I'm still wondering; is it possible to be a curmudgeon at 28? Though not as disdainful of new things as I was in my teens, I find my cynicism growing at an alarming rate.

A few weeks ago, my girlfriend and I went to Seoul to visit her sister and brother-in-law. Later that Saturday night, we all went out to Gecko's and were introduced to this 40-ish Korean woman who we'll call 'Mrs. Arnold Schwartzenegger' for the sake of anonymity. Did I mention she had arms that looked like they could have ripped the finish off my mum's mahogany piano?

Anyway, we were somewhat at a loss as to where to go for the wee hours of the morning. Gecko's at its best has always ever been kind of like an oversized Crossroads; comfortable enough to accomodate most, but in the end, merely a means to another end (traditionally it was Soul Trane, but of late, it could just as easily be Vinyl). Xena suggested this place called "Limelight". I knew it by name only; the lower part of the Hamilton Hotel in Itaewon. We used to walk past it all the time on our way to the Thai Orchid. "Why not?" we all figured. Turns out to have been the worst decision made since the Indians handed over Manhattan to the pilgrims for a couple of baek-wons.

I have to say this before I begin my tirade, and I don't think I'm in the minority: I loathe the so-called "rave" culture. Though I enjoy the music at times, I can't get past this slavish devotion to a 14-year-old drug culture based on nothing but selfishness. When I first began reading and hearing about it, critics and partygoers alike continually espoused "E" as this wonder drug that put everybody on the same level. Sure it did. It made you more isolated than a glass of Sylvia Plath with a side of Ian Curtis. Besides, a couple of glasses of my dear, departed Grandfather's Tsipouro (Greek "moonshine", to the laymen) will take the Pepsi challenge with that Ecstacy shit any day.

Anyway, the 20,000 won cover charge was a bad start. Things may have been rotten over in Denmark, but we had our own problems right there in Itaewon. The 20 g's entitled you to a free drink as well as admission, so naturally I made a beeline to the bar. Where else am I gonna find the proper libation? No go, the bartender says; head back to the entrance.

Turned out the 'free drink' was either (in Mega Mart price conversions, natch) a 2,500 won bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale, or a 2,300 won bottle of Two Dogs Lemonade.

Stupidity, thy name is Johnny. But as I always used to say, you pay for the drink, and you pay for the lesson. And the lesson to be learned was basically 'don't you EVER learn?'.

If it was Ibiza in June, or Ios in July, I would have been more than happy to plunk down 20,000 for a cover charge. You're dealing with phenomenal weather in a phenomenal setting, with phenomenally beautiful Europeans drinking phenomenally oversized beverages while listening to phenomenal DJs spin their wares over a phenomenal sound system. You'll drop your mortgage on those islands without blinking:

"Fifty euros for that B-52? Here's a Hundred; keep the change." But 3,000 won for a 500ml bottle of water? Please.

All of this would have been a moot point had the music been any good. It wasn't. Atonal 12" break-beat singles with a lot of cheesy "MAKE SOME NOISE!" chants every every so often do not a slammin' atmosphere make.

The best DJs in the world use anything and everything to make it happen. At university we used to spin Ravi Shankar into George Strait into Tori Amos into Einsturzende Neubauten into James Brown with no discernible drop in intensity. The worst thing you could say to somebody making a request was "sorry, we don't have it." No way. If the son-of-a-bitch tune didn't fit, we MADE it fit. They might've waited an hour to hear it, but they always did before the night was over.

On those magical nights, it didn't matter if you originally came to drink yourself stupid or find some dishrag skank against whom you could press the flesh; people got high not on chemicals, but on 'Kefi' (Enthusiasm). Those nights are rare enough anywhere in the world, but in Pusan? Well, my eyes and ears are still open.

People change; they grow older--sometimes wiser. But if I happen to turn into my divorced 65-year-old uncle George (who I once saw chatting up an 18-year-old in a club back home), I give everybody who reads this permission to tell me what I told him that time: "who do you think you're fooling?"

===== "In the name of the mambo, the rhumba, and the cha-cha-cha..."

-"The Mambo Kings"

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