We are Hitting Happy Hour Tonight

Days spent drinking, mornings in bed. Nights with friends who smoke pot and can drive drunk. The city asleep as we cruise its streets. Every last sentece falls into place, the holidays finally here. A car with no radio, clubs that play Billy Idol's "Dancing with Myself". The floor filled with people moving their bodies, my lush mouth saying:

I wish all my friends were here.

The lights crossing our heads, running below our feet, reflecting on the mirrors smogged with cigarettes - like being inside a megatunnel. Lung smoke and line-ups to snort coke in the multisex toilet stalls. The stylish and the celebrities, like Marisa Orth And Joao Gordo.

The nightclub was called The Edge, for G.L.S. (gays, lesbians and sympathisers) and Modernists (geometrical clothes, Blondie lookalikes, white-trash chique, mullets from outerspace).

Crowds descended on us out of nowhere, vodkas with red bulls. Girls wanting to screw, boys kissing boys while their piss run out of the urinals.

My T-shirt, black, saying "Joy Division", an image of Ian by the microphone. Doc Martens, borrowed, black. Summer trousers, linen, black. Tattoos and eye-liner missing in action.

Is evil something you are, or something you do? - Morrissey

Who has youth on their side? I have as I dance to Depeche Mode, New Order, B52s, The Bangles, Gary Numan. Gay youth doesn't look at me; the gay albimo follows me with his rabbit-eyes from across the room. I dance by myself - Sao Paulo's life just like the streets of Tokyo.