One of the reasons I uncharacteristically went to Zouk on Saturday night for Absolute Reality was that I wanted to show off my hair, and indeed I did get some reactions ("I used to think very highly of you", "I only knew that it was you because someone told me - 'that's Gabriel'"). Of course, I also went because the head honcho himself pimped it to me, and I wanted to see if my reasons for not clubbing (I don't drink, smoke, dance, listen to modern music, pick people up or get picked up) held true. It was an... interesting experience, albeit one which I would not care to repeat in the near future (if at all).

At the entrance, we found that ticket prices had been lowered to $15 (as opposed to the originally advertised prices of $16 for a pre-ordered ticket and $18 at the door). Apparently Zouk had decided to undercut them, so they had no choice but to follow the market leader. The incompetent doormen took my whole ticket without returning me my ticket stub. This was needed for the lucky draw, most of which I missed anyway because my two lovely companions decided to drag me through the Heeren's Annex doing window shopping because it was "too early".

Though Absolute Reality supposedly had a reality show theme, the program was an unsatisfactory exposition of it. Granted, there were 5 contestants, but they were whittled down in a mere 3 rounds of games. Hardly "the search for absolute hunk & babe!" which the promotional poster promised (and which I've just noticed is grammatically suspect). Furthermore, both starting late and ending early, we got a lot less bang for our buck than was advertised. Hell, more time was spent promoting and showcasing US university life and an upcoming event [Beauty World, April 2006 at Chicago] than with letting the audience "witness American reality TV brought to life". But then that was probably the putative point of the evening anyway - apart from watching people you know be humiliated, partying and all the usual visceral action that goes on where the sun don't shine, so.

With the official program over, Calvin was chased from the DJ booth and the evening's festivities began in earnest. UV lights started to flash through the chamber, lending people's white clothes an eerie purple tinge reminiscent of the purple uniform and increasing everyone's chances of getting skin cancer. Better yet, at some points the UV lights started flashing in a poor attempt to imitate the Pokemon cartoon. Curiously, everyone seemed to be immune to its effects: perhaps prolonged exposure makes one immune to such stimulation.

A sip of Screwed Up Girl's vodka lime almost sent me into a paroxysm, something DXO's drinks conspicuously failed to do. After recovering from my fit, I gave each of my 2 companions one of my drink coupons (Screwed Up Girl proceeded not to use it. Argh!)

Saturday was trance night, and through the night the music grew steadily louder, until it was almost impossible to hear myself think. First one of my trouser legs started moving along with the beat, and later I felt my thoraxic cavity resonate; with such a powerful sound system, I doubt they need to keep a defibrillator on the premises. A friend started bouncing along to the beat, and others began to fall into the trance the music was presumably meant to induce, but with my mastery of Tantric Zen meditation, I managed to keep myself grounded and centred and thus immune to its debilitating effects.

During the event proper, sublimated dry ice with a slight edge to its smell had been emitted into the air at intervals, but as the night wore on, either due to increased emission or poor ventilation the visibility and PSI of the compound moved in opposite directions. Coupled with the poor lighting and ceaseless racket, I felt as if I had been transported to a World War I French trench during a round of chemical artillery shelling by the Germans. Through the smoke, I glimpsed some people on the dance floor to whom the nerve gas had got. Staying by the edge of the dance floor in groups, they were all spasming periodically, unable to move even to the centre of the dance floor, incapacitated as they were. I really felt for those poor souls.

Surprisingly early, at 10:40, some people overcame the effects of the nerve agent and got onto blocks placed in the middle of the dance floor to shake their booty. Unfortunately, not everyone had such a robust constitution, and I think I still glimpsed some people still spasming at the side. Even more unfortunately, I did not observe what some in my Sociology tutorial group did:

"Intimacy: In such a close, confined environment as a club, you have more feasible contact than you ever bargained for... You're sending a message to the guys: 'just touch me'"

"There are people who tarch, and there are people who want to be tarched. (touch, touched)"

I speculate that this was due to a combination of reasons: the early hour of my presence, the aforementioned reduced visibility and the fact that many or most people knew each other already. I am confirmed in my speculations by intelligence reports that someone was later seen snogging many females.

When I finally decided that I had had enough, I exited the enclosed compound... to find that a lot of people were outside talking (at least half and maybe even up to two thirds of the number who were inside). A pity I didn't think of that sooner.