Dying to Party

ISSUE #26

(Usually I design my playlists front to back, but with this you can totally play the first song and hit shuffle—it's a party playlist!)

True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The desire to party had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily I can build you this Halloween Party Playlist.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved "Dragula" by Rob Zombie. I had boogied to it nightly. I wanted to give you something to boogie to as well.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I put "A Nightmare on My Street" into your earbuds!

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the boogie. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the Dead Man's Bones album. I cut off "Wolf Like Me" and "I Put a Spell On You" and "Superstition." I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited my JBL Flip Blutooth speaker between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eyes could have detected anything wrong.

As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart,—for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. Bowie had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of a party had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises. I bade the gentlemen welcome. The Bowie, I said, was my own singing in a dream.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and chatted. The ringing became more distinct: it continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness—until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears. It was a low, dirty synth-line—much such a sound as the beginning of "Los Ageless." I gasped for breath—and yet the officers heard it not.

I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about A Star is Born, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled.

Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!—no, no! They heard!—they suspected!—they knew! I felt that I must dance or die! and now—again!—hark! Louder! Louder! Louder! Louder!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the dance floor! here, here!—It is the slapping of these hideous tunes!"