking lots and its only 11:30 PM. I’m way ahead of the rest of the crowd. I believe the place opens at 11PM so I don’t expect too many people in line.

I’ve prepared myself for a sweaty night from the floor as I don’t believe I want this to be a VIP night. The big show of the trip is the closing party of Tiesto. I want to be front, center, and as close to the action as possible.

I walk down a gravel path cut into a rolling hill to see the main entrance. The giant dome looms like the top of the helmet of Darth Vader. You don’t notice from a distance but up close it’s looking old and is a lattice work of crisscrossed metal scaffolding. The path goes into a little valley that looks like the entrance to any theme park ride in the US. There are several windows for the purchasing of tickets and glass doors on the left for regular entry. I choose the line for pre-purchased tickets on my right that spirals to the upper entrance through the geodesic dome. This is the pre-paid ticket line and it’s already 20 minutes long. As usual, I’m paying close attention to the entry door and how they are letting people in.

There is one guy that is searching the outer pockets of anyone but you can’t see him from the back of the line as he’s just around the corner before you go upstairs. Had I been too drunk (or otherwise) I wouldn’t have noticed him. This is apparent after seeing several drunk (and otherwise) persons go around the corner. They are shocked as he takes things from their pockets, puts them in his own, and sends them up the stairs. I witness at least two pairs that get things taken, are shocked they’re not going to jail, and continue up the stairs to give their tickets to the computer person. If it were raining, this would have been a nightmare as there is no overhead cover.

By the time I get to the front of the line to be loosely patted down, another Privilege shirt wearing bouncer walks up and asks the guy confiscating the party in Spanish, “how many?”

The door bouncer smiles, says a proud “Ocho,” and passes them off with a less-than-sly handshake to the inquisitor. The two idiots directly behind me who aren’t paying attention get something taken from their pockets. They walk away quickly and toward the parking lot, full of paranoia as they don’t understand why they are not going to jail and the guy is only trying to tell them they have to check their camera.

I’m up the stairs to the dome and cross a 50 foot catwalk to the entrance to the dome. There is a bar there and I order my first 18 Euros drink for the evening. I resign myself to knowing its going to be an expensive buzz. The dome is not populated although the inside of it is big enough to be a club all on its own. The door to the actual club is at the other side of the dome and I’m through to the Pre-J’s beats of housey type trance.

The best way to describe the interior of privilege is BIG. The entire club is exposed in some way to the DJ stage (not booth) and is as big as 4 football fields (U.S…not soccer). The main rooms of the club are kind of shaped like an old pirate ship. The “Poop” deck is a raised floor that is kept a little dark with a square bar in the middle of the deck. It’s the same level as the DJ stage. It’s about a 75’ x 75’ and has a ramp type stairway down to the main level or what you would consider the deck.

I spend a few minutes soaking up the ambiance and selecting only a few of the best to tag in neon lights. From the quality I’ve seen so far, I’ll be looking less at the DJ and more at the crowd once I get up front. I’ve heard there will be 10K here tonight. At midnight, it’s only a thousand and the place literally looks empty. The VIP section is the last 20 feet of the upper level and it stretches in a ninety degree elbow in front of glass windows that cover the left side.

This of course is the largest slice of irony served hot and morning fresh in Ibiza. The biggest party with the worlds most popular DJ is called “The Edge of Sunrise.” There is no view of the sunrise as the glass is blacked out where the sun would be and the trees haven’t been cleared back enough from the mountains. Stupid and non-climatic. I would have at least hooked up a giant prisom that would illuminate the stage with a rainbow at the crack of dawn.

I’m loving the open voids but people are starting to fill in. I figure I’d better scope out the place before it fills in too much to move around freely. It’s early enough to wander into VIP without more of a tip than a friendly, “I just want to have a look around” to the bouncer. A quick glance and I’m wishing I would have worn more than the T-shirt as they have some great Moet on display.

If I had selected the table closest to the back, I could have been in a good spot to invite anyone looking with sad eyes into VIP for a drink. What’s the sense in having it all if you don’t give a little to those who don’t?

But tonight is just for me so I head down the ramp to the main floor. Directly underneath the Poop deck is an identical square bar occupying the middle of the level and it looks a lot like the upper level but a bit more dark. The Pre-J is cranking some great music and for a thousand in the club, I’m worried that he may have peaked too early. What do I know?

His set kept getting better and better. Between the bottom floor’s bar and the bow of this level there is a shiny body of water with what was most likely in the past the actual DJ booth. I believe it is a combination waiter station and lighting booth for the main show. The club is missing out on some serious revenue not making it a VIP table for a party of 8. A couple of hand rails for the catwalk and they could easily charge three grand for someone wanting to premier a star or social elitist. It’s suspended over the water on a catwalk and with my second 18 Euros drink in hand; I head for the closest point to get a closer look at the water.

Upon closer inspection, like everything at Privilege, the pool is a Monet. It’s just like the architecture in Dubai. If you’ve ever taken a tour of the giant hotel in all the pictures that looks like a sail, you would understand. It all looks great from far away, but if you’re sober enough and you get close, everything looks to be in need of repair. Cracked plaster, scummy tile, missing pieces…It’s no wonder the only sure way to get kicked out of Privilege is to dive into the pool; Your then most likely hazardous material and need to be decontaminated. At least the chlorine smell is something different when the place is packed and I’m looking for a new treat for my senses.

I can only imagine what the place must have been like 15 years ago with people dancing on the catwalk, falling into the pool, etc. Again, I kick myself for not getting here before politics have taken over.

To the right and left of the pool are exits to new areas but I save them for later. I notice the “Edge of sunrise” CDs are being sold for a measly 50 Euro’s and resign myself to ignore getting anything I have to carry around for the night.

The T-shirt is working well and I’ve stopped to pose for pictures a couple of times. I’ve play the “I speak no English game” with a pair of ugly girls from London. They are trying to explain what the shirt means to me and I just look at them funny as though I don’t understand. I mumble something in make believe Italian. They’re either pantomiming small people having sex or trying to convert me to christianity. I finally I just look at them and deadpan with, “It looks much bigger when you f_ck ‘em small.” I’m walking away and toward the center of the floor to find a deserving-of-a-glow tastie and can hear the two hens cackling with disapproval in my wake.

In front of the massive DJ stage is a large black painted wooden dance floor. The back half overhangs the pool with a silver banister to separate the party from the drop-off. The stage is of course 15 feet up so if you get to close you cant see the DJ but that’s no in my game plan any way. Who needs to stare at one more European standing in one place and pumping their fist in the air to the beat?

Imagine what the show would be like if a DJ could actually dance. It’s all laptop driven so for the 60 Euros they’re charged at the door, shouldn’t the DJ be doing magic tricks, cutting off a finger, or bringing lions out to jump through flame?

I make my way in and out of the now-full thousand who have gathered on the dance floor. It’s mostly t-shirted English so they treat me as one of their own. I try to stand in one place as much as possible but as a professional people watcher, I get tired of the view and am forced to move on after a short pause.

Watching the English dance is kind of like watching porn. It’s the same motion over and over again and somehow still enticing enough to keep you from turning away.

For this evening, unlike porn, there is no climax, feeling of awkwardness, or need to change the channel to something less mundane when your finished. It just keeps building and building in a crescendo that ends with a new high with each new song. Gee, I’ve never felt like that for hours on end before (he says with a sarcastic and tantric-smug half smile).

I find a small platform on the East side that has a railing around half of it and it’s public which surprises me. By 12:30 there’s two to three thousand in the club and the dance floor in front is filling up. I’m on a partially raised box and an old Pilipino gentleman has decided to try and dance right next to me on the top of this box. That doesn’t bother me till he grabs my ass as though I’m going to be happy with that.

So, your wearing a “I love Midget Porn” T-shirt, standing on a platform, waiting for Tiesto, at the largest club in Ibiza, it’s the busiest night of the year, and a Pilipino guy grabs your ass. What do you do?

Well, you sure as hell don’t go for the cake. The guy is 50 something and I saw him with his wife and what (I thought) were his 4 daughters just a couple hours earlier. I hold him by both shoulders and walk him backwards politely off the stand and toward the crowd. When I felt he had gathered sufficient speed I let him go and his own weight carries him a few more feet into the crowd. I’m pretty sure he got my point and the bouncer guarding the stairs is laughing is ass off as he has seen the whole thing.

It’s after 1AM and I’m figuring with a 6 hour set, Tiesto is just around the corner. I’ll need to check out the rest of the club and get off my feet for a few minutes before the big show begins. I make my way to the outside area on the West side of the club. It’s a multi-teared cement chill area shaped like a Greek Theater. It faces the windows of the club so you can see the crowd inside as you chill. There is a balcony area for the public on the West side close to the stage and it’s completely full before Tiesto scores a single note. I get a drink from the outside bar and am pleasantly surprised again.

Myth #10: It’s really expensive to get drunk at a club in Ibiza: Not true. It’s just expensive to buy the drink. At not one of any of the large bars in Ibiza did the bartender use a shot glass to measure the drink. Really, I got two or more shots in any drink I ordered. So, if you divide the drink cost by a 2.25 minimum, it’s less expensive (at around 5 Euros a drink) than most airports (except Manila).

Sure, it’s not cheap, but it’s a lot better than the haters have complained about. I was imagining a measured shot for 20 Euros from the stuff I read about before the trip. I hate you haters. Quit ruining Ibiza's reputation.

I’m having a grand old time holding court with an antique couple. They’re the only people over 60 in the place and they’re trying to get me to sell them my T-shirt. I’m passing on all offers but they never asked me to trade it for a Tiesto hoodie. I can’t remember the price exactly but I believe it was over 80 Euros. I can see through my peripheral vision that the lights on stage are starting up so I excuse myself and head to the bottom of the dance floor. It’s nearly 2AM and Tiesto has taken immediate control of the crowd.

I enter the glass doors and can feel the venue’s demeanor and energy have switched into high gear for the night. It might have something to do with the crowd’s “mood” kicking in. It was either that or the giant “TIESTO” in lights might have been enough to get everyone going just on sheer reputation alone. I weave in and out of what is now a packed house to the very front of the stage. My goal, the breaks (wait for it)!
I make friends with one of the bouncers up front. He's not watching the DJ beating his fist in the air and neither am I. The bet is to wait until the breaks come between songs and then try to throw a glow stick on the outstretched hands of a unsuspecting participant. Sort of like ring-toss but the Privilege Tiesto version is called Haluci-Toss. There are so many lights and colors on the stage that the person getting the glow ring thrown at them will get hit in the face If I miss before they grab for the ring. I’m unsure if Tiesto isn’t really a reincarnation of Hitler with all the two handed “Sieg-hieling” going on. It really is a great light display and when the dancers show up, it gets even better. They're on multi -level cubes that are now littering the club and I am not sure if the cubes were there from the beginning or have risen out of the stage. Even the pool has a glittering beauty dancing above it.

I loose 50 Euros to the bouncer before I get frustrated enough to quit. He's picking the People who won’t leave their hands still long enough for me to score. I can almost make out a girl mouthing the words "Great 3D" as I miss again and she is hit in the face with a glowing ring.

Tiesto is also an incredible DJ performance. When I stop F’ing with people long enough to enjoy the show, I realize that this is pretty good music.

Actually, it’s great.

Actually, it’s remarkable.

Actually, an epiphany occurs: this is the best electronic club music I have ever heard! Its life changing and I actually had to update the types of music on my Ipod when I got back to Iraq. I bought the Tiesto Edge of Sunrise (Asia) part two and have been listening to it with fond memories.

The party continues till the disappointing let down of NO sunrise as it’s blocked by the shrubbery and décor. Game over and we all go home. I duck out right after the sky gets light and have to wait a whopping 20 minutes for a cab. Again, screw you haters… Ibiza is pretty F’ing cool at this point.

In all, Tiesto at Privilege is recommended to anyone who “just doesn’t get” the whole electronic music scene. The next time you get someone critical of electronic music, take them to Ibiza and force them to stay for 5 minutes. Like taking a child to Disney, it will change you as you watch it changing them.

They’ll be there for 6 hours before they realize it’s too late, life has changed, and it’s now better.
 
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