The streets of Seattle’s industrial district sleep in deserted silence everywhere but on a certain dark road just under the West Seattle Bridge. In a shady, warehouse-like venue on Saturday, September 10, a strange fantasyland consumes itself in a world of hallucinogenic pills, heavy beats, and nightlong friendships. A crowd of at least two hundred people has gathered around the doors as security guards yell at the top of their lungs for people to get out of the street so the few cars driving through the industrial district at midnight can get by.

“If everyone here wasn’t rolling [on Ecstasy], we would have just pushed through the doors by now,” says a girl standing near us in line. She wears nothing but a transparent corset and a pair of lacy spankies. We try not to stare, but it is difficult. In the two hours that we have been waiting in anticipation for the doors to open, we have seen people meowing like cats, people dressed like cats, people undressed like cats. Tonight’s rave, a kitty-themed event, is called “Frisky.” Ravers dressed as cats receive free glow sticks and lots of love.

There is something childish and immature about the vibe outside Studio Seven. “Excuse me, ravers!” yells a woman with a flashlight as she squeezes through the crowd. The bouncer, a voluptuous twenty-something-year-old woman with pink hair wearing a black zip-up sweatshirt, yells at the crowd like it is a group of school kids. In a way, they are-after all, tonight’s “Frisky” rave is a 16+ event. Most of the people are just teenagers looking for something to make their lives a little more interesting.

Even at raves, where Ecstasy is as commonplace as beer at a frat party, the security guards still must abide by the laws to keep the fairly well-known venue from being shut down. While we were waiting in line, an anxious raver approaches a girl in front of us, greets her enthusiastically, and inquires about buying some Ecstasy for the night. The girl, who looks about our age and appears to be a regular dealer, seems like she doesn’t want to talk about it, presumably because we were within earshot of the security guard.

We meet a few ravers before we get in. We first meet “The Professor,” a lanky, long-haired fellow wearing a tie-dyed shirt and hundreds of brightly colored bracelets. By day, “The Professor” is a senior at Seattle Academy of Arts and Sciences (SAAS). Tonight, he is an exuberant, inebriated raver who serves as one of our guides throughout the night.

“Hey, let me get you some candy,” The Professor says to Dana. He holds out his hand, palm facing hers. “Give me your hand.” He carefully chooses a bracelet laced with clear, blue, purple, and green plastic beads and slides it off his wrist, across their interlocked hands, and onto hers. “There,” he says with satisfaction. “Now you have candy.” Called a “candy kiss,” this is an oddly intimate gesture of friendship and giving that only makes sense in the context of raving. We learn later that it just only one of the tokens of intimacy unique to the raving community.

As The Professor introduces himself, he catches sight of a friend and fellow raver who gladly joins our conversation.

“Hi, I’m Ziggy,” he says. His shaved head, short stature, and rounded features liken him somewhat to the cartoon character. “You’ll never forger that name, right?” We will find this true by the end of this long, bizarre night.

We finally make it through the doors after a rigorous pat-down that borderlines on physical violation. Two preteen girls in front of us have forgotten to bring their identification to prove that they are over sixteen. They loudly yell a slew of profanities and run off to confer with each other a few feet away.

The Best Nightmare of Your Life

When we first get in, the rave is just getting started. It is nearly 1:00 in the morning, two hours after the rave’s announced start time. Let the party begin.

The familiar semi-awkward feelings of the early stages of a party linger in the grimy air. A few people who look utterly bored are lazing around on a circle of dingy couches that serves as the social hub throughout the night.

The venue itself looks and feels like a seedy nightclub that just happens to be in a warehouse in the Industrial District. It is one of those places that you hope you will never have to see in the light, because even the darkness and flashing lights barely cover up the grime left by many nights of alcohol and sweat and whatever other filth has been there.

The energy builds rapidly as ravers flow into the venue. Soon, we are caught in the midst of a massive sensory overload. Above the DJ’s platform looms a large overhead projector screen, where trippy images flash on and off, interspersed with dizzying geometrical patterns. Hello Kitty drinking water out of a stream. Frightening cats running down a abandoned street. Betty Boop walking into a mirror. “Hey, I have that episode of Betty Boop!” says Molly. We hear loud, strange music, smell tobacco and body odor so strong it makes our eyes water, feel sweaty skin brush against our own-all in what seems to be a kitty-themed nightmare.

At the same time, however, we see people being made happy by the simplest things: sucking on flashing ring-pops, caressing each others’ hair and faces, giving candy kisses to new friends they may not remember tomorrow. With a similar feel as the crowd of children pushing and shoving outside, the rave seems full of easily amused toddlers.

We take a seat on the couches. To the left, a man has set up a massage station and is charging ravegoers for his services. Becca asks one boy if the seat next to him is taken; he answers by tightly clutching his Pink Panther stuffed animal and whispering in its ear. She takes it as a no and watches for a while as various people come by to rest.

On the couches, we witness one of the most exhilarating experiences for a raver, called a “light show.” A man, decked out in oversized pants, hundreds of necklaces and bracelets, a Storm-Trooper –esque facemask, ski goggles, and glow sticks between his fingers and covering his hands, approaches a raver spacing out on the couch. With hardly a movement, the trooper dons his mask and proceeds to move his glow sticks around in rapid, flowing movements, right in front of the person on the couch’s face. The man on the couch doesn’t blink or move once. He just keeps staring straight ahead of him, as if nothing is happening at all. These “light shows” are intended to increase the effects of ecstasy. We ask the storm trooper how long it took him to learn how to do that. “About a year and a lot of drugs,” he replies with a smile.

Most people are eager to talk to us, completely unaware that we are undercover reporters. A man sitting next to us on the couch introduces himself to Molly.

“I’m Frasier, what’s your name?” he asks.

“Molly,” she replies.

“Molly, like ecstasy Molly?” We learn that “Molly” is what ravers call pure Ecstasy tablets. “So you’re that good? Are you rolling?”

“What?”

“Are you rolling?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Frasier runs over to give a massage to a girl who is most definitely rolling, while another guy stands over her and gives her a light show.